devilbat

[devilbat]

[devilbat]

THE ART OF THE DEAL | harry castillo x you

wc: 6,7k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Harry Castillo x You | FALSE RELATIONSHIP

summary: you don’t believe in love. neither does he. that’s the only thing you agree on. after swearing off romance, you’ve built a quiet life in art preservation and avoiding anything resembling vulnerability. but when Harry Castillo, arrogant, infuriating, and stupidly rich, proposes you pretend to be his fiancée for the sake of getting his overbearing mother off his back, you’re thrown. but the money is good and with your detached views on romance and love, you make the perfect polished, commitment-free partner. It’s just a deal; cold, clean and temporary. but pretending to be in love with a man you can’t stand has a way of making you feel things you promised yourself you’d never feel again. especially when he starts looking at you like you're more than just a line item in a contract. And worst of all? You start looking back

the MC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely described physically aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: false relationship, mentions of materialists film, smut, enemies to lovers. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

THE ART OF THE DEAL | PART ONE | TERMS AND CONDITIONS

The restaurant is fairly quiet, the music playing in the back is dim. It's the kind of place that takes months to get into, but one mention of his name and his table for two is ready in an hour. It's a perfect setting for romance, for love 

Except Harry Castillo doesn't believe in love.

Not at his age. 

He couldn't, not after her.

Melissa. The girl he'd been slavishly devoted to his entire college experience. The one he overheard at a frat party months before graduation calling him pint-sized to a group of tittering girls. 

"But the sex is decent and he's loaded, so I'll put up with him." 

Put up with him. Like he was an annoying pet. He broke up with her that night, tears in his eyes, a hole in his heart and the engagement ring from his mother still in his pocket. 

When he told his younger brother the next morning over coffee at his apartment he'd just shrugged. 

"That's how it is for guys like us." 

And that was supposed to be a comfort? How? 

And as his date, a thirty year old art curator sits across from him now, rambling on about the things she'd seen recently at work, the people she'd talked to, the daily minutia of her life, Harry finds his attention drifting. 

Not to anyone in particular, that isn't his way of operating. He'd always been a one woman man his whole life. Relentlessly monogamous. But he's bored, the conversation manufactured as if she's reading from cue cards. 

His mind drifts to the kitchen with Lucy, the conversation, the admittance that he didn't think he was capable of love. 

"You will. It'll be easy," Lucy had said. 

This doesn't feel easy. But then again what did Lucy know? She didn't even know what she wanted. He shifts in his seat when he hears his name being gently cooed by the girl across from him. 

"Pardon?"

She fingers the stem of her wine glass anxiously. She's clearly worried she's doing something wrong. 

"I asked if you've been using Adore for long?" 

"I've never actually used a dating service before," Harry replies politely. "You're my first." 

Her cheeks tinge pink, eyes downcast, the very picture of demure supplication.  

"Hopefully your last," she says with a gentle smile. 

She's very soft. Everything from the fabric of her clothing to her voice is soft. 

He offers a low chuckle, a rich sound. He knows that he's a catch, a proclaimed "unicorn" from his matchmaker at Adore. He knows the looks he gets aren't just for looks, but for his sizeable bank account. 

And his mother has been very firm. She wants him to marry and he hates to disappoint her. 

"You're almost fifty, Harry. It's inappropriate to be single at this age." 

The woman across from him is traditionally beautiful, but what woman isn't at thirty? She has smooth unblemished skin, light voice. Botox at the forehead, lips plump from injections. 

It's all tastefully done but what remains is nothing of true interest, nothing that sets her apart from the millions of women he sees in New York every day. 

But she's smart, she's accomplished, she comes from money, she'd understand his world. 

"Would you like a second date?" He asks as he walks her to her front door later that night. 

His driver is idling at the curb, keeping the car warm against the New York autumn chill. 

She beams at him, eyes sparkling. 

"I would love that."

"He's perfect."

"No one is perfect, Gemma,” you remind her gently. Everything you do with Gemma is gentle because she's a gentle creature, long limbed, big dark blue eyes, auburn hair, like a doe come to life. "He's just a man." 

"A perfect man," she swoons, coming to stand opposite your desk. "Rich, six feet, amazing hair and body. Smart, kind." 

"And he's straight?"

"Ha ha." 

You smirk before going back to photographing the small miniature portrait in front of you on the desk. A new acquisition, a piece from the 1700's. A coup for the gallery. 

As the art preserver here at The Chapel Gallery you work in the back rooms of the gallery, in a part of the building the visitors never see. Back here the light is colder, whiter, and everything smells faintly of varnish, aging wood, and linen.

The floor is concrete, scuffed from decades of furniture being dragged across it. You’ve stopped noticing. There’s a tall window, but it’s been treated with a UV filter that dulls the sun to a diffused gray-blue haze. Still, it’s enough.

 You like the quiet of it. The way it catches in the dust floating over a stretched canvas. The hush. Your own breathing. The gentle hum of the fume extractor overhead.

Gemma is the exception. Bouncy, sweet, colorful. You like her in your space. Gemma showed up on her first day in heels too loud for the old gallery floors, holding a latte and a dozen questions about framing protocols, and you liked her immediately for admitting she could never do your job. There was respect in her voice when she said it. 

You'd bonded immediately over a love of Henry Ossawa Tanner and ethnical restoration. You moved quickly to lunches together, and then drinks after work and then a casual friendship that you appreciate in a city that feels cold. She loves to visit you in this space bringing coffee or baked goods, the two of you talking about everything from Rembrandt to The Real Housewives. 

And now she stands in front of you, phone in hand showing you a picture from what you can only assume is Google. 

"Isn't he handsome?" 

He looks like any other rich guy to you. They all start to blend into a mix of fancy watches and stiff hair after a while. 

"Sure." 

Your tools rest in their tray; scalpels in their tray, cotton swabs in jars, solvents labeled in your handwriting. Everything with its place. Everything under control. The paintings arrive with their wounds and histories, and you restore them with a loving hand. 

Gemma doesn’t interrupt, not exactly, but her presence changes the air. She’s lighter, glossier somehow. You hear the quick staccato of her heels before you see her. Always rehearsing the next exhibit, the next acquisition, the next donor she’ll have to charm.

 Her voice echoes through the storage corridor when she’s on a call, naming names you don’t recognize. Its collectors, old professors, gallery patrons who write checks large enough to get their opinions framed.

You prefer the paintings because they don’t perform. They don’t flatter. They don’t lie about what time has done to them.

Sometimes she asks what you think of a piece. You don’t always answer. When you do, she listens in that serious way of hers, her lips slightly parted, like she's memorizing the shape of your opinion even if she’s already decided on hers. It works, mostly. You restore. She sells and curates.

You move behind the canvas while she moves in front of it.

"What does he do?"

"Private equity." 

You hold in a groan. He's just like every other guy she's dated. All rich, all handsome, all in finance and all the most boring men on the planet. You can feel her eyes still on you and you know what she's going to say before she says it. You brace yourself. 

"When are you going to try dating again?"

"Never."

Your sweet, hopelessly optimistic co-worker leans on your work table, big eyes sad. "The divorce was six years ago. When are you going to try again?"

"When men stop being assholes so..." you put on a faux pondering look, "never?" 

She giggles, a bit nervous about her date, a bit tickled by your seriousness. "Don't you miss sex?"

You look over at her innocent face, amused. You're only a few years older than her but you feel like you've lived a lifetime in comparison. 

"I have sex, Gem. Sex isn't the issue. It's living with a man that doesn't appeal to me. And I'm not gay, though I wish I was, so romance isn't really an option anymore." 

You weren't always this way when it came to love. But it was a classic case of Boy meets girl. Girl falls for boy. Boy and girl get married. Boy cheats. Boy gets girl new pregnant. Girl moves on. 

You wish it wasn't such a fucking cliché. 

You think of you phone in your pocket. The message from earlier. You scowl. Gemma's phone beeps and she swipes to open the message, her face breaking into a beam. 

"He's here," she says, going on her tiptoes and bouncing. "He's coming down here to get me! You can see him!" 

She looks completely elated and there's a small, secret part of you that misses that. The excitement of a first date. Just then a gurgle sounds and she gets a strange look on her face, blanching before placing a palm over her stomach. 

"Oh fuck." 

Gemma has what she calls a reactive stomach. Which basically means that she has to aggressively empty her bowels when she gets anxious. 

"I'll tell him you're freshening up," you tell her, making a shooing motion. She casts you a thankful look before rushing off to the loo. 

You shake your head, mouth curled into a smile. She is ridiculous at times but you really do adore her. You go back to photographing the miniature portrait, excited to get to work on bringing the original color back from underneath all that grime.

The sound of footsteps grabs your attention. You glance up to see a tall man with dark wave hair that curls under his ears and large expressive eyes. He's dressed well and in one arm holds a large bouquet of pale yellow roses. 

"Hello." 

He smiles politely at you, plump lips curling under a perfectly manicured beard.

Harry Castillo. 

"Gemma just went to freshen up," you tell him with a motion to one of the desk chairs. "She'll be back any second."

"Great." 

He doesn't move to the chair. Instead he moves deeper into your workroom, eyes casting from one piece to the next. He places the bouquet onto one of the empty tables before surveying the exhibit you just finished restoring. 

He stops in front of a small, clay pot, clearly taken with it. Despite it being behind protected glass you wince when his face nears it.

"Do you mind stepping back from the artifacts? Everything here is incredibly delicate." 

Harry nods unbothered, hands behind his back. "Understood." 

He finds himself intrigued by what you're photographing with such focus. His legs carry him to the side of your desk. You're so invested in the task at hand you don't even hear him near. 

"Rosalba Carriera." 

You almost drop the camera. "What?"

"That's a Rosalba Carriera isn't it?" Harry looks puzzled. "I'm sure of it. My family owns several." 

You hold in a scoff of disgust. Of course his family would buy up art and keep it for themselves. You stare over your shoulder at him, your expression cold. Men like this make you want to scream. Money, looks, arrogance. He has it all in spades. 

"I love pastel painting," Harry continues, thrown off by your muted response.

He thought you'd warm to him and his art knowledge. He's been told he's charismatic, but the longer you derisively stare at him the more he's concerned he's been lied to all his life. You're like a cat; back arched, claws extended. Everything about you screams back off and so he does, eyes trained on yours. 

"Yes," you finally offer when he stands on the opposite side of your workspace. "It is a Rosalba Carriera. One of her earliest." 

Harry can see that the entire portrait is grimy with age. The edges torn in spots. He can't imagine taking something like that and making it beautiful again. 

"Restoration and preservation seems like such tedious work," Harry hums. 

He winces when he sees your jaw tic. He said the wrong thing. Fuck. Tedious wasn't the word he wanted to use. He'd meant labor intensive and exhausting with having so many hours spent over such detailed pieces. 

But he feels out of his element, trying to appear in control of the conversation. But the way your eyes dig into him has him feeling exposed. 

You don't even lower your camera when you reply. 

"No more tedious than telling rich people how to spend their money." 

That's an arrow to the gut. Despite being good at his job there is always the lingering thought that what he does is frivolous. That all the money in the world can't make him a good person. 

He can change his legs, his clothes, his home, but at the end of the day he's still that awkward boy overhearing his girlfriend saying she put up with him.

You put him back there, back to the party that smelled of stale beer and hairspray. The night his life changed, where he changed, where he saw the ugliness in perfection. 

And for that, he immediately dislikes you. 

He frowns, irritated by this serious woman behind the desk and the way she turns her attention back to the portrait, as if he's nothing, as if he's not even good enough to glance at. 

You want him gone. He wants to be gone. 

"I'm ready," Gemma announces with a flustered laugh, coming around the corner in her flouncy dress. You and Harry exhale in relief. 

"Great," Harry says extending an elbow. He can't wait to escape this suffocating space. 

He can't wait to be away from you

Your apartment is on the smaller side, but it does its job. You make decent money. Not enough for some penthouse at the top of a skyscraper but it's got a cozy vibe, something that makes you feel settled. It's a third floor walk up and by the end of the day you're usually exhausted. 

Above everything, you love that it's yours. You picked the paint, the decor, the pillows. Every part of this space is you. 

Not him.

You toss your bag onto the hook by the door and start the toaster oven. You worked late and you have a real craving for that shitty lasagna from the supermarket that you grew up on. 

You grab it from the freezer, Popping ventilation holes into the plastic and pop it into the oven. As you set the timer and heat you laugh to yourself when you realize how different your meal is from Gemma's this evening. She's probably throwing back lobster and farm to table veal. 

With Harry.

What a stupid fucking name. 

You can't help but be annoyed by his presence today, but if you're honest your bad mood started this morning at work after receiving a text from an old friend. Well, not a friend deal, more and emotional vulture. 

I hope you're doing okay. 

Huh? 

I saw the pregnancy announcement on J's timeline. I'm so sorry hun xx

You hadn't even bothered writing back. 

Harry had just been an additional irritant. Bad place bad time. Reminding you of the lifestyle Jarrod always aspired to.  

You used to own a nice place outside Manhattan with your ex-husband Jarrod. A place with quiet neighbours and tall ceilings. A place that he furnished saying that he had an eye for home design. 

He made decent money, but it was never enough. You both worked and he loved to live lavishly. When he found out about your secret account that has been the beginning of the end. 

And the irony is his new wife doesn't even work. But she's young and shiny and maybe that's what he really wanted all along, he just wasn't honest about it. 

But if you're honest you were checked out that last year of your marriage. How could you forgive him after his reaction to-

The ding of the oven catches your attention. You go to pull out the lasagna, hissing when the lip of the grill catches your wrist and the entire container goes toppling over onto the floor. 

Sauce pools over the mushed meal of cheese and pasta. You swear, throwing the pan into the sink with a frustrated cry. 

Today fucking sucks. 

Dinner is delicious. Better than the last time Harry was here with Lucy. Or the time before with Bianca. Or the time before that with Gretchen. It's his favorite steak house and he always rents the back room out when he dines here. It's quieter that way, the service more dedicated. 

Harry watches his date delicately eating her salad. But his mind is still back in that gallery basement, back on the woman who irritated him. 

What was her problem?

Harry dabs at the corner of his mouth with his napkin. He speaks lightly, eyes down as he adjusts his cuff. 

"I'm glad we could do this again." 

"Me too." 

Gemma stares at him with the practised air of a woman that was born beautiful, who went to an Ivy League, who comes from money and expects the best. 

She's a good match. And he's so tired of looking. 

"Tell me more about your job," he insists after another sip of wine. 

"It's not very glamorous," she replies sweetly. Again that picture of demure innocence that's starting to grate on him. "Not like your job." 

"I assure you private equity is pretty dull." 

"I suppose it's similar to your job in that we both act as bridges between consumer and creator. But I've taken on some curating as well. That's my real passion. I love it because it's shaping what people experience when they walk into a gallery or museum."

"That doesn't sound boring."

Gemma looks delighted by that response, her eyes sweeping across his forearm, watching the gold ring he wears tapping against the glass. 

"I guess not. Right now I’m working on curating a show on post-war artists who were overshadowed in their time, mostly women and artists of colour. It's the new piece my co-worker is photographing. She'll be busy pouring over that for the next few months." 

Harry nods, not particularly interested in hearing more about you. But Gemma is on a roll, comfortable with the topic of you since nothing else is coming to mind.

“I'm worked about the funding though,” she says, delicately spearing a piece of endive, “my co-worker says not to worry about it, but I can’t help it. I’m a worrier.”

Harry nods, smiling with practised warmth. The kind of smile reserved for clients and vaguely familiar faces at weddings. 

“Your co-worker seems…” he lets it drift, then adds almost idly, “focused.”

Gemma nods, chewing quietly. “She is. Especially when a new piece comes in. She’s been handling a lot lately. We lost funding for her assistant, so she’s doing everything herself.”

“That sounds unsustainable.”

“She doesn’t really complain,” Gemma says, smoothing her napkin. “But I think it’s been wearing on her. She hides it well.”

“She’s lucky to have you, then.”

Gemma smiles at that, pleased by the compliment, even if it’s only adjacent.

“She’d never say it, but I think she appreciates the support.”

Harry feigns a moment of thought, fingers absently trailing the stem of his wineglass. He can't agree. You seemed perfectly passionate enough to insult him the second after meeting him. 

“She was a bit aloof,” he murmurs. 

Gemma gives a small, quick laugh. “She’s not always like that. She’s very funny, very blunt. She just doesn’t warm up to people easily. Especially not people who act like...well....”

She catches herself and Harry lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Act like what?”

“Like they own the room.”

He smirks. “Guilty, I suppose.”

“No,” Gemma says quickly, almost apologetic. “Not you exactly. It's just, she’s careful with new people.”

Harry leans in slightly, voice low. “You two are close?”

Gemma lowers her eyes, just for a second. “We work well together. She’s so funny and so brilliant. And yeah, a little intense. But she makes the gallery better.”

He nods, slow and thoughtful. There’s something in the way Gemma speaks about you. Respect, yes, but also a sort of nervous admiration. He files that away.

“And she said not to worry?” he prompts gently, circling back.

“Mhm,” Gemma says, dabbing the corner of her mouth. “She always says that. About donors, pieces, my love life…” she trails off, laughing a little.

“Oh?”

“She doesn’t really believe in matchmaking,” Gemma adds. "Honestly, I don't think she believes in romance anymore full stop. But she told me that worrying will just make it worse and that I should enjoy the ride." 

That doesn't surprise Harry in the least. The scraps of information presented to him about you paint the picture of a woman invested in her work. He saw no wedding ring and judging by the late hour he came to retrieve Gemma and you working away, he can only surmise that you likely don't have a partner waiting at home. 

"But I worry about her sometimes. She hasn't dated anyone since her divorce and it's like she's given up." 

Harry lifts his glass, his voice flat. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Gemma says, gently setting hers down. “I worry that she doesn’t believe in love anymore. I mean she told me as much. Since her divorce, it’s all been very cynical.”

That catches. Just for a second. Something shifts behind Harry’s expression. It's something small, almost imperceptible. But Gemma, watching, mistakes it for amusement.

“She calls dating a mutual performance of delusion,’” she adds with a grin, hoping he’ll laugh.

He doesn’t. Not really. He smiles, but it’s distant. His fingers are lightly tapping the base of his wine glass. “She said that?”

“Mhm.”

“And what do you think?”

Gemma blinks, caught off-guard. “I think she’s been hurt. And when people get hurt badly enough, they try to feel superior to what they’ve lost.”

Harry nods, but he’s not really nodding. His mind’s moved. You’re in it again, your sharp voice, the disinterest that wasn’t just rudeness, but something colder. Something he recognizes in himself under all the pretense. 

“Interesting,” he murmurs.

Gemma brightens slightly, mistaking it for approval of her. “But I still believe in something lasting. I mean, why else go to all this trouble, right?”

He looks back at her, as though just now returning to the conversation.

“Right,” he says, softly.

As if just realizing they've devoted the last ten minutes of their date to talk about her co-worker, Gemma turns coy. 

"But enough about that. Tell me, what is your family like? You have a brother, any other siblings?"

Harry smiles again, this time slower. Something has become very clear to him and like anyone working in private equity he knows he needs to conduct a little due diligence before moving forward. 

"Everything was delicious, the most delicious steak I've ever eaten!" 

It’s three days later and Gemma is regaling you with her latest Harry saga and you're fighting to show even passive interest. The two of you are having coffee at the cafe across from the gallery, your favorite place to relax. 

"He kissed my hand. My hand! Like something out of a romance novel." 

"Cute." 

"And he was so sweet; he took me to Central Park and did the whole carriage ride thing." 

"Fun." 

"Didn't you think he was handsome?"

"Sure." 

You offer the odd word, knowing that she's barely even registered you're there. To her you're just a willing audience 

You barely registered the man if you're honest. He seemed haughty, walking around your workplace as if he owned it. 

"And he really knows his artwork," Gemma continues. "I didn't expect someone in finance to be so knowledgeable about more obscure artists."

"Mhm." 

You remember his tailored presence, the faint perfume of old money and self-assurance. The way he looked at you like not with interest, but a kind of calculation.

"He rented out the whole back of the restaurant. We had private servers, a special menu." She's practically floating. 

"So he's new money," you say acerbically. It comes out more bitter than anticipated. "Old money is quiet, new money is loud."

"For your information he is old money," she says giving you a pointed look. "His parents started the family firm."

"So he didn't even earn his money or position himself."

"Obviously there's no winning with you today. Why are you being so shitty about him?"Gemma asks, cheeks pinking in irritation. 

'I'm sorry," you answer, feeling embarrassed. "I've just never been really comfortable with people that have that kind of money. You are, you grew up like that and it's what you want in a partner."

Gemma is in a snit now. "So now I'm shallow?"

"Not at all," you insist truthfully. "If you were ugly, do you think Harry would have asked you for a second date?" 

She's quiet and blushing further. "No. I guess not." 

I nod. My point exactly. 

"You are just two people coming together who want something from the other. It's as pure and honest as any part of a functional relationship."

The two of you are quiet, fingers tracing the lip of the plate from the scone the two of you shared.

"Well, I hope we go out again," Gemma says with a bright look. "I mean, if I'm honest, I didn't feel a huge connection, but he's so good on paper. Handsome, rich, tall, charming." 

"But do you actually enjoy his company?"

Gemma looks at you as if you've sprouted a second head. "What does that have to do with anything?" 

"Gemma," you admonish, "you're always telling me about how you want to find love and be swept off your feet." 

"I do," she insists, "I just think we have a choice in who we love and my choice should take certain things like looks and money into account. I’m thirty, I want kids, and I want stability." 

You want to tell Gemma that she’s capable of having all of those things on her own if she really wants. But you know that it’s not just that. She wants the cache of a partner up the social ladder.

“Well, then I hope this works out for you,” you say sincerely. “And if not, trying to find someone who knows about art preservation.”

By the time you reach your apartment your stomach is rumbling. You skipped lunch to work on some of the finer detailing on the portrait.  You think of the all night deli across the corner and its beckoning croissant sandwiches and make your decision quickly. You throw your sketchbook into your bag. 

The night is chilly and you pull your jacket to your chin. In true New York fashion you don't smile at anyone, you keep your head down; you ignore the fact that you're still upset about the memory of Jarrod.  

You duck into the deli, cheeks and nose chilled. The place isn't busy, not at this hour. A few night owls linger at some of the tables, tapping away on their laptops, a tired man behind the counter raising a nod your way over their phone. 

"A number two and a coffee."

You take a number and a seat, bringing out your sketchbook as you wait. The music playing is rhythmic, quiet, but relaxing. You should thank the serious looking man behind the counter for his choice in tunes. 

The door opens behind you as you debate the menu. You've been curious to try the avocado turkey on rye. 

"Number two," you tell the man with confidence. "And a coke. Thanks." 

"That’ll be $8.66."

You reach into your pocket for your wallet but an arm has come around you to place a fifty on the counter. 

"I've got it." 

The man at the till takes it without question but you whip around, shocked at the random act of kindness. Familiar brown eyes swim into view and your surprise turns to irritation. 

"You."

Harry gives you a dimpled smile. "Good Evening.”

The man at the till tries to give Harry his change but he just shakes his head, a light lift of his hand and the man pockets his large tip. You know you're scowling at this pathetic display of charitable giving. It's easy to give away money when you have so much of it. 

"I can afford my own dinner."

"I know," Harry says.

You think about paying the amount you were going to, but the man at the till is heading over to another customer to answer a question. Harry continues standing there looking at you with interest. That same calculating look you've seen in him before. 

Fine. If this idiot wants to pay for your sandwich you'll let him, considering his appearance has now dampened your mood. 

"Thanks," you mutter his way, taking a table number and slinking away into a nearby booth.

You open your sketchbook, dutifully ignoring the annoying Harry still at the counter, speaking with the man behind the till.  

You're shocked when you hear the guy laugh, a low chuckle. You've been coming to this deli for months and you've never seen the guy crack a smile, let alone laugh. 

Probably hoping for another big tip. 

You hold in an eye roll and begin to sketch lightly. Your mind is driven to darkness today. Black spiky limbs reaching for the sky. 

A can of soda is placed on the table by your elbow, accompanied by a low voice.

"Forgot this."

Fuck. You sigh lightly before taking the can from him, murmuring your thanks. When he lingers, watching you pop the tab you attempt to be cordial. This is Gemma's potential boyfriend after all. 

"This doesn't really seem like your scene."

You're not looking at him when you speak. You're taking a sip of the fizzy drink, nose wrinkling a moment when the carbonation tickles your nose. 

Harry stands next to the booth like an awkward waiter, holding an espresso on a saucer. He's dressed in slacks and a charcoal sweater, a tweed jacket over top. He went to an effort, not that you’d know because you're still not looking at him. 

"I like sandwiches as much as the next guy." 

What he doesn't tell you is that his driver was pulling up to your apartment building when he saw you exit, looking agitated. When you walked into the deli he thought it was a perfect excuse. Much better than his original idea of just showing up at your home with a proposition. 

"Okay."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. He was ready for it He watches you go back to your sketching, letting the moment stretch. You don't seem to be upset by his presence. 

The sandwiches arrive, both placed unceremoniously onto the perpetually stained tabletop. Harry motions to the chair opposite you at the table. 

"May I sit?"

You raise your head from your sketches, casting an eye around the fairly empty deli. "There are lots of open tables."

Harry looks amused, not offended by your cold reception. Almost like he was ready for it. "It's not a matter of space, more the company." 

He watches you wrestle with this before lifting one arm in a casual shrug.  

"Knock yourself out."

He suppresses a grin, sliding into the booth opposite you. He can't remember the last time - if ever - he was in a tiny eatery like this with its cheap menus and yellowed floors. 

He watches you take a bite of the sandwich in one hand, the other still furiously sketching away. He watches you for several moments and eventually you feel those big brown eyes on your face and you glance up to see his sandwich untouched. Why is he here?

Harry glances down at the greasy sandwich, hiding a sneer. He wouldn't feed this to his worst enemy. 

"Do you need something?"

You're looking at him with anticipation, as if you're scared of what he might say. 

"I wanted to know if you'd be interested in an exchange of services," he says coolly. "A barter." 

This is how he is in the boardroom; this is how he commands the people he works with. Blunt, forward, confident, charming when he needs to be, but ruthless he just as easily. 

The pencil stills on the page, your nose wrinkling. "With you?"

"Mhm."

He watches the way you blink at him, head tilting slightly. 

"I don't need financial advice and according to Gemma you could buy out the entire gallery, so I don't really get what you want from me."

You feel strangely trapped by him here in the booth. You could slide out and run but would you make it? As if sensing your unease, Harry shakes his head slowly. Fingers lifting from the table briefly.  "You don't have to say yes." 

"I probably won't."

He smothers a chuckle. Gemma was right, you are blunt and you are funny.

"My mother wants me to marry," Harry tells you. "The sooner the better."

"And you're a Mama's boy?" 

He smirks. "Maybe a little." 

"Gross." 

You lean back to take a sip of coffee, eyes peering at him over the rim. "I thought you had a matchmaker?"

He shifts in his chair. "I do." 

"So then why are you here talking to me?"

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. Harry shuffles, one arm over the back of his chair affecting casual interest. 

"Because I want to hire you. I want you to pretend to be my girlfriend for the next several months because I believe it would be mutually beneficial to us both." Harry takes a sip of his espresso now, secretly amused when you drop the pencil.

"Excuse me?" You blink rapidly, lashes fluttering. "What the fuck are you talking about? You're dating Gemma."

"I went on two dates with her."

"She likes you."

"She likes my status, not that I begrudge her for it. But after two dates it’s clear that she wants a husband who will cherish her, who’s every waking thought will be about her. That's not me."

You're quiet because you know he's right. As much as Gemma liked his money, the things she liked most about her dates with Harry was the places he took her, the romance. How he held her hand on the carriage ride, how he listened about her job. Little, beautiful moments. 

Harry takes advantage of your stunned response. "Gemma is a lovely girl, but not a good match for what I need."

"And you think I'm what you need? I don't even like you." 

You stare at this man with his expensive watch and clothes and haircut. He even smells expensive. 

"You're intelligent, confident, attractive," Harry lists these things not with the affection of a lover, but an appraiser at an auction. 

"So is Gemma."

"Yes, but she's also looking for a true relationship, for love. And I can't give that to her."

"Why not?"

"I don't think I'm capable of it." He regards you with a tilt of his head. "I'm selfish, I like my job, I enjoy my own company, I'm driven and I'm not very romantic."

"You're very honest," you say, almost impressed. Almost. 

"I find it saves time to be direct." 

He watches your eyes survey him, appraising him like you would a piece of artwork needing to be restored.  

"Gemma said you took her to dinner at Mastros. Then to central Park for a horse drawn carriage ride." 

"I did."

"And that didn't seem romantic to you?"

"I know it was romantic," he replies. 

"Then why do you say you're not romantic?"

Harry leans back in the booth, drink forgotten. He points at your open sketchbook. "You know how to draw. Are you DaVinci?"

"Obviously not. No." 

"No," Harry agrees with a nod. "But you know enough about art from study. You know proportions without thinking about it. If someone random asked you to draw them a cow you could do it."

"Sure."

"It would mean nothing to you, but it would look like a nice image of a cow at the end. The person would walk away happy with their picture. But you wouldn’t feel attached to the sketch nor the process. It’s no different than how I approach romance. I know what it looks like, I’m happy to give it.”

You fall quiet, arms crossing. You've never thought about romance like that. So route. 

"I've already spoken to Natalia at Adore," Harry continues. "She's setting Gemma up with two of my friends I talked into joining. They're younger and richer and hopeless romantics. Gemma will be just fine." 

You don't know how you feel about that, the way he speaks about it makes it feel like something akin to prostitution. 

"She wants romance and love along with status," Harry reminds you. "Both of those men fit the bill and either one of them would die to date a woman like her." 

"But not you." 

"No. Not me." 

The eraser of your pencil taps on your sketchbook, tap tap tap. "What's in it for me?" 

"You'd be paid very well." 

He sees the hesitation in you now. The way your eyes jerk to the side as you digest his offer. 

"How well?"

Harry takes a piece of paper folded from his pocket. He came prepared. He slides it across the table, biting back a grin when your eyes bulge open. 

"You're not serious." 

"I am." 

Anyone else would have used computer paper, but not Harry Castillo. He used heavy card stock; the amount written in thick black ink with what you're sure was a fountain pen.

"How long would this charade go on for?"

"Six months." 

"Six entire months?" You make a disgusted face. "No. No chance."

You go back to your sketching, the subject clearly closed for you. You toss the piece of paper towards him, forgotten so easily. Harry sucks in a sharp breath of air through his teeth. Rejection always stings. 

"I'll double it." 

Your eyes rise up to his. "What?"

"The amount on that paper. I'll double it." 

Harry watches the way your eyes round, lips parting. He can't deny he enjoys shocking you. He watches you slump into the booth, your eyes darting back and forth between the table and the amount on the page.

"There must be other women you could ask." 

"None that don't want love or commitment."' Harry takes another sip of his espresso before it clinks back into place on the small saucer. "Gemma told me your views on romance and that's when I knew this would work." 

You sit for several moments debating the exorbitant sum on the paper and the year of your life you won't get back. But this kind of money is life changing. 

You look at Harry, really looking at him. "Don't you want to find a girlfriend? A real one?"

"I thought I did," Harry shrugs. "I attempted it. But I don't think it's something I really need. And from what I gather, that isn't what you desire either." 

He's right. But still you hesitate, fingering the thick paper.This could be a lucrative venture couldn't it? A chance to erase debt and start a life you've only dreamt about? And it's only a year. A year could go by fast. 

But a year of secrecy, of false affection. 

"Are we... Are we allowed to find company outside the fake relationship?" 

He raises a brow. "Company?"

"Sex," you state flatly. "Unless you think this amount means I'll be your personal concubine?"

It's almost endearing watching his cheeks flush. "I don't need to pay for sex." 

"Just for a fake girlfriend." 

You watch the twitch at the corner of his mouth, a smirk. Touche. 

"Sex is not required, of course. I would only request that company outside our arrangement be as discreet as possible." 

"That seems fair." 

Harry raises a brow, intrigued. "So you're agreeing?"

"I'm thinking about it." 

Harry nods, standing and buttoning his dark blazer. You have a lot to think about and he doesn't want to rush you. He needs commitment not a lukewarm agreement. He slides over his business card. 

"My number is on the back. I'll wait for your decision, whatever it may be." 

He sticks his hand out like it's a business deal and you take it with a little smile, amused. You shake briefly and he stands the purpose of this meeting over. He gives you a dimpled smile.

 “I hope to hear from you soon.”

He knows he will.

| part two : the exit clause >

[devilbat]

A Place to Rest

Joel Miller x f!Reader

Warnings: Mild language, mentions of injury/survival, general post-apocalyptic themes — no smut

The fire crackled low, barely more than glowing embers in the cold hush of night. The woods wrapped around their camp like a protective cocoon, though Joel kept his rifle close and his eyes sharper. Ellie was curled up in her sleeping bag, boots sticking halfway out as she mumbled something about a space movie in her dreams.

The reader sat on a fallen log, a chipped tin cup of lukewarm coffee nestled between her hands. She glanced over at Joel — always a few feet away, always guarding, never quite relaxing.

“You know,” she whispered, “you don’t have to stand sentry all night.”

Joel didn’t look at her, just tightened his jaw and scanned the darkness.

“Don’t sleep easy on unfamiliar ground,” he muttered.

She let out a soft breath, not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. “You ever sleep easy anywhere?”

Joel turned to her then. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes — weariness, maybe, or the beginnings of trust. He didn’t answer. Just sat down next to her, the log creaking beneath his weight.

“I heard Ellie tell you today she thinks I’m cool,” she said, teasing, trying to soften the edges of the night.

Joel snorted. “She thinks any adult who doesn’t make her eat canned peas is cool.”

“That’s fair.”

A pause. Then Joel added, “She’s not wrong though.”

The compliment caught her off guard, and when she turned to look at him, his gaze was already fixed on the fire. He rubbed a hand across his beard and didn’t say anything more.

She smiled. Not the kind you offer strangers or even friends, it was small, a little sad, a little hopeful. The kind you give someone when you’re tired and they’re tired too, but somehow being tired next to them feels better than being fine on your own.

Ellie stirred in her sleep, murmuring something about dinosaurs. Joel turned instinctively, the softest part of him showing without permission.

“She likes you,” the reader said, quietly.

“She don’t say it, but she does.”

Joel didn’t answer, but he didn’t have to.

They sat like that, shoulder to shoulder, warmth shared in silence. In the morning, they’d walk again. Across cracked roads and empty towns. Toward Jackson. Toward something they didn’t have a name for yet, but were starting to believe might be real.

Home.

[devilbat]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝

summary: the world crumbled before you could experience the touch of another. Joel does his best to keep you innocent for as long as he can.

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x afab virgin!reader.

warnings: 18+ mdni. established, undefined relationship. PUSSY RUBBING. fluids galore. just the tip. perv!joel. unspecified age gap. fingering. dirty talk. overstimulation. male masturbation. FEELS. Joel is a conflicted old man. reader is able bodied. no Ellie. w.c. 2.9k

an: i watched a porn clip and instantly went rabid thinking about jackson!joel.

-> follow up to a glimpse of heaven but it's not necessary to read the first part.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⋅ 𝐅𝐢𝐜 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐬 ⋅ 𝐉𝐨𝐞𝐥 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐋𝐢𝐬𝐭

Like most of Jackson, the house you share with Joel is quiet and calm when night falls. Rain softly patters against the window as you lie in bed, wide awake. Another night of fruitless sleep under your belt.

You huff irritatedly, your hand collapsing against the mattress as you bitterly kick your bedspread onto the floor. Your oversized shirt clings to your body, your skin dewy from the exertion, and you're close to crying. Your limbs are wrought and overworked after hours of touching yourself with no orgasm to show for it.

Your hand won't cut it; it isn't enough. It can't reach all those sensitive spots that make you float among the stars.

Warmth pools in your abdomen as you think of one that's the perfect size.

A hazy hue of yellow light pours under your bedroom door as it spills from the room across the hall.

Joel.

It takes a long time to get to know someone, but they tend to meld with your soul once you do in one way or another.

From the start, Joel was intimidating. He was so frayed around the edges that you were afraid he'd completely unravel in the middle of your journey. He didn't seem to care for your company as the two of you traveled across the plains to Jackson, hesitation poisoning every fiber of your being, but you kept on with the strange man since no one else was willing to trek across the states. You desperately needed a new life, a fresh start away from the Boston QZ, and Jackson sounded like the perfect spot.

Over time, Joel opened up, conversing little by little as you drove for miles across the now barren US. Usually, after you had a close call with raiders or the lone gunman, he'd go silent, the weight of protecting someone other than himself sinking further into his soul, consuming that much further.

What you never expected was for him to be your first touch.

Sweltering tension slowly grew like a wildfire. Catching each other's curious stares, lingering fingers, and salacious banter until, one night, he slid a cautious hand into your panties. He claimed your untouched sex when you confessed over a roaring fire and a bottle of whiskey that you'd never been with another. His weathered hands were gentle as he sunk his fingers into your core, watching with rabid fascination as you came for the first time, gasping from his touch.

The following day, as he drove you across the interstate with the sun slowly rising, he made sure you knew that wouldn't happen again. "I'm much too old. Don't wanna waste your time with a mean ol' grump like me."

You didn't bring it up again.

One month after settling into Jackson, picking bedrooms, and deciding who would do which chores, Joel had his first taste of you.

It wasn't supposed to happen.

You chewed your dinner slowly in the modestly sized dining room across from Joel. You were so lost in thought that he was concerned enough to ask what was wrong.

"What does it mean when a man eats you out?" you naively pondered, causing him to choke on his veggies.

Joel had never looked so red before as he took a long drink of whiskey. You instantly apologized, explaining that you overheard a group of women conversing while you tended the communal garden.

He raised a hand, curbing your frantic rambles. "S'ok. Figured you'd be learnin' things. Just didn' think I'd be the one you'd ask."

"But I trust you."

His jaw twitched at your words.  

Later that night, Joel fell to his knees at the edge of your bed and tossed your legs over his broad shoulders. "Never tasted a pussy so sweet," he mumbled against your glistening folds as you ran your fingers through his graying curls. You came multiple times on his tongue, grinding his whiskered jaw while he hungrily lapped at your soaked folds like he was dying of thirst.

You didn't bring it up again.

It's warmer in Jackson now. The sun hangs longer in the sky. Snow boots and jackets are stowed away until the next freeze.

You slink from the warmth of your bed and pad sockless across the hall. Lightening flickers brightly under the starry sky. The night rain storm slowly whirls through the city, soaking everything in its path.

Joel's door is open. A soft smile tugs at your lips; it's his way of saying he's still up. He keeps it ajar while he reads before rolling onto his side and bidding goodnight to the world.

Three soft knocks alert Joel from the guitar-building manual he's currently reading. Dread clouds his mind for a moment, wondering why you'd be knocking on his door at this time of night, but he takes a deep breath and grounds himself in the softness of his bed.

"Yeah?" he calls out. His tone is rough around the edges after a long day on patrol.

You poke your head around the door with a timid smirk. He looks at you over his reading glasses before marking his spot and laying his book on the side table.

You don't say anything as you stride into his room. He notices your oversized shirt swaying at your knees before you climb into his bed and curl against his side like a cat. 

He drapes an arm around your shoulder, unconsciously pulling you closer.

"'Nother bad dream?" he questions with a low rumble.

You shake your head. "Can't sleep."

You nuzzle your face into the crook of his shoulder and feel him nod, understanding the endless struggle for a night of peaceful sleep. It's improved since moving to Jackson, but the dreams never end.

Silence fills the bedroom except for the soft pitter-patter of rain against the roof. Joel leans against the headboard, sighs through his nose, and lets his thoughts drift. He's content to sit with you in his arms for as long as possible, even if that makes him selfish.

He wonders if you hope to find someone to settle down with, someone less ridged and mentally maimed, someone less him.

The thought drives a stake through his heart.

He'd be crazy to say he didn't love being around you. Your laugh and lopsided smile took the first brick out of his impenetrable fortress when you spied a deer and her calf frolicking in an open field in Kansas. From then on, it became easier for him to let his walls down.

When you came to him with those big doe eyes and urges about wanting to know what it's like to be touched and desired, he gave in each time despite his reasoning.

He would masturbate each time after getting his hands on you, also thinking about the early days when he'd catch glimpses of you changing or the time he first saw you naked while showering at the YMCA. 

He's still trying to figure out what to make of you. Friends? Lovers? He certainly didn't mean to fall head over heels. Love had no place in his heart, but he'd be a fool to say he wasn't extremely fond of you.

"Can you make me feel good again?" your lithe voice broke the silence.

Joel stops breathing. Your question doused him like a cold bucket of water. He knew this would come back and haunt him.

His hand curls tight around your shoulder as he wrestles with the devil on his shoulder. "Told ya we shouldn't keep doin' this, Sweetheart," he reasons, trying not to break your heart.

"But I can't make myself feel as good as when you've done it. I've tried!" You whine, burying your face into his chest.

"S'not that I don't wanna," he admits, soothing your soft cries. "S'just, you're too precious to do that wit' someone like me."

You lift your head and brazenly brush your lips against the exposed skin of his collarbone, earning a low groan as he curls a large hand around the back of your neck. He tugs you away from his skin, your lips still forming a tight 'O', and pins you with a stern gaze.

"Joel, it hurts." Your watery eyes and trembling bottom lip are his downfall.

"Lay back, Sweetheart, and spread your legs," he orders with a husky tone.

You don't make a noise; too afraid he'll stop if you do. Your cunt beats against the gusset of your panties as you lay on your back, spreading and bending both legs at the knee, just like he taught you.

A warm breath fans down your face as he shifts down your body before kneeling between your legs and tracing teasing fingers over your covered mound. His nails lightly scratch along the worn cotton, making you suck in a frantic breath. He slips a practiced hand beneath the crotch of your panties and deftly explores your folds, gently rubbing small circles on your clit after wetting his fingers with the arousal that's pouring from your cunt.

"Oh, she's achin' real bad, huh?" he groans as your opening clenches beneath his wandering touch.

"Joel, please, I need-" You gasp, hips wantonly grinding against his hand, desperate for any type of friction.

The muscles in his jaw ache. It's only natural you'd be wanting more.

Before he thinks twice, Joel draws his cock out from his sweatpants. Your stomach cramps at the sight as it smacks against his belly; he's massive.

His cock hangs heavy between his thighs like a solid, dangerous threat. It weeps from the dusky tip, shiny liquid dripping from the crown as he squeezes his hand around the girthy base peppered with dark gray, wiry hair.

"Got somethin' that'll make you feel good, sweet girl." he grits, tapping his cock against the covered crux of your pussy. It thwaps devastatingly against your clit, forcing a gasp from your lips as mind-numbing pleasure races up your spine and leaves you staring dumbly up at him.

"S'that what you need? Need my cock to keep 'er from achin so bad'?" his cock is searing as it lies in wait atop your panty-clad mound. You swear you can feel his blood pumping steadily into his shaft.

He cautiously thrusts his hips, sliding his length along your cotton-covered mound. Your slick arousal seeps thru the material, wetting the thin cotton and creating a sensuous touch as he glides along your cunt.

He shoves your shirt up over your chest, exposing your breasts to his hungry gaze. He licks his lips, "Such'a beauty."

Your cheeks flame at his words. Having such a man say things about you makes you lightheaded.

Joel groans as your panties practically are now see-through from your combined fluids staining the cotton, "Oh, baby." You whine at his pet name. "I got ya. Keep those legs open, just like I taught ya. S'good girl."

He keeps a steady pace, sawing back and forth over your extremely soaked mound. Your puffy pussy lips stick to the soaked cotton, leaving nothing to Joel's imagination. He glides easily along your slit, your juices smoothing his path until your arching your back and chanting his name like a prayer.

Watching you orgasm under his touch is enough to drive him wild. He throws all sense of logic out the window. He's okay with being selfish again.

"Let's get these off, yeah." He hooks two fingers under the elastic and slides your panties off before his words register in your euphoric haze. "Feel even better without 'em."

He swallows hard at the sight laid out before him. The sheets splay and curve around your naked body, making you look like an ethereal being sent to test his limits.

"Gonna give 'er a kiss, Sweetheart," his deep timbre vibrates your body as he draws close and touches the bulbous tip of his cock to your exposed folds. Blood rushes to your cunt instantly, bordering on the edge of pain. You cry out from the intense contact, and arousal slips freely down your crack as he traces his cockhead up and down your soaked slit.

"How's she feel?" He anchors his head, looking down at you from under his lashes.

"S'nice," you half whisper, half moan. The wanton bliss slowly consumes you the more he rubs against your sticky folds, keeping a hand locked around his girthy base, his crown glistening with your combined arousal.

Your eyes tear open, back arching like a bow, when he cants his hips and taps his cock square in the center of your cunt.

"M'not gonna fuck you, sweet girl, wanna keep you whole," he declares, holding true to his word despite the overwhelming need to claim you.

He can't be the one to sully you. "Ain' much left'a this world that's as sweet n' pure as you."

Your core quivers as his dusky, throbbing crown glides along your glistening seam. He tentatively explores uncharted areas, brows furrowed with concentration, fighting with inner demons who want to claim, corrupt, and mold you for only his touch.

His name leaves your lips with a mess of desperate, frustrated moans, "Please, Joel."

He snaps out of his haze. He's done almost everything he can to keep you safe and protected in this new way of life. He'll be damned if he doesn't grant you anything you ask for.

"S'hurtin' somethin' fierce, huh?" He grunts, angling his hips until his cock lines up with your fluttering hole. "Bet she needs somethin' big'er than fingers to ease 'er throbbin'."

His cock catches on your opening, forcing a hiss through his clenched teeth. As tight as you are, he can't stop from pushing into your warmth. He blocks out any sense of reasoning that's shouting from the back of his mind as he slowly nudges his cock into your weeping, inviting hole.

Joel goes brain-dumb momentarily, watching in immoral awe as your core ever so slowly swallows his fat tip and breaches your quivering hole, forcing a raspy whine from your throat.

So warm, safe, and wet.

Joel's never felt anything like you. He wants to bury himself, slide his cock as deep as he can, claim every inch, endlessly fill you with his cum, and keep you only for him.

You frantically reach for him, hands clutching the air as he rubs a callous thumb over your clit while keeping a steady hold on the base of his cock.

"S'all she's gonna get," he states, returning to his senses and hissing when your cunt tightens. "S'just the tip."

A soft begging whine bubbles from your lips as you extend your arms, needing something solid to hold before latching onto his wrists.

Your hips move on their own, desperate to feel his length completely shunted in your velvet warmth, but brute hands envelop your hips and pin them to the bed.

He shakes his head, salt and pepper curls fraying across his forehead. "Don' be greedy now." He tuts, narrowing his gaze down at you.

A garbled mess of nonsense tumbles from your lips as your fingernails dig into his muscular, hairy forearms.

"I know. S'big, huh?" He lands a solemn thumb on your clit, rubbing tender circles around the tiny bud. "Stay wit' me, sweet girl. Wanna feel you come on my cock."

Your mind spins. It's all too much, and yet, not enough. Your head tosses from side to side, and you're frantic to survive, breathing hard and fast, waiting for the drop to come and, at the same time, never wanting it to come.

"Don't I deserve it? Keepin' you safe all this time." Joel muses, stroking his cock in time with his teasing thumb. His eyes never leave where he's splitting you open. He's barely penetrating you, but it's enough to know if he had, you'd be struggling to take him.

"Come on, Sweetheart. Let go f'me," he urges, his touch growing faster. Severe, tightly drawn circles tease you closer to the edge.

Your stomach flips. A heaviness settles in your throat, your heart lodging in the tight confines, your blood pumping faster and faster. A lithe whine slithers free, escaping into the dimly lit room and burrows into Joel's mind.

His jaw clenches, and a dark growl rumbles from his chest, "Thatta' girl. Make'a fuckin' mess'a me."

Your dripping hole quivers and throbs around his swollen tip as you come with a silent scream, body locking taut, trying its best to engulf his length entirely.

Joel curses, jerking his length with long, steady tugs and rubbing his weeping, cream-covered tip around your soaked folds before his spine goes straight, and he yanks his cock from your core, curling in on himself and spilling his seed all over your belly with a deep, gravelly moan.

You sag into his sheets, spent with a shiny thin layer of dew and white ropes of spend painted across your abdomen.

"Shit." Joel curses, breathing heavily as he holds himself by his hands, which press into the mattress by your head, keeping you locked beneath him.

You hold his studious gaze. His dark eyes ruminate, tinged with mood, as his gaze drills down into your very core, threatening to demolish your soul. You resign that this was nothing special. Just another night you won't talk about again.  

Joel eases off of you with a grunt, his bones aching from the tension despite the brief, pleasurable relief, and tucks his cock back away into his sweatpants. He shuffles to the bathroom momentarily before returning with a damp washcloth.

He wipes the cloth over your belly and between your thighs, cleaning the combined arousal from your skin before chucking the rag into the hamper with a sigh.

"I know," you mutter, grimacing as you roll onto your side and sit up, tugging your shirt down. "I won't mention it again."

A solid, warm hand on your shoulder stops your retreat. "Stay," Joel whispers with soft, yearning eyes. "I wan' you to stay, sweet girl."

feel free to scream at me -> 💌

reblogs & comments are extremely appreciated! follow @ozzieslibrary for new fic updates!

[devilbat]

[devilbat]

Another interview with Bella and Pedro

[devilbat]

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐀𝐔

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤!𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐁𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐞𝐬 𝐱 𝐅𝐞𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐠𝐮𝐲 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭 𝐜𝐮𝐭𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐨-𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲 𝐚𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐞𝐥𝐟𝐢𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐲, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐞𝐞𝐭, 𝐢𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐧𝐨 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐢𝐭. 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐲 𝐠𝐨 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠?

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐢𝐧𝐩𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫. 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐔'𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐤. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢)

𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 (𝐢) 𝐚𝐧𝐝 (𝐢𝐢). 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐀𝐔'𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐜, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐭. 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐧 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐨𝐧 𝐂𝐨𝐧. 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐫𝐨𝐬𝐤. 𝟏𝟖+ 𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐇𝐢𝐬 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐀 𝐕𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐭?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐁𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐒𝐚𝐦?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐡𝐞 𝐇𝐚𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐩 𝐇𝐢𝐦?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞 𝐃𝐨𝐰𝐧 𝐀𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐞𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐇𝐞𝐫 𝐅𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐎𝐧 𝐀 𝐌𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐏𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐧

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐠𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐚𝐰𝐚𝐲?

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐃𝐨 𝐈𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐓𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐝 𝐓𝐨 𝐇𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐇𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟?

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢𝐢)

𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐁𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐢𝐟… 𝐁𝐚𝐛𝐲 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐞?

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 (𝐢𝐢𝐢)

𝐖𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 - 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐞*

[devilbat]

The (Ex) Files

Summary: Bucky’s mother is the worst.

Pairing: AU!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Reader

Warnings: angst, awful mother-in-law, arguments, fluff, protective Bucky

A/N: This was an alternative idea for my series: Monster-in-law. I decided to turn it into a drabble.

Another family gathering—another awful get-together.

You tried to warm up to your mother-in-law; you really tried. The problem is that she doesn’t want to get to know you better or include you in your husband’s family.

She’s still hung up on one of Bucky’s ex-girlfriends. They broke up halfway through college. It’s been years. Still, his mother invites Dot to every family gathering—even Christmas.

She calls her daughter, which is, in your opinion, disrespectful towards your husband and his sister Rebbeca. Her children. You know families don’t have to be related by blood. Some of the happiest people you know were adopted.

It doesn’t irk you that Winnifred is still close to Bucky’s ex-girlfriend. She can befriend anyone she wants to. This is none of your business. But she forces you to face Dot, a woman your husband slept with, every time you visit his family.

In the beginning, you thought Winnifred only needed to warm up to you. You were the new woman in her son’s life—someone he didn’t even introduce to his family before proposing to you.

Bucky tried to explain to her that it was in the heat of the moment and that he had intended to introduce you to her and the rest of his family first.

Your wedding day was not as happy as expected either. Bucky was the perfect groom, the cake was delicious, and the music was too. Sadly, your mother-in-law decided to use her plus one to not bring her husband but Dot.

That was not the first time or the last time she brought you to tears. Many family events came and went, only for you to be left outside. Even though, Rebecca, George, and Bucky tried their best to make you feel welcome.

You liked Bucky’s sister from the beginning, and his father is a strict but kind man. If only his mother had tried to warm up to you. At least a little bit.

For months, you tried to invite her for lunch, a spa day, or just a slice of cake at your favorite café. Every single time, she turned you down, pretending to be busy with something more important.

Most of the time she said no to you only to spend the day with Dot. You heard so through the grapevine, from Rebecca or some mutual friends.

They have a special connection, and you don’t mind. Still, it stings every time you see Winnifred with Dot. She treats her like the daughter-in-law she never had. Her words, not yours.

Bucky told his mother a long time ago, even before you came into the picture, that he doesn’t feel comfortable having his ex-girlfriend around.

He’s not a cruel man. Bucky told his mother that she was free to be friends with Dot but to not force him to see her every time he wanted to visit his parents.

Winnifred ignored his wishes. Just like she ignored you when you called her out. All you got was a shrug, and that you are free to leave if you cannot be around her daughter.

“Just a few more hours,” Bucky whispers in your ear as your eyes drift toward his mother and her chosen daughter once again. “I know, I’m as pissed as you are. I told her to not invite Dot today.”

“She’ll never like me, Buck,” you sniff and look away. You made peace with Winnifred’s indifference when it came to you and your marriage with her son. “I don’t know what I did wrong.”

“Nothing,” he hastily says. “You were an angel as always. From the beginning, it was you trying to have a relationship with my mother. If she doesn’t want to get to know my wife well, then she won’t…” He clears his throat. “We will be on our way back home in no time.”

You rest your head against his shoulder and sigh. “I’d die for some greasy food. Ice cream too, maybe with some beetroot.”

Bucky chuckles. “I’ll buy you all the greasy food. Maybe I can eat it off your chest.”

“Buck,” you tut. “We won’t get naughty at your parents’ house. Your mother already hates me, and I don’t want to anger her even more.”

Your husband’s features sadden. He had hoped that his mother would change her behavior. “Y/N, this is not, and never was, your fault.”

“How about I go to the bathroom, and you get me some food? We meet halfway to at least feast on the food Dottie ordered,” you giggle before kissing your husband’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

You turn to leave, earning a slap to your ass from your husband. “Hey, watch it, Mr. Barnes!” You point your finger at him.

“I could come with you,” he purrs. “You know, to help you pee.”

On your way back from the bathroom, you slip inside the kitchen to get a glass of water. You stop in your tracks, hearing your mother-in-law and Dot talk low about you.

“Yeah, she’s shamelessly walking around in a too-tight dress,” Dot giggles as Winnifred nags about your outfit, your make-up, and the food you brought to the barbecue. “She’ll never learn.”

You try to ignore their chatter and move past the kitchen to get back to your husband. Right when you are about to walk away, Winnifred calls your name.

“You know, sneaking around someone else’s house to spy on them is impolite,” she snaps at you, eying you up and down. “If you are looking for more food, I suggest salad.” She points at your middle. “You know, you got a little pudgy there.”

You’re taken aback. Winnifred isn’t your biggest fan, but she never openly attacked you.

“Did you eat out of frustration because you’ll never be the daughter-in-law I wanted?” She continues, unaware Bucky is standing right behind her. He came to look for you and, well, get naughty in the bathroom, or maybe his old room.

“No, you and Dot are not worth it.” You reply, a smirk tugging at your lips. “I got a little pudgy because your son and I are expecting our first child.”

You hold out your hand for Bucky to take it. “The reason Bucky didn’t want Dot here today was to announce my pregnancy.”

“And once again, you failed me and my wife,” Bucky adds. He squares his jaw while glaring at his mother. “Well, as Y/N isn’t the daughter-in-law you want, you won’t be missing out when you do not get to know your grandchild.”

“What…I?” She gasps, watching Bucky guide you out of the kitchen to bring you home. He’ll invite his father and Rebecca to celebrate your pregnancy later, excluding his mother for the first time in his life.

Tags in reblog

[devilbat]

Monster-in-law masterlist

Summary: Your mother-in-law is the worst. She will try anything to ruin your loving relationship with Bucky. Will she succeed?

Pairing: CEO!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Warnings: angst, language, awful mother-in-law, unplanned pregnancy, awful behavior, pregnant reader, fluff, hurt & comfort, cuddling & snuggling, deceive, more to be added

Monster-in-law (1)

Worst-in-law (2)

Best-in-law (3)

Villain-in-law (4)

Family-in-law (5)

Sisters-in-law (6)

Forever-in-law (7)

No-more-in-laws (8)

You & Me forever (9)

Our family (10) - Epilogue

Keep reading

[devilbat]

love that lasts | joaquín torres x fem!reader

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: When Thanos snapped his fingers and erased half of all life from the universe, he also took you from Joaquín. Five years later, he is still trying to learn how to live without you – until the Avengers can save the world. Warnings: Google Translate is my best friend – apologies if the Spanish is used incorrectly in this fic, I do not speak it but I tried my best to make sure I used words properly. Mentions of bad mental health, nightmares. It's very angsty at the start, has a bit of fluff, but mostly full of angst. Word Count: 4.2k A/N: I rewatched Infinity War and Endgame last week and came up with this idea. Since we know that Joaquín survived the snap, I decided I wanted to write something angsty about where you didn't survive and this was born. This was the most challenging fic for Joaquín I've written so far but also the most rewarding, I think. I know everyone's really moved on from the whole Infinity War/Endgame thing regarding fics, but I really wanted to write this so I hope people will enjoy it. The title of the fic comes from 'Still' by Noah Kahan – I had his album on repeat almost the entire time I was writing this.

Joaquin Torres always knew that the Avengers were going to save the world. From the moment that half of all life on Earth had disappeared, he knew that whatever had happened, the Avengers would somehow find a way to fix things. 

He just didn’t count on it being five years later.

There had been one good thing that had come out of him not being blipped, though – the fact that his mom hadn’t been either. If he’d had to live without her, he’s sure he would have gone insane. Because it was hard enough to live without you.

He’d spent days wishing that he’d been taken too. The first few days had been the worst. He’d been unable to leave the house, having to learn to grieve you when he wasn’t even sure if you were dead or just gone. 

He remembered every moment of that first day like it was yesterday. How he’d just arrived home from going to pick up some takeout for the two of you and he’d seen his neighbour turn to dust in his front yard while he’d been outside gardening, making the most of the evening light. He thought he must have just been seeing things.

He’d walked through the front door of your home and called out your name, heading into the kitchen to put the take out down before he went to find you, feeling more than confused. Then you’d appeared in the doorway to the kitchen and Joaquin had been flooded with relief.

“I’m home, angel, I have the takeout in the kitchen, come get yours” Joaquin called, starting to get the take out from the bags. “Hey, have you seen anything weird on TV today?”

“Joaquin…”

He’d looked up at you, then, just soon enough to see you say his name as you slowly started to turn to dust in front of his eyes. The blanket that had been wrapped around your shoulders fell to a pile on the floor as Joaquin stared at where you had been standing only seconds earlier. 

“Angel?” Joaquin’s voice was small, hesitant. He put the container down that he’d been holding and walked towards the doorway, half expecting you to be hiding behind the wall, ready to jump out and scare him. It’d been a trick of the light, something like that. But all that was left of you was the blanket on the floor and your phone which had fallen on top of it.

He’d fallen to the floor, grabbing the blanket in his hands and holding it to his chest for what felt like hours as the feeling of numbness overtook him. The blanket still smelled like you and he never wanted to let it go.

Whatever was happening, whatever had happened to your neighbour and to you… there was nothing Joaquin could do about it. He wasn’t an Avenger, he wasn’t anyone special. He knew in that moment that he was going to have to live with it. That fact alone could have killed him.

His knees went numb after kneeling on the floor for so long but he couldn’t find it in himself to pull himself up from the floor. Not even when the sun finally set and the house was blanketed in darkness. The food on the counter had long gone cold. It was only when your phone, sitting in his lap, buzzed, that he’d been pulled out of his stupor. His mother was trying to ring you. She’d thought Joaquin had been taken when she couldn’t get a hold of him, but the second he answered your phone, she knew that you were gone.

Joaquin had stayed with his mother for a while after that, not being able to bring himself to be in the house without you there. There were memories of you in that house everywhere he looked. The sheets still smelled of you, all of your things were still in the cupboards, every time he opened up Netflix, your profile was there. Everything was there except for you. 

“You could always sell the house and move back home with me properly, mijo,” his mother had said. “It’s not smart to be paying your mortgage on that house when no one is living in it.”

He shook his head. “I know it’s not smart, mamá, but I just can’t. We bought that house together. We were making a life there. I can’t even bring myself to move her things, how could I sell the place and clear everything out?” 

His mother reached across the table and placed her hand over Joaquin’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Then you’ll stay here until you’re ready to go home.”

“I don’t know if it will ever really be home without her, mamá,” Joaquin said honestly, meeting her eyes. His were full of tears, as they were most days since you’d gone.

There was no hesitation as his mother stood up from the table and walked around to him, wrapping her arms around him to pull him into a hug. She pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “She was the love of your life. Just like your father was the love of mine. You don’t have to move on like she never existed, mijo. Time will continue to pass and she will continue to be with you, even when you cannot see her.”

Joaquin sniffed, holding his mother close as he cried. “I really love her, mamá,” he murmured, not really expecting her to hear him since his voice was so muffled.

She did, though. Gently rubbing his back, she closed her eyes and let out a long, shaky sigh. “I know you do. I loved her too, mijo. Just like she was my own,” she hummed. “Don’t lose hope. She will return to you one day, I believe that. Your soulmate will find you wherever you are, in any life.”

As the years went on, Joaquin started to believe that this was the way it was always going to be. The Avengers had not saved the world like he thought they would. And he was going to have to learn to live the rest of his life with only memories of you. Like his mother had said, time continued to pass, no matter how much he wished it wouldn’t.

The world changed. He changed. Things became darker and he became darker with them, though he desperately tried to keep the spark alive in his chest – if only because he knew that was what you’d want him to do. You would want him to still be the same Joaquin that you’d loved, but how could he be that person without you?

He threw himself into his job, working day and night to try and keep himself afloat. It seemed strange to be doing such mundane things in a world that was so different. To have to keep earning money to pay the mortgage of your house. To have to get out of bed every morning and shave. To have to make food for himself to eat during the day. To have to go to the grocery store to get milk for breakfasts and coffees.

Five years had passed slowly. Joaquin had made it through them relatively unscathed, with a few mental scars here and there. Every day he was grateful that he still had his mom. That she was there to comfort him when the days were hard and that he was still alive to be there for her as well. If she’d been alone through all of this, it would have broken Joaquin’s heart even more.

When he eventually moved back into your home, every time he cooked dinner it was like you were in the room with him. He could feel your hand on his back as he cooked, your arms around his waist as he washed the dishes. It was like you were still there with him, but then he’d blink and the memories were gone, washed down the sink with the water he drained.

He still cooked enough food for two people before realising it was only him. For a while, he could never bring himself to eat the second serving, until times got harder and he couldn’t afford to waste anything. 

He would be laying in bed at night and he could swear he could feel your arm draped across his side. He could feel the ghost of your kisses on his lips. Your side of the bed was empty every night and yet, he could never bring himself to wash the pillowcase you’d once slept on for fear of the way you smelt disappearing entirely, forcing him to lose another part of you. He couldn’t lose anymore of you.

His friends who had survived the blip had suggested that he put himself back out there. Go on a date, find someone new. There were plenty of stories of people who had gone to support groups after losing loved ones and had found new love there. The likelihood of everyone who had been blipped coming back was slim to none, so why not? But Joaquin could never bring himself to let you go. Even just thinking about going on a date with someone else filled him with guilt. People had tried to set him up on dates but he had never gone through with actually going on any of them. 

His mom was the only one who understood. Even if it meant that her baby would never be able to give her the grandchildren she’d wanted for so long, it didn’t matter to her. She had loved you like you were her own child. All she wanted was for Joaquin to be happy and for some miracle to bring you back to him so that he could be. But even she had lost hope after the past five years that anything could bring you back to him. 

And then… the Avengers saved the world.

~~~

That morning, Joaquin is sitting in a coffee shop – one that had been your favourite before you were gone. He’s missing you a little more than normal this morning and had decided that a good way to feel like he was with you would be to come out and spend time at a place you loved. He’s taking a sip of his coffee when someone suddenly appears in the chair opposite him.

Joaquin almost chokes on his drink, coughing a little as he looks at the man in front of him. He hadn’t walked in from anywhere, he hadn’t been in the coffee shop before. He’d just… appeared. What the hell was going on?

“What the…” the man says, looking around the coffee shop with a confused and haunted look in his eyes. “You’re not my wife… I was just sitting here with her… Where is Sylvia?”

Joaquin’s eyes widen. For a moment he wonders if the man is just confused, maybe there’s something wrong with him mentally and this is his way of asking Joaquin for help… but then, on the table in front of him, his phone lights up and starts to ring.

The contact photo is of you and the name on the screen is yours.

He drops his coffee, spilling a little on the table as he reaches for his phone. His hands are already starting to shake. A part of him thinks this must all be a cruel joke. Someone has broken into your house and stolen your phone, or there’s some kind of technological glitch. But another part of him, the part that is still hoping after all these years, truly believes that when he answers the phone, your voice will be the one he hears on the other end of the line. 

“Angel?” Joaquin’s voice is hopeful as he holds his phone up to his ear and presses the answer button. “Is that you?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line and Joaquin’s stomach drops. But then he hears it. “Joaquin… where are you? What’s going on?” Your voice – your voice on the other end of the line. It’s real. By some miracle, you’re home. “You were just unpacking the takeout and then…”

“Angel, just stay there, okay? I’m coming home,” Joaquin says to you, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair as he stands up. “I’m so sorry, sir. You should call your wife,” he mutters to the man still sitting on the chair opposite him, looking confused.

He takes off at a run, almost running straight into a few people walking through the door of the cafe. He doesn’t hang up the phone the entire time he’s running home, just grateful that your favourite coffee shop is within walking distance of your house. He’s grateful that he wasn’t driving – he doubts he’d be able to focus on the road properly, knowing that you’re home and waiting for him.

Joaquin runs faster than he’s ever run in his entire life. His throat hurts from his heavy breathing and the air rushing in and there’s a stitch forming on his side. There’s sweat dripping down his forehead, owing to the sweater he’d put on this morning and the pace at which he’s running. But he’s not going to stop or slow down for even a second until he gets to you.

Once he reaches your street, he pushes himself to run even faster. He can see your house in the distance and he hopes he’s not dreaming as he runs towards it. He doesn’t think he can deal with the pain of walking inside the house and not seeing you inside again. 

He’s breathing heavily as he reaches the front door, fumbling in his pocket for the key. He doesn’t even notice his neighbour in the front yard, the one he’d seen disappear five years ago, standing right where he’d disappeared, holding his wife close.

Joaquin doesn’t manage to get the key in the front door before it’s pulled open, his hands shaking too much with adrenaline. His head snaps up and his eyes fall on you, your hand on the door handle and your cheeks tear-streaked as you look at him.

“Oh, dios mío,” Joaquin mutters, instantly stepping inside the door and wrapping his arms around you. He holds you tightly to his chest, worried that you’re going to disappear from his arms for good this time. “Are you real? Are you actually here? I’m dreaming. I must be dreaming. This can’t be real.”

Your hands fist the fabric of his sweater as he holds you close. Whatever happened, you don’t really know yet, but what you do know is that Joaquin is acting like he hasn’t seen you for years. The house looks the same, you’d noticed, as you’d walked around before Joaquin came home and you heard the sound of his keys at the door. But something is off.

“I’m real, Joaquin,” you murmur into his ear. “You’re not dreaming. But I don’t know what’s going on… where did you go? You were unpacking takeout and then you were gone.”

Joaquin pulls away from the hug but still keeps his arms firmly wrapped around your waist. He can’t bring himself to let go and he fears it’s going to be that way forever now. “Angel, it’s… it’s been five years since I last saw you. Thanos… he wiped out half of all life in the universe… you were– you were gone.” Tears start to fall down Joaquin’s cheeks and he doesn’t realise until your hand moves to gently swipe them away. He leans into your palm, finding comfort in the feeling of your warm hand on his cheek. “But the Avengers… whatever they did brought you back to me. It was them, I know it must’ve been.”

He internally curses himself for ever doubting them.

“Five years?” You frown, eyebrows knotting together as you try and piece things together in your mind. For you, it had just been like you’d blinked and things had changed but for Joaquin… it had been five years. Five years without you, and yet when you’d called… he had literally come running. “I was gone for five years?”

Joaquin nods, reaching one hand up to wipe the tears from your own face. He can’t imagine how terrifying it must have been for you to come back and not find him anywhere, for you to be alone in the house. He’s more grateful than ever now that he never tried to sell the house. If you’d come back and an entire new family had been living in your house…

“They were the hardest five years of my life, angel,” he says softly. “I thought that you were gone forever.”

You look at him for a moment, a little confused. “But you still live here… you still kept my number in your phone… you– Joaquin, you came running to me when I called… what have you been doing for the last five years?”

Joaquin’s heart cracks a little in his chest. “Angel, I’ve been waiting for you.” 

With that, he can’t bring himself to maintain his self control any longer. The hand that had wiped the tears off your cheeks gently holds the back of your neck as he presses his lips to yours. You reciprocate immediately. Five years of wanting, five years of waiting for something he was sure was never going to come… a kiss five years in the making. Joaquin is surprised he was able to hold off for so long. He’s never going to take advantage of kissing you ever again. 

~~~

A little later, you and Joaquin sit on the couch in the living room. Your hands are entwined, legs tangled under a blanket in front of you. It had taken a while to pull yourselves from the doorway. You were both in a little bit of shock – Joaquin in shock that you were finally back here after five years, you in shock that you had been gone that long.

“You really never dated anyone at all in the last five years?” You ask, resting your head on his shoulder as one of his fingers draws patterns on your palm that slightly tickles. 

Joaquin looks down at you and sighs. “Believe me, my friends tried to make me. They even set up a couple of dates for me to go on, but I never went on any of them. I just couldn’t bring myself to get out the front door.”

Frowning, you look up at him. “Why not?”

“Because none of them were you, angel.”

He gives your hand a squeeze and you snuggle closer into his side. You’d been insecure in your relationship at times – five years ago – but you knew you could never be insecure about it anymore. How many other people could say their partner had waited five years for them on a sliver of hope that they’d come back after disappearing from the universe? 

In his pocket, Joaquin’s phone starts to buzz. He pulls it out of his pocket and smiles as he sees his mothers contact on the screen. “I’ve got a phone call for you, mi amor.” He hands the phone to you and his heart warms as he sees your smile upon seeing who’s calling. “I think she almost missed you more than I missed you.”

You take the phone off of Joaquin and instantly hit answer, holding the phone up to your ear. “Suegrita,” is all you say and even though Joaquin isn’t holding the phone, he can already hear his mothers cries on the other side of the line. 

He motions for you to put the call on speaker. 

“Mamá, you told me not to lose hope,” he says, taking advantage of a moment of silence from the other end of the line while his mother isn’t sobbing. He’s already planning to go and see her as soon as possible – especially when she’s like this.

For a moment, there is nothing but the sound of his mothers sobs on the other end of the line, and then she speaks. “You bring her home to see me soon, mijo!” She exclaims to Joaquin. “Mi querida niña, you do not understand how happy I am that you are home with your love.” Her words are directed at you now.

There are already tears streaming down your cheeks at her words. “You must have taken really good care of him these past five years for me, suegrita,” you sniff. “Thank you for looking after him when I couldn’t.”

Joaquins arm wraps around your shoulders and squeezes tightly. 

“I knew you would come home to him one day, querida,” his mom says. “Soulmates will find each other in life no matter what comes between them. I told him that years ago.”

His mother only hangs up after Joaquin promises that he’ll bring you around to see her tomorrow. You know you’re going to need to prepare yourself for plenty of hugs and kisses from her, and even though for you it’s only been a matter of weeks since you’ve seen her, it’s been five years since she saw you. It’s going to take a while to get used to that fact. 

“Mamá took good care of me, angel,” Joaquin says, rubbing his hand up and down your arm. “I don’t know what I would have done without her here. I cried in her arms more than I can count over the past five years.” 

You frown, moving until you’re straddling Joaquin’s lap and you can hug him properly. You bury your head in his neck and one of your hands moves to rest in his hair. His arms wrap around your back. “You don’t have to cry anymore, baby.”

Joaquin chuckles a little. “I think I’m probably still going to do a lot of that. I can’t make any promises, angel,” he rubs your back. “A part of me still thinks I’m dreaming. That I’m going to wake up any second and you’re going to be gone.” 

You pull away just enough so you can look him in the eyes. “I’m real, Joaquin. I’m not going anywhere. Not unless there’s some other alien out there that’s going to get rid of half all life in the universe again.”

He scrunches up his nose. “Don’t joke about that. Too soon.” 

Smiling, you lean in and touch the tip of your nose against his gently. Joaquin takes advantage of the closeness of your face to lean up and capture your lips with his. He can feel you smiling into the kiss. Maybe if he does this enough, he can make his brain realise that this is real. That you’re here in his arms, your lips on his. That against all odds, you’re home.

~~~

He knows the nightmares aren’t going to go away any time soon. They’ve been plaguing him for years at this point. He’s lost count of the amount of times he’s woken up from a dream that you were alive, or a nightmare where he had you back only to lose you again. It’s why, when he wakes up later that night, his heart racing and sweat drenching his body, that it’s not a surprise to him.

What does surprise him is that he forgets you’re here now. It’s not until he hears your soft, sleep filled voice speak his name and feels the mattress move underneath him that he spins around from where he’d moved to sit on the edge of the bed to see you. 

“Baby, are you okay?” You ask quietly.

Joaquin takes you by surprise by pretty much launching himself at you. He places a hand on your cheek, another one on your thigh. You’re sitting up, legs crossed, staring at him full of worry. 

“Baby?” You try again.

“You’re real,” Joaquin mutters. “I’m not dreaming. It’s not a nightmare.” 

You reach up a hand to rest on the one on your cheek. “It’s not a nightmare. I’m real.”

Tears fill Joaquin’s eyes again. He’s still haunted by the nightmare, one where he’d lost you again, and his brain is just sleepy enough to make him think that this is all a dream, even after trying to convince himself that it isn’t. Even after hearing your words confirm that it isn’t. 

“Please don’t leave me,” he murmurs.

You shuffle closer to him until you’re face to face, until you can feel his unsteady breaths on your face and your noses are almost touching. “I’m not going anywhere, Joaquin.”

He brushes his lips against yours softly, barely even a kiss. “Don’t leave me.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut and kiss him properly in an attempt to wake him up a little. It’s almost like he’s still in the midst of the nightmare, that he can’t manage to pull himself out of it completely. The fact that he’s had to deal with all of this alone for the past five years makes your heart hurt. 

“I’m home now, baby,” you mutter against his lips after you pull away. “I’m not leaving you. I’m home.”

Joaquin’s arms move to pull you closer to him until you’re almost sitting in his lap. “You’re home,” he says softly. 

“I’m home,” you repeat.

He takes a moment to just breathe, then. Focusing on the feeling of your hands on him, the feeling of his hands on you, trying to ground himself. You’re home. You are really home. And for the first time in five years… Joaquin finally feels like he is home too. 

[devilbat]

[devilbat]

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

[devilbat]

PEDRO PASCAL on Jimmy Kimmel Live | March 2025

[devilbat]

The Perfect Gift

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Bucky Barnes, older!reader (50s)

Summary: you remember Bucky's birthday but he wants more than you give him.

Note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BUCKO.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

It's a bit silly. A bit of extra effort feels like a lot. You're almost embarrassed at the thought of it. You should just keep it to yourself. Give it to someone else. You probably won't even see him. 

You stand at the tall lab table, one elbow planted as you hover your pen over the report. There's not much going on that day but it's still special. For him. He must have plans, certainly with someone else. Forget it, do your work.  

No one needs any stitching up so you'll stick with the usual. You still can't figure out what that thick blue sludge is. A venom that sticks to the skin like tar. Despite running it through almost every piece of equipment available to you, it remains mysterious and it wouldn't be too unusual to find it isn't an earthly substance. 

Sigh. The icing's going to melt. You're stupid. And too old to be. 

You cringe behind your hand as you lean your forehead into your palm. The door slides open from the other side and you sit up, the stool wobbling beneath you dangerously. You latch onto the table and steady the feet. 

Oh, it's him. Shoot. Despite the work you put into the surprise, you suddenly wish he'd stayed away. That he kept to his actual friends. 

"Hey," Bucky marches up to the end of the table. "You figure out that gas?" 

"Gas... er, oh yes," you perk up. Work is easy to talk about. It's what you know. They only thing you've ever known. "I'm surprised it didn't knock you out. You brought me an empty canister." 

"Serum," he shrugs, his vibranium arm flexing as if reminding you of who he is. How can you forget that? 

"Right, uh, about that--" 

"No more needles, doc. I heard you got enough samples from Hydra," he crosses his arms. Despite his warning, humour dimples in his cheek. 

"No, I wasn't..." you shake your head. "I was just thinking you could do eight hours on a treadmill while I monitor your levels." 

"You are insane," he scoffs and unfolds his arms. He rounds the table, dragging his metal fingertips over it. 

"Anyway, er, about that gas," you hop off the stool before he can reach you. "It's designed to inhibit neural processing. I mean, the immediate effects are typical. Unconsciousness but after that, it sticks around." You look at him and squint, "how are you feeling?" 

"As good as I ever do," he levels his hand and wiggles it, "middling." 

"Right," you exhale and tap your toe nervously. "Even... on your birthday?" 

He pokes his tongue into his cheek and his eyes list away, "you remembered?" 

"I have a thing for dates." You say. 

"A historian and a doctor, wow," he utters. 

You look away, "sorry... if I overstepped. I know some people like that to keep that stuff private. You know, small celebrations." 

"Well, I haven't celebrated since 1941, so... yeah, not on the top of my list." 

His words hang in the air. Your heart races and he sighs. He slowly nears. 

"But..." he drags out the last consonant, "you did something." 

"Bucky..." 

"I can hear your heart. No use pretending. Oh, shit, please don't say it's a surprise party. I knew Sam was up to something," he growls. 

You laugh. It's nice of him to think you'd be included. You shake your head and back up. 

"It's... just from me. Nothing big," you go to your locker and reach into the cooler bag. "I hope you have a sweet tooth--" 

You turn back and find him right in front of you. You flinch. You gasp in surprise. He's fast. And silent. 

"It's er," you look past him, at where he just was, on the other side of the table, "a cupcake. Strawberry swirl with a shortcake crumple on top and cream cheese icing," you cradle the container daintily. 

"Wow, you did that? For me?" 

"I mean, it's a hobby. I always end up giving cookies out to the neighborhood kids," you shrug. "Really, it's small. Nothing big." 

His blue eyes focus on the clear top of the container. He blinks. His jaw tenses and his dimples deepen, the cleft in his chin tautens. You nearly wilt at the heat roiling from him; or that's just you and your stupid self. 

"I... thanks," he reaches to take it, his fingers brushing yours. "That's..." he exhales. "That's nice of you. It's... incredible." He turns it and examines your delicate work. "The last birthday cake I had didn't even have eggs." He looks you in the eye, "rationing." 

"Oh, right," you heave. You forget he's technically older than you. That serum has surely helped. "Well, I hope you enjoy it." 

"I'm sure I will. It's almost a shame to eat it. It's so nice," he says. "At least, it would be a shame to eat it al--" 

"There you are!" A voice calls from the doorway. "Did you forget?" 

You look over at Nat as she puts her hand on her perfectly curved hip. Even in street clothes, you can tell she has an hourglass figure. And she's stunning with her bold red hair and porcelain complexion. 

"I didn't forget," he rebuffs and sends you a goofy smile. "Girlfriends." 

"Ha, right," you sidle away awkwardly and go back to the lab table. He crosses to Nat as she stands by the door. 

"Whatever," she drawls. "Oh, what's that?" 

"Cake. My cake," he insists and holds the container out of her grasp. 

You peek up as he raises his hand and meet Nat's eyes. You blanch. She tilts her head slightly. You offer a weak smile. 

"Just see if you can keep it from me," she returns her attention to him with a snarl. "I mean, we were planning on wrestling anyway." 

She grabs the front of his tee shirt and pulls him to her. She stands on her toes and pushes her lips to his as he angles down to meet her. You quickly look at the forgotten report and search for your notes.  

Ugh, you are so lame. You really thought you'd outgrown crushes. Well, time heals everything, doesn't it? That man is all the proof you need of that. 

🧁

You look at the clock and sigh. You did it again. Time is your nemesis, always eluding you. You rub your eyes and stifle a yawn. If you head out now, you might actually get some sleep.  

You open your locker and slide the tablet into your burgundy leather bag. You wish you were as sophisticated as you seemed. From the outside, you have a degree, several, you splurge on labels, you always have good food...  

But you don't do anything. You don't go out with friends. You don't have friends. You have acquaintances.  

A subtle swish prickles your hackles. You peer over as the lab door opens. You fumble your bag at the figure there.  

Bucky cradles his face as he looks around with his uncovered eye. He winces as he sees you and enters, "thank god you're here, doc, think I need stitches."  

"Stitches?" You grimace and put your bag back on the shelf. "How on earth--"  

You hurry over to him as he chuckles, "yeah, I know. I always gotta ruin things."  

You tut and wave him over to the table. You open a drawer and take out a sanitizing wipe. "Let me see."  

He lowers his hand. His eye socket is already discoloured and there's a gash in his brow. Your eyes round.  

"What happened?" You reach to dab away the blood gently.  

He groans, "well, you know, Russians and their vodka."  

You look him in the eye curiously. You continue to wipe away the blood. You try not to ogle him. How many times have you patched him up? Don't be a fool.

"Natasha?" You wonder.  

"Mhm. Well, I mean, she gets rough just typically... in a different context," he laughs again and the insinuation makes you twitch.  "We were arguing..."  

"Arguing," you echo as you toss the wipe and examine the cut. "No stitches. I can glue it shut."  

"Right," he nods, leaning in to give you a better angle. "Anyway, we were kidding around and it got a bit serious. She gets jealous easy, ya know?"  

You uncap the bottle and place a hand gentle on his head, framing his brow. You're as careful as you can be. He hardly seems bothered. You apply the glue precisely.  

"Jealous?" You prompt.  

"Ha, yeah, funny thing," he clucks. "She's jealous of you."  

"Me?" You put the glue away and snort. You busy yourself as you tuck the kit away then go to wash your hands. You feel him watching.  

"That cake you made me. I might have been drooling over it," he says. "You're a hell of a baker. You got a degree in that too?"  

You roll your eyes then face him, once more startled to find him close. You steady yourself as you lean on the table behind you.  

"Well, I'm glad you enjoyed it," you murmur, clearing your throat as it clenches. "You know, it's not my place but she did some nasty work on you."  

"Yeah, she did," he touches his brow and winces. "But you got me, doc. Like always."  

"Yep, well, you're all good, so..."  

You realise how close he is. It would be hard to slip by without brushing him. You freeze and stare at him, confused.  

"I think you forgot something," he says.  

Your brows knit and your lips downturn, "I did?"  

"Yeah," he runs his knuckles up your arm, "aren't you going to kiss it better?"  

You blink. Then you guffaw. Then you feel horribly dumb.  

"Don't be silly," you catch his hand as it crawls along your shoulder.  

He doesn't stop. He flicks your fingers away and tickles your neck. You gulp and lean away.  

"Not being silly," he grabs your chin, his grip firm. "I'm serious. I think it would help," he grins.  

"I don't... alright. I think it's late and I--"  

"Those lips have gotta be just as tender as those hands," he stretches his thumb up to touch your lips. You shiver.   

"Bucky," you say appeasingly. You have to be asleep at the table, dreaming again.  

"You think I can't hear your heart hitch every time I walk in? Hm?" He steps closer to loom over you, "think I can't smell it in your sweat? That I can't smell you getting wet--"  

"Stop! Stop, please," you try to pull away from his hand. "Bucky, that's... please."  

"A little kiss," he growls. "Just here."  

He lets you go and traces the cut. You quiver, blood surging, skin alight. You slowly hover closer and press your lips to his brow. He hums.  

He pulls away. He's too quick for you to elude. You have to no time to react as he takes you off your feet. 

His hands are on your hips. You wriggle. You’re overly conscious of the extra cushion there as his fingers curl into it. You yelp. 

“Please, Bucky,” you push on his hands.  

“I know you want me,” he snarls as he slides his fingers under your ass, groping you as he pushes between your knees. 

“Bucky, it’s just--” 

“It’s just...” he interjects as he leans in until his nose touches yours, “my birthday and I know exactly what I want.” 

[devilbat]

To Hel and Back

The Fated Apple Universe

Chapter One: The Vacuum

Pairings: Loki X Reader

Warnings: Mature Content ((ONLY 18+)) I am not going to get specific on warnings because I don't want to spoil certain things so enter at your own risk. Nothing too dark I promise, mostly smut and language.

With that being said I will also not be doing chapter summaries, again to avoid spoilers. This idea was sparked by a request from @eleniblue, (I'll put the request below). Thank you! I hope you like it, thanks for the spark 💚

I didn't tag anyone from the previous posts because I have anxiety and my anxiety monster told me not to..((aka I didn't want to bother anyone))

Also if you're new and haven't read The Fated Apple here is the link if you would like to read: 💚The Fated Apple Universe💚

Enjoy💚

“How do we tell her?”, Fandral asks Thor in the observatory. They just arrived back from Vanaheim and to say that they were all dreading what was coming next was an understatement. 

Thor looked to his friend, worry filling his eyes, “I do not know. From my understanding of fated ones…she should already know.”

It was supposed to be a quick diplomatic visit but everything went horribly wrong when Thor was found with the Prince of Vanaheim’s betrothed early this morning. Loki begged him not to get involved with her but he just wouldn’t listen. His cock making all of the decisions. 

As they make their way through the great halls, they hear the sounds of sobbing echoing throughout. 

“No.”, Thor breaks out in to a run to the open door at the end of the hall. The door that leads to Loki and Y/N’s chambers. When Thor arrived at the door, closely followed by Sif and the Warriors Three. As soon as they enter the seating area and make their way to the bedroom they see you and your young daughter Mina, who just celebrated her seventeenth name-day not mere weeks ago. 

Mina is holding onto her mothers hand. 

Without looking away from your face she takes a deep breath before she speaks, “Grandmother had to give her a tonic. She was…inconsolable…

She finally looks over to Thor, more tears falling down her pale face. A beautiful combination of her mother and father, tainted by grief. “What happened to my father?..”

Thor looks at his niece miserably then looks over to his friends that have followed him to hell and back, “leave us.”

Sif gives him a nod but then looks over to Mina, “I am so sorry Princess. If there is anything you require…”

“Thank you Lady Sif. I will extend your condolences to my mother.”

Sif nods and motions for the rest of the party to leave. Mina turns her attention back to you, trying to erase the memory of the last few hours. The moment the bond broke it was like half of your soul left your body. The moment Loki died a part of you died with him. 

Thor walks over to Mina and places a hand on her shoulder, “do you wish to wait to speak of this?”

Mina shakes her head, “no, I want to know how my father died.”

Thor removes his hand from Mina’s shoulder and takes a seat in a chair by the vanity on the wall across from your bed where you lay unconscious. He looks down at his hands and takes a deep breath, but before he can start speaking of what happened, Frigga walked through the door. Odin along with her, she was holding his hand like he was the only thing keeping her grounded, like if she let him go everything would go along with him. Thor looked at his devastated mother, “mother..father..I..I had come to speak with Y/N.”

“Yes. To speak of how my father has died.”, Mina interrupts.

Thor looks back to his niece, “Mina..your father. He died protecting me…

“Protecting you from what?”, she asks, no emotion behind her voice.

Thor looks down at his hands again, “I..when we arrived I had caught the attention of one of the ladies of their court..”

“Oh Thor..”, Frigga’s head bows down in disappointment.

“Loki warned me. He told me that she was betrothed to one of the Princes, but I did not listen…when the lady and I were found in a…compromising position..they sent the guard after us. We called for the Bifrost but..we were too late. Prince Valendi cast his dark magic straight for my heart but Loki…Loki forced me to the ground and took the blow himself..I was sure to grab his body before we were taken back to Asgard.”

The silence in the room was deafening.

No one made a sound.

No one moved an inch.

“Thank you uncle.”, Mina leans down and kisses your forehead. “I want to be informed as soon as she wakes.” The healer nods, Mina stands and looks to her uncle. “Take me to my fathers body please.”

“I don’t think that is a good idea Mina.”

“Take me to my father. Please.”

Frigga steps in between Mina and Thor, taking Mina’s hand in hers, “darling girl. Let the healers prepare your father. I know he would not want for you to see him in such a way that would cause you distress.”

“Take. Me. To. Him.”, Mina repeats herself calmly, her voice not going above a respectable volume. She learned at a very young age that she can get her point across a lot easier if she speaks in a calm manner as apposed to yelling and throwing a fit. Her mother used a very similar tone with her father and it was usually the only time she actually saw him afraid of anything. 

Thor looked at his niece with the same type of fear.

“Alright.”, Thor nods and turns to leave your shared rooms with Loki, Mina following close behind. They walk in silence until they arrive at the door standing between her and her fathers lifeless body. Thor looks at Mina one last time before he opens the door, “are you certain?”

Mina takes a deep breath and nods, “yes.”

Thor looks at Mina and then opens the door.

She takes a step forward and then abruptly stops, like all of the courage she had on the way here immediately left her body as soon as she saw her fathers lifeless one. The intake of breath she took was so loud it made Thor’s heart break a little bit more. She takes a moment to collect herself but then starts to move forward again. All Thor can see is the little girl that grew up running around the halls. The laughter from his memories echo in his head but are quickly interrupted by the sound of Mina’s anxious breathing. 

Her whole life is about to change..

Mina finally arrives at the bed that is cradling her fathers body. His eyes are closed but he doesn’t look peaceful. He had a slight furrow in his brow. Like he was worried about something when he took his last breath. Maybe he was thinking of them when he died. Maybe his last thought was what was going to happen to you and his precious baby girl when he died.

It broke her heart. 

The idea that her dad died worried about his family. 

That he didn’t die surrounded by people that love and care for him. 

Holding his chosen ones hand. 

Mina looks over her fathers body and she sees the wound that took his life. A hole in his chest where his heart should be. Where she would lay her head down when she was sick and the sound of her daddy’s heartbeat was the only thing that would comfort her. The place where her mother would place her hand when she was feeling pride or joy. The need to touch her chosen powerful, a necessity.

She looks to his hands but they too are covered in blood. Of all of the things that stick out to her, that all of a sudden seemed to bother her the most in that moment. Her father was always clean. He would never want to be seen with his hands in such a state. She looks around and sees a small fountain with running water and a few healers waiting along the wall, awaiting the moment they are instructed to begin preparing his his body for his journey to Valhalla.

“Could someone fill a bowl with warm water for me please. And I will need rags as well.”

“Mina. The healers will see to him.”, Thor beseeches.

She shakes her head, “my mother would be doing this herself if she were able, but she is not. Nothing will be done to my father before my mother has a chance to say her goodbyes and prepare her chosen to her liking.”

Thor wanted to argue but he felt a hand on his shoulder, he looks down and sees Frigga staring up at him. She shakes her head, silently telling him to let her be.

Frigga moves to stand next to her granddaughter and then looks at her son. Her beloved baby boy. She loved him as soon as Odin placed him in her arms. She secretly wanted another child but knew that Odin was content with his golden son. Loki was the answer to her prayers and here he was now.

Gone.

She combs her fingers through his hair, the same thing she used to do when he was a boy. He hadn’t let her do it in quite some time. A part of her expects him to open his eyes and this would all just be another trick that Loki would have to file in the never do again pile. 

But no. His eyes would not be opening.

His eyes would never open again, never to show the mischievous gleam or pure joy of causing chaos yet again. Or the look of pure love when he looked at his wife and daughter.

Frigga looks to her left and sees Mina staring at her father, her eyes now bloodshot red. Frigga doesn’t know if it’s from her Jotun form slipping to the surface or if they are red from tears. Now that she’s thinking about it, she doesn’t even remember seeing the girl blink. 

“Mina.”, Frigga tries to get her attention.

“Hmm?”

“My girl. Will you look at me?”

She shakes her head, “with all do respect grandmother. I have centuries to look at you. I now only have mere moments to see my fathers face. I fear by the time I see him again in Valhalla I might not recognize him. I’m fighting the urge to close my burning eyes to try and remember the sound of his voice in this moment but I refuse to lose even a glance.”

She proves her point because when a healer brings over the requested bowl of warm water and rags. She doesn’t break her line of sight from Loki’s face. She thanks the healer politely but doesn’t move to grab the materials left for her.

Frigga looks at her confused but then realizes her granddaughters conflict. 

Frigga walks to the tray that was set on the foot of the bed and dips one of the rags in the warm water. She wrings in out and places it in Mina’s hand.

Mina goes for his hands first and Frigga can’t help but notice the shake to Mina’s hand as she begins to wipe the blood away. His pale skin starting to show through, when Mina finally spoke again Frigga jumped slightly.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”,Frigga smiles sadly. She looks over to Thor who has tears streaming down his face. “My son. Why don’t you check on Y/N? She should have family with her when she wakes.”

Thor nods and leaves the room, Frigga turns her attention back to Mina who has moved on to Loki’s neck since his hands were now clean. The blood has been long dried and is getting harder to remove but Mina refuses any assistance. She begins to remove Loki’s chest plate but Frigga could not let her move forward. She places her hands on top of Mina’s to halt her progression.

“Mina. He would not want for you to see this.”

Mina doesn’t respond, she lightly shoves Frigga’s hands off of hers and just continues to fumble with Loki’s armor.

“Mina.”, Frigga tries to get her attention again.

Mina once again ignores Frigga’s attempts at distraction, especially when she finally gets Loki’s chest plate off and all that stands between her and his fatal wound is a thin undershirt. The bits of his chest she could see were covered in blood or were red and inflamed from the wound.

“I thought he would be blue.”, Mina whispers to herself.

Frigga ignored her statement, “Mina. Allow the healers do the rest.”

Mina ignores her grandmother and moves to remove her fathers shirt but that is when Frigga decides to intervene. Once again, she places her hands on top of Mina’s, stilling her movements, “I cannot let you do this child. I’m sorry. I know you wish to take care of your father but I knew my son well. And I know deep down in my soul that he would not want for you to see him this way. When the healers have cleaned him, they will give us time with him to say our goodbyes. But I will not allow this to be the image that is seared into your mind. I will not have you remember him this way. Please Mina. I beg of you. Go sit with your mother. She will need you now. More than ever.”

Mina finally looks over at Frigga, “I don’t want to leave him. I don’t want to let go.”, she finally blinks and tears cascade down her cheeks.

Frigga reaches out and rubs a tear away, “I know. But he wouldn’t want you to cling to him so. He would want you to take care of your mother, to be there for her. You are the only piece of him that she has left.”

Everyone wondered why you and Loki never had another baby. Honestly, you both just wanted time for yourselves as a family of three. The beauty of being alive for centuries is that you could take your time raising your babies, large age gaps between children was not uncommon on Asgard. You and Loki had actually spoken recently about adding to your family. It looks as though it was not meant to be.

Mina looks back to Loki’s face and then back to his hand that she is clutching in hers. She stands and kisses the back of it and lays it back down on his side. She leans over and kisses his forehead and whispers something only meant for her and her daddy. She looks to Frigga and nods and they both stand to move out of the room so the healers can finally cleanse Loki’s body. Frigga walks Mina back to Loki and your rooms, her arm wrapped protectively around her shoulder. When they arrive they see Thor sitting in the chair that Mina was once sitting in, he looks to Mina and Frigga nervously, not sure if she wants to be in his presence.

Thor stands, “Mina. Your mother has been stirring. Eir believes she will wake soon.

Mina nods and sits down in the chair that Thor had just moved out of. She takes your hand in hers and cradles it to her chest after placing a kiss on the back of it. Just like she did to her fathers hand, only this time she knows her mother will wake to return to gesture.

Thor looks to Frigga who motions for him to meet her by the door. Thor nods and they both quietly make their way to the hallway outside of your bedroom. “Has she spoken?”

Frigga shakes her head, “barely. It took much convincing to get her to leave him to the healers. I fear what Y/N’s state of mind will be when she wakes. I don’t know if Mina will survive losing both of her parents.”

Odin rounds the hallway, “my son. I need you to debrief the council on what transpired on Vanaheim. We need to convince the nine that this incident will not lead to war.”

Thor nods, “yes father.”, he hugs Frigga and then leaves his parents to make his way to the council chambers.

“Have you been to see him?”, Frigga asks Odin after Thor is well enough away.

Odin nods, “what a mess. My heart breaks for Mina. We will have to keep a close eye on Y/N. The loss of one’s chosen…”

“I know. I will speak with Idunn, maybe she has some insight into what we can do for Y/N..if anything.” Frigga looks back into the room where Mina is sitting with her mother, anxious about what’s to come in the next few days.

“We must begin making preparations Frigga. The funeral will take days to plan and announce.”, Odin reminds Frigga, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“I know. Just..give me until tomorrow. I will start making arrangement tomorrow.”

Odin squeezes her shoulder lovingly and then leaves her by the door, knowing she was going to stay vigil by your bedside until you wake.

After a few hours of sitting with you, you finally opened your eyes.

“Mina?”, you see your daughter asleep by your side. She’s sat in a chair, her body slumped over the hand that is holding yours on your bed. When she doesn’t respond to you, you give her a little shake, “Mina…”

Mina finally sits up, she blinks trying to clear the bleariness from her eyes, “mom?”

You nod and then close your eyes, the last thing you remember was a snap and a whooshing sound. You remember feeling sick. You remember feeling hot. Then feeling cold. And then nothing. 

Like someone vacuumed half of her soul out of her body.

No one had to tell you what it was.

You knew Loki was dead.

You knew because whenever you would close your eyes you would hear the sound of his heart beating. Yours beat the same rhythm. Like right now?..silence. You hear nothing but the sound of your own breathing and your own broken heart.

The sound of your eternal loneliness. 

Mina squeezes your hand, “mom. You with me?”

You nod, “yea..sorry. How long have I been out?”

“Almost 24 hours…mom…the healers were here not too long ago, they said that when you wake up..you can go see dad…

Your body froze.

Were you ever going to be ready to say goodbye to your fated one? The love of your life? The man you thought you had centuries with?…

You look to your daughter who is a spitting image of Loki and you knew in that moment that you had to be strong for her. Loki would want you to reach for him through Mina and pour all of your love and comfort into her. That will be how you survive. 

You reach out and rub Mina’s cheek, “let’s go see daddy baby.”

After Eir said it was ok for you to walk, you and Mina made your way to where they had Loki’s body. Waiting for all of the rites and rituals before he is sent off to Valhalla.

The guards at the door open it and you and Mina step through. There in the middle of the room, on top of a golden slab was Loki. He was laying on top of a bed of green and gold flowers, small gifts and offers from people in the palace to wish Loki a safe travel to his eternal resting place. His hands are folded on top of his chest where his half helm is gently placed.

Mina moves the helm off of his hands so you could reach out and hold one, as soon as your hand touches him you feel your soul reach out. Like it was holding out a hand for Loki to hold but there was no hand reaching back.

And this is how it will forever be. Her soul reaching out for its other half but never being able to grasp it.

“Can I have a minute with your dad?”

Mina nods and gives you a kiss on the cheek, “I’ll be right outside.”

You nod and watch her leave the room, making sure she closes the door behind her. You turn your attention back to your husband.

“Hey honey. You’re a real asshole for dying on me this soon. You told me you were going to be there for me to annoy for centuries now you’ve left your poor daughter as the sacrificial lamb..real selfish of you.”

 The humor coming out of your mouth can’t stop the tears coming down your face and the joking mood you were just feeling is now turning into red hot anger, “how can the Norn’s be this cruel? How could they force us together to then just do something like this? Break us apart so quickly like it was nothing but a sadistic game for them. To take him away from Mina?!”

You comb your fingers through his hair, “..how could they take you from me?!…

You rip yourself away from him and the next thing you know you are screaming at him, “how could you leave me? How could you leave Mina?!”

Closing your eyes and taking a deep breath you look back to your husband and walk back to his side, your hands go back to his hair, “what am I supposed to do without you?” “Mom?”

You didn’t hear Mina come back into the room, you quickly wipe your face, “hey..sorry..”

Mina smiles at you sadly, “it’s ok…grandma is waiting outside..she wants to see you.

You nod, “ok…”, you turn your body back to Loki making it clear that you had no intention of leaving his side.

Frigga approaches you slowly, “hello darling..”

The door closes you and Frigga inside of the room so Mina takes the opportunity to go somewhere she has been dying to go since all of this started.

Her dads personal library.

Luckily for her, Mina was one of three people her dad trusted with the enchantment to get into his workroom. Mom had her painting room and dad had his workshop/library. He had so many amazing books, most of which you couldn't find anywhere else anywhere in all of the nine. 

A lot of them are also forbidden.

Especially the one she is currently looking for.

When Mina gets through Loki’s traps she finally gets into his workroom and passes his weapons and his dress armor. The armor he wore for special events. He wore this one for her nameday. She grabs the green cape and presses the soft fabric to her nose, taking a deep breath. It still smells lke him.

Mina closes her eyes to keep the tears at bay but when she opens them she looks over to his desk and sees the painting you had painted for him all of those years ago and the tears fell. It was the one that you painted of yours and Loki's hands holding Idunn's golden apple. The apple that changed everything.

Steeling herself again she lets go of her fathers cape and walks passed his desk to the door that leads to the library. Once she gets to the section she is looking for, she finds the book she needs to roughly pulls it from the shelf and slams it open on a nearby desk.

She quickly sits down and opens the first few pages, skimming the words, looking for the correct section.

Her finger is rapidly moving line by line. Her hand frantically flipping the pages until she slams her finger down on what she was looking for.

“There. There it is..”

Mina looks up, a plan formulating in her head. She stands up, her chair falling to the floor behind her. She slams to book closed, scoops it up and tucks it under her arm.

“I’m coming dad.”

To be continued...

Original Request From @eleniblue:

Mina is old enough to learn self-defense and wants to be as brave and strong as her mom.

[devilbat]

So, Pedro is 50 in April, and what better way to celebrate than a creative challenge focusing on the theme of celebration! 🎉

This challenge is open to everyone: writers, artists, mood board makers, GIF creators, and video editors.

If you'd like to take part, and I very much hope you will, please see all the challenge details below.

I'd also love and appreciate a re-blog to get this circulating - Thankies! 😘🖤

-> Send me an ASK and I'll spin the wheels for you to get a Pedro Boy & a Celebration Theme!

🎉 Once you have your Pedro Boy and Celebration Theme, then the rest is up to you:

🎉 You can write a Fic featuring your Pedro Boy & Celebration Theme. It can be as long as you want, but try to write a minimum of 500 words if you can. It can be smutty, soft, dark, angsty, etc... and can feature any reader type you like. (Just remember to tag it appropriately. Please, no RPF.)

🎉 You can create an Art Work based on your Pedro Boy and your Celebration Theme. It can be hand drawn or digital, a sculpture, painted etc... whatever medium you work in is absolutely fine.

🎉 You can create a Mood Board with your Pedro Boy and your Celebration Theme. It can have as many pic tiles on as you want.

🎉 You can create a GIF Set based on your Pedro Boy and Celebration Theme.

🎉 You can create a Video Edit of your Pedro Boy and Celebration Theme. Just stick to Tumblr's upload limit for the size/length.

🎉 Due Date: 2nd April - Pedro's Birthday! 🎉 (If you can't make the deadline due to life life-ing, you can submit after this date, that's fine.)

🎉 Please tag me in your creations and tag with #pedrois50celebrationevent so I can collate them all onto a final Masterlist to post after 2nd April.

🎉 You can make as many submissions as you want - just please tag them and post them all seperately.

Any questions? Drop me a line. 🖤

1. A 50th Birthday Celebration

2. A New Job/A Promotion

3. Moving House/Buying A First Home

4. Celebrating A Retirement

5. A Wedding Celebration

6. A Divorce Party

7. Celebrating Independence

8. Celebrating Love

9. Day Of The Dead Celebration

10. 4th Of July Celebration

11. Celebrating War Veterans Day

12. Oktoberfest Celebrations

13. Mardi Gras Carnival Celebrations

14. An Anniversary Celebration

15. Celebrate A Life Lived

16. Celebrate A Milestone

17. Winning A Competition

18. Celebrate A Baby Shower

19. Celebrate A Book Release

20. Celebrate A Film Release

21. An Award Ceremony

22. St. Patrick’s Day Celebrations

23. Guy Fawkes Night Celebrations

24. A First Holiday

25. A First Car

26. Summer Solstice Celebrations

27. Winter Solstice Celebrations

28. Celebrate Friendship

29. Coming Out Celebration

30. Celebrate An Engagement

31. Celebrate Overcoming A Fear

32. Pride Month Celebration

33. Celebrate Sobriety

34. Celebrate A Bucket List Achievement

35. Surprise "Just Because"

36. Celebrate A First Time

37. Lunar New Year Celebration

38. Surprise Reunion Celebration

39. Celebrate Cultural Heritage

40. A New Business Venture

41. Celebrate Freedom

42. Celebrate Getting A New Pet

43. World Science Day Celebrations

44. Celebrate Money/Lottery Win

45. The Olympics Celebrations

46. First Snowfall of The Year

47. Super Bowl Sunday Celebrations

48. Celebrate A New Leader

49. Celebrate A Wish Coming True

50. Celebrate A Life Experience

I'd very much appreciate a re-blog, whether you want to take part or not, to get this ciruclating. Thank you so much! 🖤