#*waves* hi pedro fandom | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

something-tofightfor · 9 months

Text

Snow and Mistletoe - Part 1

A PedroStories Secret Santa gift fic

This is my submission for @pedrostories annual holiday event, and it's for @burntheedges. I was so excited to get you as a giftee, Kate, because your requests align with the way I tend to write my stories... and this one took on a life of its own. As you can see, this is only part 1. I tried to incorporate some (a lot) of the things that you said you enjoyed into this, and I think (hope) you'll be happy with how they're scattered throughout.

This is a no-outbreak AU, and while it doesn't quite follow canon, you're going to see a fair bit sprinkled in- because I can't help it and I've wanted to write more in depth for Joel and Sarah for a LONG time, so I really enjoyed this a lot.

Thank you so much for all that you've contributed to the Pedro fandom, and for sharing your writing with us. I hope you have a very Merry Christmas.

I plan on posting the other 2 parts + the epilogue throughout the day today and tomorrow, but part 1 can be read as a standalone if you'd like.

---

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

No Outbreak AU.

Word Count: 5,166

Rating: M - as a whole for language and innuendo, but this chapter is very tame.

Summary: You own a music shop in Austin, and both your niece and Sarah are employees. As a former classmate - and the father of your employee - Joel Miller has been a part of your life for many years.

But circumstances have never been exactly right for the two of you to get to know each other better ... until now, when outside intervention pushes you together just in time for the holidays.

“Ellie, go unlock the front door.” You looked up from what you were doing, pointing with one finger. “She’s going to be here any minute.”

‘I’m kind of busy at the moment.” At her tone, you turned your head sharply, watching as she came around the corner with a stack of boxes in her arms. “You do it. Please?” When she peeked around the cardboard, she actually looked apologetic, so you agreed, hurrying toward the front entrance of your store.

You were just in time, watching as a dark colored pick up pulled to the curb and the teenager hopped out, leaning her head back inside for a few seconds before waving and heading to where you stood.

Pushing the glass door open, you grinned, holding it with one hand. “Morning, Sarah. How’s it going?”

“Good.” Looking back over her shoulder, she nodded. “Really good.”

You saw him in the truck, the man ducking his head and turning to look in your direction, giving you a view of his entire face. The windows were closed, so instead of saying anything, you lifted your hand and gave him a wave like you did every time he dropped her off - Joel nodding in return before he sat back up again and pulled back into traffic, beeping the horn once.

You stared after him for a few seconds and then took a breath, your attention moving to the girl, still standing beside you. But she had a curious look in her face, her lips set into a tiny frown. “What?” Letting the door shut, you backed up and into the shop. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I’m … not?” She blinked, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. “Is Ellie here?”

“She is.” You pointed, the stack of boxes that the other teenager had carried in already sitting on the countertop, though she was nowhere in sight. “She’s probably back in one of the lesson rooms, if you want to go back there.” Sarah’s grin nearly split her face in half, her curls bouncing when she turned to head in the direction you’d suggested. “You guys have half an hour, alright? Store opens early this month because of Christmas, and -”

“We know!” Ellie’s head popped out of one of the rooms down the hall, her smile wide, too. “That’s why I’m already set up. C’mon Sarah. Hope you’re ready.”

You watched as she headed for the hallway, both girls talking excitedly for a few seconds before they disappeared. “Alright.” Nodding to yourself, you looked around the showroom, letting out a breath. “Let’s get ready to open.”

—

Six and a half hours later, you were standing outside of the front doors, drinking a coffee that you’d had delivered.

You rarely took an actual lunch while you worked. But, Ellie and Sarah were more than capable of handling the few customers you’d had that afternoon, and the closing crew would be in to take over within the hour. And I deserve this.

Sipping the drink, you closed your eyes and were surprised a few seconds later by a deep voice on your right. “Did’ya order one of those for me, too?”

“No, but you can have a sip of this one as long as you don’t just want plain coffee.” Holding the cup out, you smiled as Joel took the final few steps, reaching out with one hand to take the coffee from you. “You got done early today, hmm?”

“I did.” Raising your coffee to his lips, he look a long drink, humming at the taste. “Shit that’s good.” He held it back out to you but you shook your head, motioning for him to keep it. “I can’t, I -”

“You need it more than me.” He opened his mouth to argue but then decided against it, swallowing another mouthful. “Sarah’s off in a few minutes, do you want to go inside and wait for her?”

“I’m actually here for a couple new sets of strings.” He swiped at the back of his head with one hand, jutting his chin out toward the door. “Figured it’s a good time to change ‘em, and Sarah told me you guys are having a sale.”

“We are.” You pulled the door open, gesturing for him to walk in ahead of you. “I’d offer to point you in the right direction, but you’ve been coming in here longer than I’ve owned it, so…”

“If I need anything, I’ll be sure to come an’ find you.” He smiled, raising the cup again. “Thank you for this.” You turned away from him first, going over to the counter and slipping back behind it. Ellie was leaning there, her elbows resting on the glass.

“Joel’s here early.” She looked up at you, raising a brow. “What were you two talking about?”

“Guitar strings.” She opened her mouth but before she could say anything, you held up a hand. “Not another word, Elanor.” She snorted, standing straight up and tapping her fingers against the countertop.

“Alright. I’ll go into the back where you won’t hear anything else I have to say.” She looked between you and the showroom floor, her eyes bright. “But Sarah’s another story.” She beelined it around the counter and then toward the hallway, calling out a hello to Joel as she sped past. He grinned at her, saying hi back. There wasn’t time for anything else before she’d disappeared, leaving the two of you - and an older man who was looking at keyboards - alone.

You could have stared at him for hours, but instead of letting your inner thoughts win, you busied yourself with menial tasks behind the counter, not looking up until someone cleared their throat to get your attention.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t Joel waiting to check out. Instead the other customer was in front of you, three songbooks in his hands. “Which one of these should I buy for my grandson?” He set them down, fanning them out. “His parents got him a keyboard for his birthday last month, but he can’t play anything yet.”

“I wouldn’t choose any of these.” You answered honestly, looking between the three options. “These are all for intermediate players, and if he just got the keyboard, it sounds like -”

“But the ones that are easier are all nursery rhymes.” He scowled at you, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. “Kevin is fifteen. He’s too old for nursery rhymes.”

“If I could cut in…” You looked up to find Joel standing just behind the man, a few sets of guitar strings held between the fingers of one hand. “He might be too old to enjoy a nursery rhyme, but that doesn’t mean he should skip over learnin’ to play them.” Joel took a breath, giving you a look that clearly asked “is this alright”, and when you nodded he continued, pointing at the books. “You gotta start somewhere. Givin’ a kid something that they can’t play yet might make ‘em less likely to stick with it long term.”

“You could buy two books,” you cut in, immensely thankful for Joel’s interjection. “One of the easier ones and then something a little more difficult that he can work up to?” You gestured to the back of the shop. “When I was teaching my niece how to play guitar, we stared with really simple things and she tried new ones when she felt comfortable.”

“Same here.” Joel stepped a little closer, nodding his head. “First day I picked up my guitar I thought I was going to be able to pull off Jimmy Page or Eddie Van Halen solos right away…” He laughed, rubbing at his beard with his free hand. “Turns out that was not the case.” You bit back a laugh at his words, watching the way his eyes crinkled at the corners in amusement. “It was months of Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star and Smoke on The Water before my fingers got used to playing.” He nodded at the man, his smile smaller but still there. “Get him one of the beginner books, and then explain you want him to feel confident before he tries somethin’ harder.”

The older man was scowling, his eyes moving between the three books on the counter until he finally looked up at you. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.” He left them there when he turned and headed for the door, pushing past Joel on his way. You watched his back until he was gone, and then finally looked at Joel again, shrugging.

“That could have gone better.” He set the strings down - along with two packages of picks - and then spoke after letting out a deep sigh.

“Way he reacted it’s like we were accusin’ his grandson of bein’ an idiot.” Reaching for his stuff, you began scanning it, dropping things into a small plastic bag. “It’s common sense, though. Why overwhelm someone when they’re trying to learn?”

“I wish I knew.” Finishing and giving him the total, you watched as Joel swiped his card before tucking it back into his wallet and shoving the entire thing in his back pocket. Change the subject. “Which guitar are you restringing?”

“Both of ‘em.” He leaned forward, resting his forearm on the glass, but leaving the bag where it was. “Cleanin’ and oilin’ the fretboards, too.” He looked down at his watch and then back at you. “Might even do it tonight.”

“What an exciting Saturday night, dad.” Sarah reappeared, followed closely by Ellie, your niece carrying another stack of boxes and a clipboard. “Maybe if you actually answered some of the messages on that dating app you have, you could go out and do things on the weekends.”

You felt a pang of jealousy at the thought of Joel going out on a date, but tried to push it down. You hadn’t ever made it known that you were interested - especially since you’d known him and Sarah for so long. But it’s harder not to say anything now that Sarah’s working here and I see him more.

“I do plenty of things on the weekends.” Joel straightened up, putting a hand on his hip. “I hang out with you. I see your uncle Tommy. I work on the house, and -”

“Thrilling.” Sarah rolled her eyes, nudging him with her elbow and looking at you. “I clocked out, by the way, so I’m not just like … standing here on your time.”

“You’re fine, Sarah.” Ellie set everything down and came to stand next to you, setting the clipboard down on he counter. “I’ll -”

“Speaking of thrilling…” Ellie cut in, crossing her arms and taking a seat on the barstool behind the register. “She told me the other day she’s not going to the Christmas thing at the community center next weekend because “Fridays and Saturdays are the busiest days in the store so I scheduled myself to work.” She made air quotes and changed her voice as she spoke, sending Sarah into a fit of giggles and even causing Joel to briefly smile as his gaze made its way back to you.

“Well I mean, it’s the truth. Next Friday is -”

“He said the same thing.” Sarah sighed loudly, looking pointedly at you and then at Ellie. “That he’s too busy to go, and needs to work. On what, I have no idea because he’s only got the one project right now.” Glancing at Joel, you felt alarm bells ringing in your head. Something’s happening here. Something is … this isn’t… “Bet if he had a date he’d change his mind.”

“That’s got nothing to do with it, Sarah. I -” He looked down at her and then back at you, realization in his eyes.

“Why don’t you two go together?” Ellie picked up a pen and started doodling on the margin of the clipboard paper, not making eye contact. “To the party, I mean. Neither of you have plans to go, and you’ve both got really lame excuses.” She paused, finally looking up. “And you haven’t been out on a date in -”

“Ellie!” You hissed out the word, feeling the way heat rose to your cheeks. She’s not wrong, but … “I have to work next weekend. It’s not -”

“Do you?” It was Joel’s voice that caught your attention, the man clearing his throat. “Because I could probably take a couple hour break.” You caught it even though it was brief - a fleeting look of shock on Sarah’s face, her eyes immediately going to Ellie. Yeah, I wasn’t expecting that either. “If you wanted to.”

You wanted to - more than you were willing to admit. But it would be weird, even if we just did it as friends. “It’s the weekend before Christmas, and -”

“We can work.” Sarah cut in, nodding. “I’m already supposed to be here for part of the afternoon, I’ll just stay later.” She shrugged. “Besides, the store closes before the party is over, so I can just take the bus from -”

“I’ll drive you.” Ellie waved her hand. “I close next Friday.” The girls went quiet, looking between you and Joel, who was also watching you with interest, laughter in his eyes. This is …

“I don’t know.” He frowned, keeping an eye on you as you spoke. “I feel like I should -”

“Come outside and talk to me for a minute.” Joel picked up the bag, closing his fingers around the handles. “Away from these two.” That you had no problem agreeing to, Ellie waving you off and Sarah doing the same to her father.

He held the door open for you, and when he joined you on the sidewalk a few seconds later, pointing in the direction of the small parking lot next to the building, you fell into step next to him. “We just got Parent Trap-ed, didn’t we.” He snorted, agreeing. “You didn’t have to ask me just to -”

“Who says that’s what I’m doing?” You reached his truck, Joel unlocking it and setting the bag down on top of the center console. “Maybe I just want to get to know you.” He straightened back up and closed the door, leaning against it when he turned to look at you. “Sarah’s been workin’ with you for six months, and she an’ Ellie have been going to school together for a couple years.” So that’s the only reason? Because of them? Your face fell; you couldn’t help it, and even though you were able to even out your expression quickly, you were sure that he’d noticed.

“Yeah, I mean … they’re friends. So it would make sense for us to be, too.” Pressing your lips together, you nodded. “If you’re serious, I’ll go with you.” Crossing your arms, you nodded again, chewing on the inside of your lip. “It’s just a couple of hours, right? “

“Right.” Joel swallowed, running his fingers through his hair. “I can pick you up? Makes sense to take one car.” He’s so practical. Everything’s … matter of fact. In all of the daydreams you’d ever had about Joel, you’d never had anything close to the one that was coming true, and if you were honest with yourself, it was disappointing. He said your name, interrupting your pity party, and when you looked back up, he’d relaxed a little more, reaching into his pocket and pulling his phone out. “Can I have your number?

You recited it to him, Joel carefully typing it into the device and then turning the screen around to confirm that he’d entered it correctly. When you told him that you had, you nodded twice and took a deep breath, holding it. “Alright, Joel… so I’ll see you next week?”

“No.” He smiled, the expression genuine. “I’ll see you next time I pick up or drop Sarah off and you’re here, too.” That made you laugh. When you said goodbye, you were slightly less unsettled than you had been, heading back for the store’s door so that you could tell Sarah it was ok for her to leave.

She and Ellie were still standing by the counter when you went back inside, both of them turning to look at you in the same moment. “You’re good to go, Sarah. Your dad’s in the parking lot.” She nodded, zipping her jacket up. “But before you go… I don’t know what the two of you are trying to do here, but putting Joel and I on the spot wasn’t -”

“You’re going out with him, aren’t you?” Ellie scrunched her face up as she looked at you, eyes narrowing. “And you like him, so -”

“It made things awkward, El.” You looked at Sarah, sighing. “For him, too. So just … think about that, alright?”

Neither of them said anything else to you, Sarah telling Ellie goodbye and then walking out the front door, leaving you and your niece alone. “Are you mad at me?”

“I’m not mad.” You exhaled, rubbing at your eyes. “It’s just … weird.” And even weirder because of how awkward it feels. The door opened and two customers walked in, effectively ending the conversation there, though you knew that you’d be continuing it when you got home.

—

You and Ellie made dinner together that night, but neither of you spoke while you did it, moving through the kitchen silently. It wasn’t until you were sitting at the table together, bowls of pasta in front of you that you broke the silence.

“Why did you and Sarah decide to do that today?” She took a bite, chewing through it to give herself a chance to think of an answer.

“Ever since I’ve been giving her lessons, we’ve been talking a lot more.” She bit down on a breadstick, waving the remainder in the air. “We’re friends already, but I’ve never really asked her about Joel until now, and …” She shrugged. “She said he hasn’t dated much lately. All he does is work and hang out with his brother and spend time with her.” Ellie paused, making sure to make eye contact with you. “Kind of like you only work at the store and hang out with me.”

“That’s not true.” You gestured at her with your fork. “I have friends, Ellie. We just see each other less than we used to because they’ve all got really young kids and do that ‘mommy and me’ stuff with them.” Arching a brow, you cocked your head to the side. “And you’re a little old for tumbling classes or playtime at the park.”

“But I could use swimming lessons.” You both laughed at that, though Ellie cut hers off only a few moments later. “No but seriously. When you took me in so that I could finish school here instead of going with Marlene, I didn’t think … I didn’t want you to just give up doing everything but …”

“Ellie, that’s not what happened.” You got up, moving to the other side of the table and sitting down next to her. “Your mom and Marlene and I were all really close, and after … after Anna was gone, I was more than happy to help Marlene out with you.” You squeezed her arm, leaning in. “I was the one that suggested you staying here, El. Your mom grew up here, and I wanted you to do the same. I didn’t want you having to uproot yourself every eight months for Marlene’s job. I love having you here. I didn’t give up anything.”

She looked up then, meeting your eyes, and you saw uncertainty in them, though it was accompanied by relief. “I know. I just … it feels like everyone always leaves, and I’m afraid that you’re going to realize that you don’t want to do this with me anymore, and -”

“Ellie, you’ll be 18 next year and off to college. If anyone’s going to leave it’s you.” Taking a deep breath, you held your arms out to her. “I’m not going to leave you, kiddo. I promise.” She hugged you hard, but it didn’t last long, Ellie pulling away to look directly at you again.

“This still doesn’t change the fact that you and Joel should … see what happens.” She blinked a few times, her expression changing into the same ‘take no shit’ look that you’d seen on it countless times before. “We’ve noticed how you look at him. And he -”

“He and I are going to the party together next Friday, Ellie.” Settling back into your chair, you drummed your fingers on the table. “He told me tonight that since you and Sarah are such good friends, it makes sense that we get to know each other, too.” She frowned at your words, but didn’t say anything. “It’s just a couple hours. It’ll be … fine.”

“He said that? That’s not what we …” She shook her head, setting her fork down. “I’m done. Can I be excused? Do you need help cleaning up?” You told her to go, eyeing Ellie as she headed into the kitchen, plate in hand. You were used to her changes in mood, but that night was different, Ellie almost disappointed in your reaction to agreeing to go out with Joel, even though she’d orchestrated it. Returning to your side of the table, you finished your dinner, the sound of Ellie’s voice from the other room audible, though you couldn’t hear what she was saying.

She went upstairs a few minutes later, and you followed, deciding to get ready for bed, even though it was early. I’ll put on pajamas and watch a movie or something. Maybe have a glass of - You were interrupted by the vibration of your phone, an unfamiliar number on the screen.

“Hello?” Standing in front of your bedroom window, you held it to your ear. “This is -”

“It’s Joel.” Your eyes widened when he spoke, the man’s voice even deeper through the phone than it was in person. “I hate texting, so I thought I’d call.” You weren’t surprised, a quiet laugh escaping you before you were able to stop it. Fitting. “I was just informed by my daughter that I didn’t exactly explain myself well earlier.”

“What?” You didn’t understand - and then you groaned, covering your face with your hand. “Ellie. Ellie called Sarah and told her what we … Joel, I’m so sorry. Ellie and I talked while we ate, and I don’t want you to think that I was just complaining or -”

“You misunderstood what I was sayin’ before. Outside? When we were talking?” He cleared his throat and then continued. “You and I should be friends because of Ellie an’ Sarah. But that’s not why I agreed to go next week.” He paused, giving the shock you felt a chance to settle in your stomach. Why then? “I meant it when I said I wanted to get to know you.”

That conversation was more in line with what you’d imagined Joel asking you out to be like, and despite your apprehension, you felt yourself relax slightly at his words. “I’d like to get to know you too, Joel.” Pressing your lips together, you nodded. “Sarah’s said some really good things about you.”

“Ellie’s done the same about you when she’s been over.” He laughed - and you did, too, the tension entirely broken. “We’re going to watch a move, though, and she’s yellin’ up the steps at me, so I’ve gotta go.” He said your name then, the sound quiet - though his tone was certain. “When do you work next?”

“Monday. I close. Why?”

“No reason.” He hummed, and you heard another voice on Joel’s end of the line, the sound of Sarah shouting for him filling up the background. “I’ll talk to you later. Have a good night?”

You assured him you would, and when you’d both hung up, you spent a few seconds staring at the darkened screen, unsure of what to think.

—

Monday night, you were getting ready to close the store and count down the drawer when the door opened, the sound of footsteps drawing your attention. “Hi, and welcome to Firefl- Joel? What are you doing here? Something wrong with those strings?”

“Strings’re fine.” He stepped up to the counter and you couldn’t help looking him over - the man’s upper body encased in a long-sleeved shirt, both sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. “I came to see you.”

You were shocked. The day hadn’t exactly gone smoothly, and you were almost desperate to get out of the store and home. But not at the expense of whatever this is. “Me? Why? Is Sarah -”

“Sarah’s fine, too. She’s at soccer practice.” He glanced down at his watch, nodding. “I gotta go and pick her up in about twenty minutes.” That meant that whatever he was doing in your store wouldn’t take long, which confused you even more. “I have somethin’ for you.” He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small envelope, sliding it across the counter. “Here.”

You picked it up and thumbed it open, unsure of what to expect. And when you saw the contents, you actually laughed, looking up from what you held and at Joel’s face, the man’s lips set into a lopsided smile. “You took like … half a coffee from me one time, Joel. You didn’t need to …” Flipping the gift card back and forth between your fingers, you sighed. “Thank you.” You meant it, reaching over with your free hand to squeeze the one he’d let settle on the countertop. “I’ll definitely use it.”

He looked down at the same time you did, your inhale sharp when you saw your joined hands. Oh, shit. I didn’t … “You’re welcome.” Joel cleared his throat, looking back up at you through his eyelashes. “Gift card was just an excuse, though. There’s…” He straightened up again and then pulled his hand back, reaching up with it to rub at the back of his neck. “Shit, I’m bad at this.”

“Bad at what?” Sliding the card back into the envelope, you leaned over to tuck it into the space next to the register. “What are you -”

“Sarah and Ellie mighta been responsible for the other night, but …” He wet his lips, Joel’s jaw twitching before he continued. “She was right when she said I’ve only got one project right now, because we just finished another big one.” You’d heard Sarah mention that he’d been working long hours, but she hadn’t gone into much detail. “The company we did the work for is … real happy with the outcome, and they’re …” He cleared his throat. “They’re havin’ a Christmas party next Saturday, and we’re invited. I was just gonna go with Tommy, because I figured even though it’s a holiday, it’s still a good time for networkin’, but…”

“But what?” You tucked the gift card back in the envelope and then slid it toward the register, tilting your head. “Joel?”

He looked away, eyes wandering over the assortment of instruments and equipment on display throughout the store before they landed back on you. He was apprehensive - you could see the uncertainty in his eyes. What is going on? “Would you have any interest in goin’ with me?”

“To the party?” He nodded. “Next Saturday?” He nodded again, but all you could do was stare at him in shock, trying to comprehend his words. Going together to the Chamber party was one thing - you and Joel were both well known throughout the community, and the two of you spending time together wouldn’t raise any eyebrows. But at a function for his job? Where he’d be the only one I really know? That’s… “As a favor? Just so you don’t have to -”

“No. As a date.” He swallowed hard after he’d spoken, his eyes widening slightly. “My date.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea? We’ve never spent -”

“I don’t know yet.” His smile widened, Joel shrugging. “But I’m still asking.”

You laughed, the sound nervous. “I only work until 3. What time would I need to be ready?”

“I can pick you up around six?” He swiped a hand over his beard, nodding. “Take us about a half hour to get there.” Taking someone to a holiday party as a date says something. And we’ve never … he’s asking me to … shit. “Before you agree, though…” Joel took a deep breath, his voice steadier. “The project we worked on is a new hotel up near Lake Travis. And they’re openin’ the rooms to people that night.” So it’s an overnight thing? “If you say yes, I’m more than happy to drive back.”

“Would we have two rooms?” Your heartbeat elevated, you eyed him with interest. “Or two beds, at least?”

“Two rooms. They offered a room to me an’ Tommy each, so if you come with me, you’d have one of them to yourself.” He held up a hand, shaking his head back and forth. “I’m not expectin’ anything, I just -”

“Yes.” You nodded, absolutely certain in your decision. “I’d like to go with you, Joel.” He looked surprised, his lips parting, though he didn’t speak. “Is there a dress code?”

“Yeah. There is.” He pressed his lips together and then frowned. “Festive.” You burst out laughing at that, covering your eyes with your hands. “Why are you laughing?”

“Festive can mean anything from an ugly sweater to red and green but formal, and -”

“The hell if I’m wearin’ that.” He snorted, and then started laughing, too. “The invitation wasn’t real clear, so…”

“Festive probably means cocktail attire, Joel, but with a holiday twist that isn’t as formal.” You shrugged. “But that works for me. I’ve got a few things that will fit that requirement.” And so do the stores. “Um.” Blowing out a breath, you tried to compose yourself. “Are … does Sarah know you’re asking?”

“No.” He shook his head, chewing on his bottom lip. “She knows I’m goin’, but not about this.” So I won’t tell Ellie. Got it. “Those little shits intervened with me asking you to the other party, but not this one.” Biting back another laugh, you nodded in agreement.

“They’re going to figure it out.” Narrowing your eyes, you leaned in. “When we’re both getting ready and then gone next Saturday night, and -”

“Yep.” He nodded, the expression on his face serious, though the look in his eyes was anything but. “But at least we won’t have to listen to ‘em all week beforehand.” You laughed again, rolling your eyes. “I’m gonna go, though. I don’t want to be late picking her up.”

You nodded, lifting your hand and waving - not trusting yourself to speak. But when he reached the door and turned his head to look back at you from over his shoulder, you couldn’t stop yourself. “Joel?” He hummed, arching a brow. “I’m looking forward to next weekend.”

He smiled - a broad, genuine one - and reached up to rub at the back of his neck. “Yeah. Me too.”

---

Part 2

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x female reader #pedrostories secret santa #pedrostories #pedrostoriesgift23 #pedro pascal #pedro pascal character #no outbreak au #pedro pascal masterlist #joel miller masterlist #snow and mistletoe

122 notes · View notes

inklore · 2 years

Text

darlings! i hope your year was great, filled with love, fun and joy. if it wasn’t my heart goes out to you and i hope the new year treats you with nothing but kindness. i’m sending you love and magical vibes.

i missed the last four months of my monthly fic recs, so instead of making a dozen different posts i’m just going to combine it with an end of the year post: aka i’m lazy lmao.

but shoutout to every writer on these lists, not on these lists, who are on tumblr but don’t post, you are amazing and you sharing your beautiful talent with us (or with just yourself) is literally a gift and the community would be in shambles without you!!!!

please never feel under appreciated because i am your number one fan. you bring light to many and fill a fandom void we all crave and enjoy diving into to shut out the real world. you’ve made this year better, funner, and immensely tolerable.

you are all loved and adored, keep writing, keeping sharing those beautiful ideas. i hope to find more amazing works from writers both on and not on this list in the new year. so here’s to it! may next year be kind to us all <3

18+ ONLY MINORS DNI with the works below. unless it’s stated otherwise. heed warnings and authors notes please.

✶ — honorable fav of the year mention!

IF I COULD INJECT THIS FIC INTO MY VEINS I WOULD

aka all the fics that have stuck with me throughout the entire year, the ones that have imbedded themselves to my frontal lobe and refuse to let go!

Pa'atení by neonheartbeat (namor x shuri)

Mercy, sabotage, and dead space by @no-droids (poe dameron)

Swallow you like sunshine when i smile by @rae-gar-targaryen (mickey garcia)

Interdickt by @laters-gators (santiago garcia)

I’ve got you darlin by @psychedelic-ink (moonknight + din djarin)

Flamingo king by @onsunnyside (ari levinson)

Inforgetting by @boxofbonesfic (spiderman)

CHRIS EVANS

Plan B by @slyyywriting (ari levinson + andy barber)

Wicked games by @honeystevie (steve rogers)

Rumination by @/boxofbonesfic (steve rogers)

Free use by @bonkywobble (dark!steve rogers)

Discipline me by @maladaptivexxdaydreaming (andy barber) ✶

The exhibit by @/boxofbonesfic (lloyd hansen)

I'll cry if i want to by @honeybloomss (ari levinson)

A big mistake by @straywords (steve rogers)

Walking the wire by @pedrito-friskito (nomaed!steve rogers)

Puppet on a string by @/psychedelic-ink (ransom drysdale)

HOUSE OF THE DRAGON

But you're pretty when you're mine by @charnelhouse (daemon x rhaenyra)

Wrath of the dragon by @/straywords (daemon targaryen)

Untitled by @/charnelhouse (harwin strong)

He finds you by @targaryenvampireslayer (daemon + harwin)

Breeding kink by @someplace-darker (harwin strong)

Burn by @laters-gators (daemon targaryen)

Tinsel by @authurials (daemon targaryen) ✶

Discretion by @revolution-starter (aemond targaryen)

MARVEL

Unknown by @/psychedelic-ink (doctor strange)

Untitled by @/bonkywobble (thor odinson)

Praise kink by @atomwritez (gilgamesh) ✶

Untitled by @sarahscribbles (loki laufeyson)

Over the moon by @moonlight-prose ( joaquín torres)

Waves of love by @/maladaptivexxdaydreaming (namor)

Nothing compares by @wwinterwitch (namor)

Too much of him by @cumberstrange (namor)

Love, or lack there of by @/psychedelic-ink (namor)

Scorched earth by @allaboardthereadingrailroad (namor) ✶

His sacrificial offering by @wint3r-h3art (namor)

Protector, lover, fighter by @bakerstreethound (namor)

Mine by @javier-pena (wolverine) ✶

Continuum by @sunshinescribes (namor) ✶

I'm yours by @/psychedelic-ink (namor)

OSCAR ISAAC

Heavy in your arms by @/psychedelic-ink (marc spector)

Cerebral by @/laters-gators (nathan bateman)

A little tied up by @/laters-gators (marc spector)

Sleep tight by @/laters-gators (blue jones)

Home by @spacecowboyhotch (jonathan levy)

Twas the night by @dameronscopilot (santiago garcia) ✶

A sunday kind of love by @/moonlight-prose (marc spector) ✶

Devotion by @/moonlight-prose (marc spector)

Belong to you by @/moonlight-prose (marc + layla)

PEDRO PASCAL

Alien blues by @/psychedelic-ink (din djarin)

Broken sleep by @/psychedelic-ink (dave york)

My drug by @/psychedelic-ink (frankie morales + jack daniels)

A broken prince by @/psychedelic-ink (ezra)

First time by @autumnleaves1991-blog (oberyn martell)

Poison & wine by @/psychedelic-ink (din djarin + duke leto)

Touch by @/moonlight-prose (din djarin)

Untitled by @the-scandalorian (din djarin)

STRANGER THINGS

All mine by @littledemondani (eddie munson)

She's trouble by @wroteclassicaly (eddie munson)

Untitled by @/wroteclassicaly (eddie + steve)

Whole lotta love by @/authurials (eddie munson)

Thrill me, chill me, fulfill me by @oncasette (eddie munson)

TOP GUN

Take it easy by @/oncasette (hangman)

Worst Behavior by @/oncasette (rooster)

Breath play by @foli-vora (rooster)

Your name (on that coffee cup) by @rae-gar-targaryen (hangman) ✶

As blue as your taste (i taste the same) by @/rae-gar-targaryen (fanboy)

Untitled by @/oncasette (hangman) ✶

Do not disturb by @callsignvalley (hangman)

So deep in love with you (baby love) by @/rae-gar-targaryen (fanboy)

My cup runneth over by @/rae-gar-targaryen (fanboy)

Untitled by @/rae-gar-targaryen (fanboy)

Mi media naranja by @/rae-gar-targaryen (fanboy)

Untitled by @angrythingstarlight (walter deville)

Throne by @preciouslandmermaid (morpheus)

First time by @stranger-nightmare (morpheus)

Thigh riding by @/stranger-nightmare (geralt)

Breeding kink by @xcatnapsx (kylo ren)

Those damned romantics by @/rae-gar-targaryen (ezekiel reyes)

Lazy sunday by @eupheme (charlie swan)

please do not spam like the works above, no one likes a spam liker. comments and reblogs are always the better way to show your appreciation to content creators.

if you would like me to remove your works within this list, for whatever reason, please let me know and i will kindly do so!

#monthly fic recs !#fic recs #writer love <3

265 notes · View notes

all-the-things-2020 · 1 year

Text

Year of Fandom Crossovers: April/May

Title: “Kindred Spirits”

Pedro Character: Joel Miller

Fandom Crossover: Anne of Green Gables

Warnings: mentions of death of loved ones, mild peril

Notes: Ellie is an orphan; Anne Shirley is an orphan. Joel is a reluctant guardian; Marilla Cuthbert is a reluctant guardian. I incorporated a few plots/character notes from TLOU.

Word count: 11,000+

@yearofcreation2023

Ellie Williams was an orphan. She had been told this every day of her fourteen years. It was justification for every bit of mistreatment she’d been subjected to, for every day of work that had been demanded of her. She was an orphan and should be grateful for any scrap of kindness shown to her. And now she was walking behind Marlena, the impatient house mistress of the orphanage, as they made their way from the train station into the farmland outside the village of Meadowlea.

“Is it much farther?”

Marlena kept walking, not slowing her brisk pace by one iota. “How should I know? I’ve never been here before in my life. And could have kept it that way if not for you, young miss.”

Marlena had been orphaned at age twelve, and gone to live at the orphanage herself. At the age of sixteen, she had transitioned from inmate to maid servant and now, as she approached a grim middle age, was the undisputed power over every girl in the building. Normally, she left such small tasks as delivering orphans to her underlings, but this was a special case.

Ellie kept her lips firmly pressed together, to prevent another question from slipping out of them. She knew she talked too much, too often, and too hastily, but she was just so curious about the world, and how was she to learn everything there was to know if she didn’t ask questions? One of the largest looming in her mind was one that she knew Marlena would not answer: Why was she in Meadowlea and not on a train to the prairie provinces like the other children?

Soon the road climbed a low hill and before them was a view that took Ellie’s breath away. A neat white farmhouse with a gray roof stood in the middle distance. In the foreground, a field of wildflowers gone to seed and in the background, the ocean. She had always longed to live within sight and sound and smell of the sea.

“Oh, Marlena, is this the Miller farm? It’s simply beautiful.”

Marlena sniffed. “I suppose it is. The farm, I mean. It’s no more beautiful than any other humble building in this village.” She had lived in a fine house in the city when she was a child, everyone said, and the orphanage had been a great comedown for her. But it was all Ellie had ever known, and the farm before her was a paradise compared to the dingy walls and paving stones that surrounded her at the orphanage.

They walked down the hill and through a charming white picket gate, then up a carefully tended path of flagstones to the porch. Marlena rapped firmly on the doorframe with her gloved hand.

“I told you, I am not inclined to join you for supper at your blasted church —“ The door was opened by a man, who immediately realized they were not whomever he had been expecting. “I beg your pardon, ma’am,” he said quickly. “I thought you were … well, it don’t matter who I thought you were. How can I help you?”

“Mr. Joel Miller?”

He narrowed his brown eyes. “Yes. And who are you?” His face was gruff and stern, with a neatly trimmed but patchy beard. Ellie liked him immediately, even though he didn’t seem very friendly.

“I am Miss Marlena Johnston, of the Charlottetown Orphanage.”

“I am not in the habit of donating to charities,” Mr. Miller said sharply.

“I am not here to solicit a donation,” Marlena said, just as sharply. “I am here to deliver Eleanor.”

Ellie smiled and gave a small wave of her hand, just in case he wasn’t clear that she was the Eleanor in question.

“Deliver? Her? There must be some mistake.” Mr. Miller started to close the door, but Marlena inserted her neatly booted foot and kept it open.

“Your brother is Mr. Thomas Miller? He and his wife sent for a girl, but the letter was delayed in the mail.”

“Thomas and Maria are in Saskatchewan,” Mr. Miller said. “Put her on the train.”

“We would have,” Marlena said, “but the agents in Regina have reported that the Millers have been obliged to move from their established farm and requested that the child be sent to you until they have settled in a new place.”

Ellie was somewhat satisfied by this explanation. She had been a bit disappointed not to be going to the wide open prairies like the rest of the children, but this was simply a delay. She would stay here in Meadowlea for a few months and then be sent on to her new home in the spring, most likely. There were miles and miles of wildflowers on the prairie in the springtime, she had heard.

“I know nothing about this,” Mr. Miller said. “Take her back to the orphanage.”

“That I cannot do,” Marlena said with a sniff. “Here is a letter from the director of the orphanage, Mr. Trumbull, stating that the girl is no longer the responsibility of the provincial government. Your brother signed the paperwork in Regina and we are simply following his directions. As his next of kin, she is your responsibility now. You can take the matter up with your brother.” She turned to Ellie. “Eleanor, remember to behave yourself properly while you are here. Obey Mr. Miller and show him and the inhabitants of Meadowlea that we raise decent, hardworking children at our orphanage.”

Ellie nodded. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said. Marlena always liked being called Ma’am, or Miss Johnston, even though most of the children followed the lead of Mr. Trumbull and the other officials in calling her by her given name.

“Now, I must be going if I am to catch the train back to Charlottetown,” Marlena said. “Good day.” She turned neatly on her heel and strode off, leaving Ellie on the porch with her carpetbag at her feet and Mr. Miller standing gobstruck in the doorway with Mr. Trumbull’s letter in his hand.

“You wait here,” he said, shutting the door in her face. Ellie shuffled her feet, wondering if it would be acceptable to sit on the bench or if she was expected to remain standing. After a minute of deliberation, she decided that no one could possibly be harmed or offended by her taking a seat, and she settled onto the bench, where she had a nice view of the rose and lilac bushes that nestled close to the porch. It would smell so lovely in the summer, but she wouldn’t be here that long. By summer, she would be surrounded by the wild roses of the prairie.

The door opened. “Come inside.”

Ellie jumped up, picked up her bag and stepped into the house. It was a typical farmhouse, plain and clean, with sturdy furniture and no nonsense. Mr. Miller stood over her, the letter in his hand.

“It seems as though I haven’t much choice in the matter,” he said simply. “At least until I contact my brother and set things straight. You’ll stay here until I get things figured out.”

“Thank you, Mr. Miller,” Ellie said. “I promise I won’t be a bother. I can help out in the house or even on the farm. I’m strong and I’m not afraid of getting dirty, like some girls are.” She thought of some of her fellow orphans, who wrinkled their noses at the amount of dust that collected on her shoes and skirt hems. Ellie was always down on the ground, playing marbles with the boys, or examining a flower or curious rock in the school yard.

“You can cook and clean, I suppose?” Mr. Miller asked.

“Well … yes,” Ellie replied. “All of us girls were taught the domestic arts, as Marlena calls them, but I can do other things as well.”

“Cooking and cleaning the house will be enough,” he said. “I lease my fields to a neighbor. I’m not a farmer; I’m a woodworker. I have a horse and a few chickens and a kitchen garden, but that’s all. I can take care of all of that myself. Have for years.”

Ellie squashed down her disappointment. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Miller. But maybe I can help in the garden a little, or collect the eggs?”

“Maybe,” he said. “Go on upstairs and put your things away. The guest bedroom is on the right when you reach the top. Don’t go in my room, or up the stairs to the garret. Then come down and we’ll get you started in the kitchen.”

The guest room was nowhere near as grand as its name implied. It was simply a bedroom, the furniture covered in sheets and everything else with a coating of dust. Ellie sneezed almost immediately. She would have to clean the room top to bottom before she could sleep comfortably, but at least she would have it to herself.

She hung her spare dress in the wardrobe and laid her underthings and stockings in the dresser drawer. Before she went back down, she peeped out the window. There was a maple tree outside, its leaves vibrant against the blue sky, and through its branches she could glimpse the waves rolling against the shore. It wasn’t the endless vista of the prairie she’d been dreaming of, but it was a very satisfying view nonetheless.

She found Mr. Miller in the kitchen, sitting at the table fiddling with a piece of wood. There were shavings and sawdust everywhere. “Don’t mind me,” he said without looking up from his work. “There’s an apron on the back of the pantry door.”

Ellie paused to look at his tools. Chisels, knives and other things she didn’t recognize were laid tantalizingly out on the table. Her fingers itched to pick them up and figure out their use.

“Dishes need washing,” Mr. Miller said as he laid down one knife and picked up another.

“Oh, yes, of course, sir,” Ellie said. It was always this way. Every time she found something new and exciting to pique her interest, she was sent off to wash dishes or mend clothes or scrub floors. Women’s work was just as hard as men’s work and nowhere near as satisfying.

After the dishes were washed and dried, Ellie started on supper. Mr. Miller continued his work, the kitchen filling up with the competing odors of freshly carved wood and boiling potatoes. When the food was ready, he covered the dusty table with a stained table cloth.

Ellie was not the neatest person in the world, but even she frowned at the state of the cloth. “When was the last time you washed this?,” she asked as she laid out their plates.

“Couple of weeks ago,” he said. “It’s just to keep the sawdust out of the food and the food off the table. It doesn’t have to be pretty.”

Ellie shook her head. “It doesn’t have to be pretty, but it should be clean.” She looked down at her apron, which was also in a bit of a state. “I’ll do some washing tomorrow.”

“You‘ll go to school tomorrow,” Mr. Miller said. “You aren’t a servant. You can do the laundry on Saturday. I always do it on Saturday.”

They ate in silence for a few minutes. “If I’m not a servant, what am I?” Ellie asked when she could keep her curiosity in check no longer.

“You’re my brother’s … I’m not sure what the legal term is. Ward, maybe?”

“Is that like a daughter? We always talked about getting adopted and being someone’s son or daughter again.”

“It’s not like that,” Mr. Miller said gruffly. “Not sure exactly what Tommy signed. Maybe they did adopt you, maybe you’re just their responsibility now instead of the orphanage’s. Anyway, you’re not just a maid or a housekeeper or whatever you want to call it. You’re a child and children go to school. Now eat up.”

**************************************************************

Joel stared at the ceiling in his bedroom. As a young man, he had slept like a stone, but after too much loss, he now found the nighttime hours no longer friendly. He silently cursed Tommy for making a mess of things again, and forcing him to take a child — a girl! — into his home. And not just a girl, one nearly the same age as his dear Sarah had been when she was taken from him. Not that Eleanor had much in common with Sarah. She was rough around the edges where Sarah had always been neat as a pin, quiet and biddable but still full of laughter and joy. She had been his pearl, the delight of his life, a sweet reminder of her mother, who had departed this life bringing her into it.

He rolled onto his side. This Eleanor was like a burr under his saddle; a minor inconvenience at the moment, but one that could fester into something much worse if he didn’t take steps right now. He would send her to school, and set her to work in the house, while he spent his time in his workshop. They would take their morning and evening meals together but otherwise live in separate spheres until he heard from Tommy and could send the girl west. She’d do well out there. Hard work and fresh air would be good for her. And he could go back to his solitary lot.

*********************************************************************

Ellie was not fond of school. She would much rather be outside, especially on a crisp autumn day. She enjoyed books, if they were of her own choosing, but preferred to read them perched in a tree or tucked away in a corner by herself, not at a desk in a stuffy classroom. Still, she found the Meadowlea school a fountain of information, in the form of her seatmate, Lydia Davenport.

Lydia was thrilled to have a new friend, and delighted to share all the Meadowlea gossip with Ellie, who found the girl a bit much, but was grateful for a warm welcome. It was from Lydia that she learned the “tragical” history of Joel Miller.

“Mr. Miller was married young to his sweetheart,” Lydia told her during morning recess. “And they had only been married a little over a year when she perished in childbirth.” Lydia sighed deeply. “It was simply tragical, my mother says. But the baby survived and Mr. Joel Miller doted on her. Her name was Sarah and he and his brother Thomas raised her up as best they could. Everyone says she was a beautiful little girl, happy and bright.”

Lydia leaned closer. “Then, when she was about our age, Sarah was killed in a horrific accident. Knocked down and trampled by panicked horses when a soldier accidentally fired his weapon during a parade. Mr. Miller was inconsolable.”

Now Lydia whispered. “He stopped going to church and started buying … whiskey.” She paused, only continuing the story after Ellie had feigned shock, although she didn’t see what was so horribly wrong with a man having a drink now and then. The director of the orphanage had kept a decanter of brandy in his office, and quite a few of the older children had snuck a sip on a dare. “Well, Thomas put up with it for a few years, but then he got fed up and went west. And ever since, Mr. Joel Miller has been alone on his farm.”

The school bell rang and the pupils filed back inside, but Ellie could not keep her mind on arithmetic. She kept thinking about Lydia’s story. It was no sadder than her own life story but it certainly explained why Mr. Miller was so gruff, and that rather interesting comment about not wanting to attend the “blasted” church. On the whole, it made Ellie like him even more. She had never liked sitting quietly through the sermons on Sunday mornings, and she understood the welter of emotions that losing one’s family could awaken. She had felt her fair share of sorrow and anger and despair and hard hearted denial.

After school, she fixed supper and rang the bell by the back door to summon Mr. Miller from his workshop in the barn. He came inside, stomping the sawdust off his boots on the doorstep and washing his hands and face at the kitchen sink. He nodded at her as he took his seat and began to eat.

“School was nice,” she ventured after a few minutes of silence.

“Good,” he said. “Behave yourself and listen to your teacher.”

“I even made a friend already,” she continued. “Her name is Lydia Davenport and she sits next to me.”

Mr. Miller sighed. “The Davenports are gossips,” he said. “Don’t listen to her foolery.” He finished his food quickly, scraped his plate into the waste bin and dropped it into the sink. “You’re a decent cook,” he said grudgingly, “but a little too much salt.”

He went upstairs, leaving Ellie to clean up and begin her homework. The kitchens was cozy, but she felt very alone. At the orphanage, she’d often longed for privacy but now that she had it, she found it was one of those things that is best in moderation.

***********************************************************************

The rest of the week was uneventful and when Saturday arrived, Ellie was briefly glad of the day off school until she remembered it was laundry day. Still, it was better than sitting in the schoolhouse doing mathematics and reading about the major imports and exports of Brazil. Best of all, Mr. Miller helped with filling the washtub.

“Water’s heavy,” he said when she tried to thank him. “I’m stronger than you.” Then he shrugged and went back to his workshop.

Ellie was intrigued by the sounds that came from the barn while she scrubbed and wrung out the clothes and pinned them on the line. Sawing and hammering and scraping, punctuated by assorted clatters and curses when he dropped something, kept her mind alert while she attended to her work. By evening, the barn was silent, and she had a basket full of clean, fresh smelling clothes. More importantly, there was a snowy white cloth to lay on the table at supper time.

She laid out the plates and silverware carefully, and even found a cracked pitcher to hold a bunch of pretty branches she’d snipped from the garden. It wasn’t flowers but it looked nice. When Mr. Miller came inside, he barely nodded at her effort. “Food’s good,” he said after a few bites.

Ellie tried to hold her tongue, but in the end it was impossible. “I scrubbed this tablecloth three times to get out all the stains and managed to get all the rest of the washing done and folded and cooked supper, and all I get is two words? I’m sorry, Mr. Miller, if my efforts aren’t worth anything to you.”

He looked up from his plate, seeming to see the table for the first time. “Sorry,” he said. “I’m not used to having company. Forgot my manners. The table looks very nice, Eleanor.”

“Ellie,” she said firmly. “I prefer Ellie.”

He nodded. “And you can call me Joel. Mr. Miller was my father.”

“I’m not sure that would be proper, Mr. Miller,” Ellie said. The orphans had been taught to always be polite with adults, who held such power over them.

“If Tommy and his wife adopted you, that makes me your uncle, of a sort, and no child I ever knew called their uncle by their surname,” he said.

“Uncle Joel, then.”

He shook his head. “Just Joel is fine. It’s my name. Now eat up, before your supper gets cold.” He lifted his fork, but paused before it reached his mouth. “I’ll do the dishes tonight, since you worked so hard all day.”

“Thank you … Joel.”

“You’re welcome, Ellie.”

***************************************************************************

Ellie was awakened the next morning by an argument in the yard. She peered out her window and was just able to make out a buggy at the gate and Joel standing with hands on his hips.

“I just wanted to offer the girl a ride to church, Mr. Miller.” The voice was loud but calm.

“If I wanted her going to church, I’d take her myself,” Joel shouted.

“I’m sure your brother and his wife would be disappointed at your actions.”

“If they are, they can take it up with me. On your way, Mr. Davenport.” There was a steeliness to Joel’s voice that both frightened and comforted Ellie. She would not like to be on the receiving end of that voice, but having it defend her felt good.

When she came downstairs, she found Joel in the kitchen, making coffee. He drank quite a bit of it, and made it very strong. Ellie had snuck a taste one morning, and promptly sworn to only drink tea for the rest of her life.

“It’s Sunday,” he said. “I don’t go to church, and I don’t expect you to, either. If you’re so inclined, there’s a Bible in the parlor somewhere. You can read it if you like. Or do whatever you want. You’ve been in school all week, and worked hard yesterday. You’ve earned a day of rest.”

“What about you?” She set about slicing bread for toast. “Do you take a day of rest?”

“No,” Joel said. “No reason. Got to keep myself busy.”

“Would it be all right if I helped you in the workshop?”

“It’s no place for a girl. Too dangerous. But you can watch, if you keep your distance.”

***************************************************************

Sarah had always given his workshop a wide berth. She had loved the things he made for her, and was proud of his workmanship, but had no interest in the process by which he took raw lumber and transformed it into things of use and beauty. Ellie, on the other hand, had a million questions, asking about every tool, every technique. He had expected her to watch politely from a few feet away for a bit, get bored, and go off to read or whatever it was girls did, not creep slowly closer and closer, watching intently and smiling with delight when he fit two joints snugly together or sanded a corner to a satin finish.

“Back up,” he finally had to tell her when she threatened to get in his way.

“But I can’t see what you’re doing,” she replied, although she did take a step back.

“Better safe than sorry,” he said. “Stay back or you’ll have to leave completely.”

That did the trick. She retreated to a safe distance, but still craned her neck to watch everything he did.

“Maybe I could borrow a pen knife and you could teach me how to whittle?”

“Girls don’t whittle,” Joel said. “If you want to make something, how about a quilt or — what do they call it — a sampler.” Sarah had enjoyed sewing, especially embroidery. He had a set of handkerchiefs with his monogram on them tucked away in a drawer.

Ellie made a face. “I hate sewing,” she said. “They made us do mending all the time at the orphanage. It’s my least favorite chore. Even worse than scrubbing floors.”

Joel wracked his brain trying to think of some other suitable pastime for a young lady. “Read a book?”

“Boring,” said Ellie. “I’d rather do things than read about them.”

“You could … feed the chickens.”

“You already fed them this morning,” she pointed out. “Besides, the big hen hates me.”

Joel suppressed a chuckle. It was true that the big speckled hen had taken a dislike to Ellie, pecking at her whenever the girl tried to gather eggs, and chasing her out of the henhouse on one memorable occasion. “You could give Samson a good brushing.” The gelding was gentle and even though it was more of a boy’s chore to groom horses, maybe she would enjoy brushing and plaiting his mane and tail.

Ellie’s eyes lit up. She had admired the horse from afar but had not yet approached him. “Really? I always liked horses but I was afraid you might not let me because you’d be worried I’d get hurt …”

She trailed off, and Joel wondered just how much the Davenport girl had told her. It made his chest ache just to think about Sarah, but he steeled himself. “Just don’t get stepped on,” he said, gruffly. “Go on. Make yourself useful instead of standing around gawking.”

He returned to his work, forcing himself to focus on the wood and tools in front of him and not the quiet conversation Ellie was having with Samson across the barn. His vision blurred a little, but it wasn’t tears. Must have been some sawdust floating into his eyes.

*************************************************************************

Ellie and Samson became great friends. The chestnut gelding loved to be groomed and Ellie soon spent a pleasant hour every day brushing and polishing his coat until it gleamed, even with his thick winter coat coming in. She brought him carrots and shared apples with him.

“You know,” she said one evening over supper. “Samson could use more exercise.”

Joel grunted. “I turn him out in the paddock every day. And he gets driven a few times a week. He’s an old horse.”

“But he could do more,” Ellie persisted. “Maybe … maybe I could ride him.”

“No,” Joel said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

“He’s gentle,” Ellie pleaded.

“No,” Joel said. “You don’t know how to ride, and I don’t even own a saddle.”

“Then teach me how to drive,” Ellie suggested.

“I don’t have time,” Joel replied. “And you don’t have anywhere to go, other than school.”

Ellie sighed. “I’m sure there are plenty of lovely drives on the island. Lydia said her family drove through the woods and past the pond out by the Ross farm and it was beautiful.”

“The Davenports have time to waste,” Joel said. “I’m not wearing my horse out on pleasure jaunts. He’s a working horse, just like I’m a working man. And you have schoolwork and housework to attend to.”

Ellie knew when an adult was unyielding. She let the matter rest, but it still lingered in her mind.

*******************************************************

A few weeks later, a letter arrived from Thomas Miller in Saskatchewan. Ellie was expected to stop at the post office on her way home from school each day, to save Joel from having to go into town unless he absolutely had to. All the way home, she kept pulling the letter out of her pocket, tracing her finger over the postmark from Regina, and then putting it back.

When she gave it to Joel, he merely grunted and placed it on the mantelpiece. “I’ll read it this evening,” he said. “After supper.” He nodded pointedly toward the kitchen. Ellie sighed. She hated waiting.

The moment Joel was finished eating, she cleared the table and washed the dishes in record time. Joel lingered over a second cup of coffee and she was already half way through her spelling words when he finally rinsed his cup and took the letter down from the mantel. He opened it, read it twice and folded it back up, sliding it carefully back into the envelope.

“Well?” Ellie said when she could hold back no longer.

“Well, what?”

“When am I going out West?”

“Spring,” he said simply. “Tommy says they’re settled into the new place, but they’ve had an early start to winter and all the Indians are predicting it will be a hard one. There’s no guarantee he can get to Regina and back at all until after the melt. He sent the letter with a fellow who was on government business and had no choice but to go.”

Joel slid the letter across the table toward her. She skimmed through it, puzzling slightly at Thomas’ curious penmanship. “What does this mean? ‘Recompense,’” she asked.

“Repay,” Joel said. “He’s offering to pay me back for the expense of keeping you over the winter.” He shook his head. “As if I’d take a penny from him after all the help he gave me and ….” His mouth snapped shut decisively. “Don’t you worry about anything. You’ll stay here until he sends word.”

She folded the letter back up. “I didn’t exactly think you were going to toss me out into the cold,” she said. “Everyone says you’re grumpy and mean but you’re not that mean.”

“Finish your schoolwork and then get to bed,” Joel said. “I’ll be out in the workshop.” He left her alone in the kitchen, where her attention kept darting between her spelling list and the envelope on the table. Saskatchewan winters could be long and very cold. She wondered just how long she would be in Meadowlea, and if Thomas and Maria’s home was as snug and cozy as Joel’s. After all, it would be her home in just a few months time.

*************************************************************

Winter arrived at Meadowlea and at first Ellie enjoyed the pristine white drifts of snow that covered the fields and made the trees look like a fairy wonderland. Then she spent a few days trudging back and forth to school in the cold and decided that maybe a country winter wasn’t as lovely as it looked.

“Be thankful we’re not on the prairie,” Joel said one evening when she lamented the depths of the snow banks she’d had to negotiate that day. “Blizzards so fierce a man can’t see his hand in front of him. People and stock freeze to death just feet from shelter.” He shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t see why Tommy was so set on going out there.”

“But they say the prairie sky is endless,” Ellie said. “And the flowers bloom in the spring and the soil is so rich that grain grows without you even trying.”

Joel grunted. “Endless sky isn’t worth anything, and we have plenty of flowers here. And farming is overrated. A lot of work for little reward.” He looked at her. “Never marry a farmer. You’ll regret it. Most women do.”

Ellie made a face. “I’m never going to get married,” she declared. “I’m going to make my own way in the world. Lots of girls do.”

“Good luck to you, then,” Joel said, rising from the table to place his plate in the sink. “Not much opportunity for a bachelor girl out on the prairie.”

Ellie turned back to her supper, her appetite suddenly gone. She’d never thought about the prospects for self-sufficiency out in the West. After a few years with the Millers, she would be an adult, and what then? There would be no chance at high school or any other advanced education, which was the only way for a girl to make a decent living on her own. Teachers, secretaries, nurses: those were the young women who could chart their own path. Never mind that none of those professions appealed to her. They were better than the alternative.

**************************************************************

Christmas came and went with hardly a word at the Miller farm. Joel hadn’t celebrated the holiday since he’d lost Sarah, and Ellie was not accustomed to anything more than a slice of stale cake with supper. The only acknowledgment of the day was the arrival of a brightly colored card from an elderly cousin in Boston, which Joel propped on the mantel solely for Ellie’s benefit.

He was growing fond of the girl, in an awkward sort of way. She was so unlike Sarah that she was not a constant reminder of loss, but she was still a girl and so quite unfathomable to him. She could turn from asking questions about horses and woodworking to chiding him for tracking mud onto her clean floors and lamenting the state of his frayed cuffs with no notice, and it kept him off balance. With his wife, and with Sarah, he had known where he stood. They had their domain and he had his. Ellie pervaded every aspect of his life and he wasn’t sure if he liked it or not.

The weather turned bitterly cold a few weeks after the New Year, making walking treacherous as the ground was coated with slick patches of ice where the wind had blown away the snow. Joel loaned Ellie his hobnailed boots to wear when walking to and from school. They were so big on her that she could wear her own boots inside them and stuffed rags in the toes to keep them on, but they did the trick, and she never fell. When she tried to thank him, Joel brushed her words aside.

“Tommy’d never forgive me if I let you get hurt,” he said. “Now get to school.”

Joel worked in the barn every day, even into the dark evenings. It was cozy, with Samson and the chickens huddled to one side and his workbench, illuminated by a safety lantern, on the other. He had finished the more intricate commissions for Christmas gifts early in the fall, and spent the winter working on more mundane items like furniture, chopping boards, and buckets.

On the third night of the cold snap, he was working on a side table for a gentleman in Charlottetown. It was almost too cold to work, his fingers stiff and fumbling, but he was nearly finished and was reluctant to quit early. As he laid hammer to chisel, his grip loosened and the chisel slipped off the wood and into his leg. He cursed quietly; mishaps like this were rare but happened. His trousers had absorbed most of the blow, and there was very little blood. As he pulled on the chisel, however, he slipped in the water that had melted off his boots and fell directly on it. He felt the metal pierce deep into his flesh and his stomach turned as blood blossomed from the wound.

“Ellie!,” he called out.

She should be home from school, preparing supper in the kitchen. He called again and again, but it was clear she couldn’t hear him. He pulled the chisel out and winced as the pain buckled his leg. He tied a rag around the wound and hobbled slowly toward the house.

There was a great deal of blood and he was feeling faint by the time he reached the kitchen door. “Ellie,” he called weakly. “Help.”

The door opened and he could see her silhouette against the light. “Joel! What happened?” She helped him inside and onto a chair.

“Slipped,” he said. “Fell on the chisel. Needs stitches, I think. Get the doctor.”

Ellie nodded. “Here,” she said, grabbing several dish towels. “Hold these on the wound. I’ll take Samson and be back as soon as I can.”

He tried to protest, but she was already gone.

******************************************

Ellie ran into the barn, startling Samson and the chickens. “Sorry,” she said as she grabbed the bridle off the wooden peg near the door. “But Joel’s hurt bad. We’ve got to get help.” Fortunately, Samson was a well trained horse and accepted the bit readily. She fumbled a bit with the buckles but got the bridle fastened, even if it was a bit loose. She led the gelding out to the yard, where she climbed onto the fence rail to reach his broad back.

It was slippery without a saddle, and Samson was clearly confused at being ridden instead of harnessed to the buggy. He snorted and flicked his ears. Ellie leaned forward and stroked his neck. “Come on, big fellow,” she said. “We have to fetch the doctor.” She clapped her heels against his sides and he started off at a nervous jog. She shook the reins and kicked him again. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “But we need to go faster.”

Samson broke into a canter, and Ellie held tight to his mane as he lurched out of the yard and onto the road. It was dark, and cold, and she was trying her best not to slide off his back, but she managed to steer him more or less in the direction of Doctor Fletcher’s house. Once Samson understood the task, he was willing and it was not long before she was pulling him up in the doctor’s yard.

It was still early, and the doctor and his wife had heard the pounding hooves, so she did not even need to dismount. “Joel’s hurt himself,” Ellie gasped out. “He’s bleeding a lot. Said he needs stitches probably.”

Dr. Fletcher nodded. “Go on, get back to him,” he said. “Try to stanch the bleeding as best you can. I’ll get my bag and be on my horse in five minutes.”

Ellie turned Samson’s head toward home. He needed no urging now, more than ready to return to his warm stall. He picked up speed but Ellie didn’t mind. She was getting used to riding and she wanted to get back to Joel as soon as possible.

As they rounded a curve in the road, the moon peeped out from behind a cloud, casting dark shadows across the ground. Samson, brave horse that he was, did not balk at the seeming chasm that opened up at his feet, but jumped it. His hooves slid on the icy road as he landed and he stumbled. His head went forward, the bridle came loose and Ellie flew off his back. She hit the ground with a thud, and tumbled into the brush. Samson charged away, leaving her alone with the wind knocked out of her and a throbbing head. The clouds covered the moon again and the world plunged into darkness.

*******************************************************

Joel’s world had narrowed down to the pain in his leg, the blood that covered his hands, and the wood grain of the table in front of him. Still, he worried about Ellie, riding alone through the night. It seemed an eternity before he heard hooves clattering on the frozen ground outside. One horse. That would be Ellie returned. Then another. He heard the horses nicker to each other. That would be the doctor.

“Dear God, man, what happened?” Dr. Fletcher said as he burst through the kitchen door, his black bag already half open.

“Slipped,” Joel grunted. “Fell on the chisel.”

Fletcher was smaller than Joel but strong as an ox. He hoisted him onto the table and cut open his trousers to expose the wound. “Nasty, but not life threatening once I get you patched up.” He pulled a vial from his bag. “Laudanum. For the pain.” Before Joel could protest, the bottle was at his lips. He felt the world recede as the drug took effect. It did not dull all the pain, but made it tolerable, as Fletcher stitched his flesh back together.

“There,” Fletcher said when he was done. “I left it open just a bit, for drainage in case of infection. It’s quite a deep wound.” He gathered up all the bloodied cloths and dumped them into the sink. “Where’s that girl of yours got to?”

“Must be … in the barn … putting up Samson,” Joel managed.

Fletcher’s brows knitted in confusion. “Your horse? He’s out in the yard loose. I thought I’d find her inside with you and was prepared to scold her for not securing the stock.”

Joel sat up quickly. His head swam from the laudanum and the loss of blood, but he felt a surge of fear through his bones that kept him upright. “Samson came back alone? Damn it … I told her it wasn’t safe to ride him.” He tried to stand but his leg buckled.

“Easy, there,” Fletcher said. “I’m sure she’s just overwhelmed. Probably hiding in the barn or in her bedroom, frightened by all the blood. Let me look for her. You need to rest.”

Joel felt his chest constrict as he waited for Fletcher to search the house. He knew this feeling; he had felt it when he saw Sarah fall under the wheels of the wagon.

“She’s not in the house,” Fletcher said. “I’ll check the barn. Might as well put your horse inside while I’m at it.”

The minutes passed slowly as Joel concentrated on breathing. It was all he could do to stay seated. He wanted to be out there looking for Ellie. He could not bear to be idle while time slipped away. After what seemed like hours, Fletcher returned, his face grim.

“She must have come off the horse on her way back,” he said. “I should have made her wait and ride with me, but I sent her ahead to be with you.”

Joel rose to his feet, ignoring the searing pain in his leg. “We have to find her.” He was surprised at how hoarse his voice sounded.

“You are not going anywhere,” Fletcher said. “I’ll look for her. She has to be on the road between my house and here.”

Joel shook his head. “No, I’m going, too. You can’t stop me.”

“It’s my fault, Miller.”

“No, it’s mine!” Joel burst out. “If I’d been more careful, hadn’t hurt myself … She would be safe and warm if she hadn’t needed to go fetch you. Because of my stupidity.” He lurched toward the door. The leg hurt but it still worked. He was just a little unsteady because of the laudanum.

“We’ll both go,” Fletcher said. “You can ride my horse and I’ll walk ahead with a lantern. Two sets of eyes will be better.” Before Joel could open his mouth to protest, Fletcher continued. “No doctor worth his name would let a patient in your condition wander about unsupervised. By rights I should insist you go straight to bed, but I know you’ll be up and out the door the moment I leave the yard, so this is the best I can do.”

Joel nodded. “Let’s go then.”

The night was cold, and dark when clouds drifted in front of the moon. Joel had managed to mount the doctor’s horse but the effort had brought him a great deal of pain. He slumped in the saddle, glad that Fletcher was leading the animal with one hand while holding the lantern aloft with the other. He probably should have followed the doctor’s orders and gone to bed, but he could not rest until he knew that Ellie was safe. He dared not think about the other possibility.

At a bend in the road, something caught his eye in the brush. It was not a reflection, nor anything recognizable, just a feeling that this particular shadow was significant.

“Wait,” he cried. “There!” He slid out of the saddle without thinking and stumbled into the ditch. As Fletcher followed with the lantern, Joel saw a familiar red color: Ellie’s apron, which she’d been wearing to prepare supper. He crawled into the brush and there she was, lying deathly still. As he touched her, she moaned and then all at once, her eyes flew open and she cried out in fear.

Joel did not think. He gathered her into his arms but she fought against him. “It’s me, Ellie,” he said. “It’s me. I’ve got you. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

She gasped. “Joel? Oh, Joel, you’re all right! Ow, my head.”

He hugged her close. “You’re safe now,” he said. “The doctor is here. I’ve got you.”

Fletcher gave her a cursory examination and declared her fit enough to ride back to the house behind Joel. “A bump on the head, but nothing too frightening,” was his verdict. He helped them both into the saddle and led the long-suffering horse back to the house.

Joel struggled to keep his wits about him, but between the pain and the laudanum and the panic of Ellie being lost, his mind was a muddle. But Ellie was seated behind him, her arms around his waist and her head leaning against his back. She was alive, and so was he, and that was all that mattered.

*************************************************************

Dr. Fletcher paused to rouse the Rileys on the way back to Joel’s house, and Ellie was bundled off to bed by Mrs. Riley, a kindly widow who had nursed a dozen children and grandchildren through a variety of illnesses and injuries over the years, while the doctor attended to Joel.

“You are not to get out of that bed except to use the chamber pot,” Mrs. Riley admonished. “Doctor will be up to look you over but it’s my considered opinion you need a day or two of complete rest.” She clucked her tongue. “Falling off horses in the middle of the night!”

Ellie fully planned to stay awake until she knew the extent of Joel’s injury, but her bed was warm and cozy and she was soon sound asleep. The next thing she knew, it was morning, and Mrs. Riley was entering the room with a tray laden with tea and buttered toast.

“How is Joel?” Ellie asked.

“Mr. Miller is fine,” Mrs. Riley said primly. “You can see him later once I know you’re sufficiently rested from your ordeal. The doctor has him set up on the sofa in the parlor for now, so he doesn’t have to climb the stairs.”

“I feel perfectly rested,” Ellie said, pushing back the covers.

Mrs. Riley clucked her tongue. “Not so fast, young lady. Breakfast first. You didn’t have any supper last night, either of you. Mr. Miller is tucking into some bacon and eggs as we speak.”

Ellie frowned at the toast in front of her. “Why do I only get toast?”

“He lost quite a bit of blood,” Mrs. Riley said. “He needs to build himself back up. You just bumped your head and got a chill. You need something light on your stomach in case you feel dizzy.”

Ellie spent the day in bed, without even a book to entertain her. Mrs. Riley claimed she needed to rest her brain, but without distractions, Ellie’s brain was whirling a mile a minute. She remembered Samson stumbling, and hitting the ground, then someone touching her. She groaned as she recalled how she had flinched away from Joel before she realized it was him. Did he think she was afraid of him? Or disliked him? Nothing could be further from the truth. When he wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly, she felt safe, safer than she’d ever felt in her life. That must be what it is like to have a father, she thought. She had often thought about having a mother, someone gentle and kind to care for her, but the idea of a father, someone strong and protective, had eluded her. Every orphan longed for a mother. Fathers were a more abstract thing.

Late in the evening, Mrs. Riley pronounced her sufficiently recovered to make her way downstairs for supper, swathed in a borrowed dressing gown. A table was set up next to the sofa, and an armchair pulled up beside it for Ellie. Joel was reclined on the sofa, looking about as comfortable as a cat in a bathtub. Forced inactivity was as foreign to him as it was to Ellie.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” Ellie said as she settled herself into the chair.

“Same,” Joel said. As soon as Mrs. Riley was safely out of the room, gone to fetch their supper, he leaned forward. “I’ll be better once the nursemaid is gone,”

Ellie laughed quietly. “She is a bit of a martinet, isn’t she?”

Joel blinked. “Where’d you learn that word?”

“From a book,” Ellie said. “I go to school. We read things there.”

Joel sighed. “That knock on the head certainly didn’t change your personality.”

“Which is a good thing, right?” Ellie found the banter easy. Something had shifted between them after the tragic events of the previous night. Joel was still gruff — it was simply his nature — but he was less guarded. It felt good and, more importantly, it felt right.

*********************************************************

Joel was immensely relieved to see Ellie come into the parlor. Although Mrs. Riley and Dr. Fletcher had both assured him she was perfectly fine, just a bit knocked about, he had to see for himself before he could truly believe she was not harmed. The emotions that had surged through him when he found her, and held her his his arms, safe and sound, were old ones that he hadn’t felt in years. Not since he had held Sarah on the street, desperately willing her to be unharmed. He had lost his darling Sarah, but last night, he had not lost Ellie. He had saved her.

Ellie was not like Sarah in the least. She was brash where Sarah had been demure, curious where Sarah had been accepting, clumsy where Sarah had been graceful. And yet, they were both girls with a keen sense of what was right in the world, an appreciation for the beauty of nature, and a fondness for a grumpy old man who felt the world had turned its back on him. Sarah had been his flesh and blood, but Ellie was more truly a kindred spirit. She wanted to know things and do things and was not willing to accept the terms by which society wanted to judge her.

After supper, Mrs. Riley wanted to shoo Ellie back upstairs, but Joel overrode her. “She has been cooped up in that room all day,” he said. “Fetch my checkerboard out of the dresser. We’ll see how well her mind has recovered.”

He hadn’t played checkers since Tommy had left. The board and pieces were old and worn, made by their grandfather as a childhood gift to their father. Sarah had played with them when she was small, still fascinated by anything her father and uncle were interested in, but as she grew up, she had taken the perceived wisdom of checkers as a boys’ game to heart.

Ellie’s face lit up. “I love checkers!,” she said. “The boys used to hold tournaments on Saturdays at the orphanage. They’d let some of us girls play now and then, but not very often. Mostly because I could beat them quite often.”

Joel chuckled. “Well, I’m a bit rusty, but I’ve had years more experience than you, so I think we might be fairly evenly matched.”

They played game after game, tentative at first, but by the final game (so decreed by Mrs. Riley, who insisted they both go to sleep at a reasonable time) they were laughing and back-talking each other the way he and Tommy had so many times.

“Not fair!” Ellie cried as Joel captured another of her pieces.

“And how is it not fair if I play by the rules?” She had only one piece left on the board, threatened on two sides.

Ellie folded her arms. “It’s not fair because grown people are supposed to let little girls win now and then.”

“And how would little girls learn the realities of life if victories are handed to them on a platter?,” he replied. “Besides, you are not a little girl. You are a devilishly smart young lady who needs to be put in her place.”

“And you are a deviously smart old man who delights in robbing a poor orphan of one of the few joys in her woeful life.”

Joel sat back. “You will have many joys in your life, Ellie,” he said, the levity gone as he suddenly thought of all the joys Sarah had been denied. “I hope you have a long life, full of all the things a bright girl like you deserves.” He cleared his throat. “I’m getting tired. I think Mrs. Riley was right; we shouldn’t overexert ourselves.”

Ellie frowned as she cleared the unfinished game off the board. Joel leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes. She belongs to Tommy and Maria, he reminded himself. Spring will be here soon and she’ll be gone. The prospect of being alone again, which had been so welcome a few months ago, was now a terrible thing.

***************************

As winter went on, slowly melting into spring, Joel and Ellie became closer. He no longer shooed her away when he was working in the barn, but let her observe and hand him his tools. Once or twice, he even allowed her to practice simple techniques on scraps of wood.

“I like this better than sewing,” she said one afternoon as she planed and sanded a block of wood to silky smoothness. “They’re both making something but somehow working with wood is different.”

Joel paused in his work. He was always very focused when at his workbench, so Ellie was surprised. “Huh, I never thought of it that way,” he said. “Women work with needle and thread and cloth; I work with wood and hammer and nails, but we are just making and mending things that are useful.”

“And beautiful,” Ellie added. “That table you repaired for Mr. Jennings is very useful, but you made it lovely as well. You carved all those little details into it that aren’t really necessary but make it better. Same with a nice dress. Tucks and frills and lace don’t keep you warm, but they make a dress prettier.”

Joel chuckled. He did that more and more these days. “Never pegged you for the sort to care about ruffles and lace,” he said.

Ellie made a face. “I don’t. I like plain, comfortable clothes for myself, but you have to admit a lady looks better when she’s all gussied up. Just like a man looks better when he’s in his Sunday suit rather than overalls.” She shrugged. “But that’s for special times. Your woodwork is useful and beautiful, so it’s even better than fancy clothes. You get to appreciate the beauty every day.”

They had many such talks, springing organically from whatever chore they were working on at the time. As he sat at the kitchen table polishing the chess pieces he had carved for Mr. Lattimer, and Ellie chopped vegetables for supper, he told her about Sarah’s favorite dishes, and the time she tried to bake a cake and used salt instead of sugar. Ellie shared the adventure of raiding the larder at the orphanage and eating pickled cucumbers until they were all sick.

Over the checkerboard in the parlor, he told her about childhood escapades with Tommy. She regaled him with the epic tale of Samuel Lindstrom, the boy who was constantly falling off of things and yet only once broke a bone.

One evening, Joel was pensive and declined a game, preferring instead to stare into the fire. Ellie was at a loss, but sat quietly beside him. Eventually, she ventured a question. “Did I do something?”

Joel stirred from his reverie. “No, no, of course not,” he said. “It’s just … it’s not a good day for me.” He sighed deeply. “It’s Sarah’s birthday,” he said very softly.

Ellie nodded and leaned her head against his shoulder. “I understand,” she said. “You wish it was her with you and not me.”

Joel turned his head sharply toward her. “Never say that,” he said firmly. “I miss her. I miss her so very much. But this year … this year I got out of bed and went about my work. And do you know why? Because of you.”

Ellie did not know what to say. She simply slid her hand into his and squeezed it tightly. She was glad she had helped him deal with his grief, but it would soon be springtime and the snow would be melted all across Canada and she would be on a train to her new home. She knew that Thomas would be a good man; after all, he was Joel’s brother. But still, that part of her that longed for endless prairie skies was shrinking, as her soul became ever more rooted in the soil of Meadowlea.

*************************************************************

It was a bright early April afternoon when Ellie stopped at the post office on her way home from school and picked up a letter with a Regina postmark. Her heart sank as she walked past the flowers peeking through the fresh green grass and not even the songs of the birds in the trees could lift her spirits. Joel was in the barn when she reached the house, and she simply placed the letter on the kitchen table in front of his chair instead of taking it to him.

She was tearing up lettuce for a fresh spring salad when he came in and washed his hands in the sink. “Letter for you,” she said quietly, nodding toward the table. He picked it up, glanced at the postmark and tossed it down.

“I’ll read it after supper,” he said.

“It’ll be a bit,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe … maybe you should read it now. So we know what it says.”

He took a deep breath, nodded, and took the letter into the parlor. Ellie wiped her eyes with her sleeve and went on with her work. No matter what was in the envelope, they needed to eat.

*******************************************************

Joel wanted to toss the letter into the grate unread, but there was no fire today and it would only mock him. He sat near the window, where the light was better, and opened the envelope.

“Dear Joel,” he read

“The winter has been long and hard but things are finally thawing out here. By the time this letter reaches you, and your reply returns here, it should be dry enough for me to get the wagon into Regina to meet the train. Maria and I are greatly looking forward to meeting young Eleanor, and we will have a lovely surprise for her when she arrives. I will tell you now, dear brother, because I cannot hold the news back any longer: Maria is expecting and our family will increase by one at the end of the summer. We are certain Eleanor will be a great help with the baby.

“Please do not misunderstand me, Joel. We do not expect her to be a nursemaid to the child, or a mere helpmeet for Maria. We sent for her out of our express desire for a child to care for, and we mean to stand by that decision despite our prayers being answered in the traditional way.

“Write back straight away with the details of her travel arrangements. Your supremely happy and prospering younger brother,

Thomas.”

Joel dropped the letter onto the floor. It was selfish of him to want Ellie to stay in Meadowlea, and yet now that he had word from Tommy, he did not want to let her go. It would be simple enough to tell her that Thomas and Maria, blessed with a child of their own on the way, no longer wanted her, but that would be a lie. At the same time, he could not simply pack her up and send her out west without offering her a choice in the matter. With a deep sigh, he picked up the letter and went into the kitchen.

***********************************************

“I want you to read the letter Tommy sent me,” he told her.

She took it from him and quickly read the words. “A baby? And they still want me?” She had heard of many an orphan who was sent back, or turned into little more than a hired hand when a childless couple was suddenly blessed. A home, a little brother or sister, the wide expanse of the prairie … six months ago, it would have been her life’s dream. Now it was the last thing she wanted, but how could she tell Joel?

Joel nodded. “They do. But I think you deserve more than being sent off like a parcel. I — I would like you to stay here with me, but the choice is entirely yours. Think about it carefully and in the morning …”

“I want to stay!” Ellie leaped out of her chair and into Joel’s arms. “I want to stay with you, Joel. I know I promised to be Thomas and Maria’s child, but … you need me more than they do. And … and I love you, Joel. I never had anyone care for me before and I’ve never cared for anyone either, but …”

Joel hugged her tight. “I understand,” he said. “You don’t need to say any more. I’ll write to Tommy in the morning, and the orphanage, too. I’ll have the adoption papers drawn up and you’ll be my …” His voice cracked with emotion. “You’ll be my daughter as soon as legally possible.”

“Oh, Joel, I’m happier than I ever thought possible! And just a few minutes ago I was in the depths of despair,” she said.

“So was I,” Joel admitted. “I — I thought I was going to lose you, too.” Ellie was shocked to see tears in his eyes. “When I lost my wife, I had Sarah. And when I lost Sarah, I had Tommy. But if I lost you …”

“I will never leave you, not even if the law says I belong to Tommy and Maria. I won’t go and nobody can make me.”

Joel smiled. “I wouldn’t let them take you,” he said firmly. “Now, let’s have supper. And afterwards, I’ll write a letter to Tommy.”

That night, Joel gave the letter to Ellie to read before she went to bed. Her hands trembled as she held the paper, and her vision blurred with tears as she read his words. He spoke about the brightness Ellie has brought back into his life, the hope that had returned to his heart after so many years of darkness. Joel was a man of few words, but he was positively eloquent on paper. She loved him so much, and he loved her as well. He said so, right at the end of the letter.

“I love her, Tommy. So much it frightens me. She is so unlike Sarah and yet she is as much my daughter as Sarah was. I truly believe she was meant to find me, and I her. I know this may cause a strain between us, dear brother, but I will not let her go.”

Ellie carefully folded the paper and tucked it back into the envelope, which was already addressed to Mr. Thomas Miller. Then she removed it and added a postscript, writing carefully with her pencil, which needed sharpening.

“I was delighted to be chosen as your daughter, Mr and Mrs Miller, but I am even more delighted to become Joel’s. I hope you understand that I prefer you to be my Uncle Thomas and Aunt Maria rather than father and mother. And to love your child as my cousin rather than a sibling. Most sincerely yours, Eleanor Williams Miller.”

She left the letter on the table and went upstairs to bed.

*******************************************************

Spring rushed past and summer blossomed, the island seeming to put all its energy into vibrant life. Ellie finished the school year and was commended as the most improved student in her year. She still had some catching up to do, if she wanted to take the high school entrance exams, but that was a worry for another time.

She stopped by the post office on her way home. Home! The word still thrilled her, now that it was absolutely, entirely, legally true. Joel had filed the necessary papers the day after he sent off the letter to Thomas. He had not let her read the reply he received from his brother, but he had assured her there were no hard feelings and, on the contrary, Thomas and Maria were quite happy for them.

Now she found another letter with a Regina postmark, but this one was addressed to her: Miss Eleanor Williams Miller. She hurried out of town, and found a comfortable seat in the woods alongside the road. It was a fallen log she often stopped at, affording a lovely view of a dell of wildflowers framed by the graceful branches of a pair of alder trees.

“Dearest Ellie,

“We have not met, but I feel we know each other in our hearts. We both have a great deal of love for the Miller brothers, I as Thomas’ wife and you as Joel’s daughter. As I prepare to welcome my own child into the world, my thoughts have turned to you. I was crushed by your decision to remain with Joel when Thomas first informed me, but now, as I become more and more a mother each day, I know you made the right choice. Thomas has told me much about his brother, the pain of losing his young wife, and the even greater trauma of losing his darling daughter. Thomas and I wanted you, but Joel needs you more than we ever could. And knowing that my brother-in-law is happy warms my heart more than having you as a daughter. Love is a tricky thing; we often find it where we least expect it, and it can lead us to places we never imagined. Like the wild prairies of Saskatchewan!

“I hope you and Joel are able to come west for a visit some day, to meet your cousin and see the farm that Thomas is working so hard to bring to life. Come in the spring, when the flowers are in bloom and the calves are frisking about and the birds sing constantly.

“Your loving aunt,

Maria Miller

“P.S. Don’t tell Joel, but the reason Thomas and I chose you was for your name. Sarah was named for her mother, who was named for her mother in turn. Sarah (the elder) promised Joel that their next daughter, if they were so blessed, would be named for his mother (and Thomas’): Eleanor. That promise was never fulfilled, but when Thomas saw your name on the list of orphans, he saw the opportunity to honor his mother. Joel is unlikely to speak of this, being too reticent to bring up the past, but I wanted you to know that it pleases Thomas no end to know that there is once again an Eleanor Miller at the farm.”

Ellie lifted her eyes from the paper, finding them surprisingly dry. She felt she ought to be tearful at such a beautiful confession but instead her heart felt light and filled with an immense sense of purpose. She was meant to live at the Miller farm, meant to bring the name Eleanor back home. Sarah had promised Joel his second daughter would be named for his mother, and she was fulfilling that promise.

The sea rolled against the shore, as it always did, and the birds flitted overhead, busy feeding their chicks who would go on to raise their own, over and over again as the years rolled by. And Eleanor Miller walked to her home, as her namesake once did, long ago.

#pedro pascal #joel miller #joel and ellie #ellie williams #anne of green gables #the last of us #the last of us hbo #fan fiction #fanfic #year of fandom crossovers #year of creation!

47 notes · View notes

littlemisspascal · 3 months

Note

Hi Rae!

📚 & 🎨 for the writer ask game please.

El 💜

Hi El! Thank you so much for the ask 💖💎✨ Hope you're having a great day!

📚 Is there a fanfic or fanfic writer you recommend? - I'm just gonna promote everyone I've included so far in The Pedro Library. This fandom's full of incredibly talented people, I could never just recommend one writer!

🎨 If someone were to make fanart of your work, what fic or scene would you hope to see? - Oh gosh I love fanart 🧡 I think I'd pass out if someone made fanart of the ending of my Melshi fic Before. When. After. because it takes place in this Andor scene that is so friggin gorgeous with the colors of the sky and the clothing and the waves and just 😍

#i love getting messages #ask game

2 notes · View notes

chronic-ghost · 1 year

Note

Hello 👋🏻

Hi ! I hope I'm not bothering you. Just wanted to pop into your ask box and tell you that I really enjoy reading your fics! I've been a fan of pedro pascal for some time now and I really really love reading your take!! Esp on Javi in liar liar! It was really funny and you made me laugh so much! Thank you so much for writing and sharing !! I really hope you write more soon! I can't wait to read 🖤

I saw you shared an ask game?? I had some questions? if you don't mind answering that is because I know its been some time since you posted it? Feel free to ignore it if you want.

15 16 29 34 39 41 and finally 69 for Liar Liar

Sorry if they're a lot you dont have to answer all of them! I just couldn't resist.

I love your work ! Hope you have a great day! 🖤

okay so i had to take a minute to read this and reread it and reread it again. You are absolutely NOT bothering me -- I read this after a particularly humbling day at work, and wow, I thought about it the rest of the day. Thank you SO MUCH for reading my work! I am so touched that you are a seasoned pp reader and you find my take unique! It's hard out here for a fic writer so messages like this truly make all the frustration and head-banging that comes with writing really worth it. 💗 you are so sweet and i hope there are good things for you to look forward to!

As for the ask game, I am more than happy to play! :) And if you'd like, you don't have to wait for those games to come around if you have a question about a fic or would like an update! My ask box is always open! Here's your questions:

15. What’s your favorite time to write?

Probably the mornings. I like the mornings the best in general and there's nothing better than starting the day with a good writing flow!

16. Do you write by hand, on your phone, or on your laptop?

oh man, laptop every single time. I write notes or ideas to myself on my phone when I'm in bed and the brain waves are pulsing, but I could never write long form on anything but my computer. I know writers who write everything down first AND THEN type them -- to me that is like god tier writing process. I am a weak, weak woman.

29. What’s something about your writing that you’re proud of?

When I make people laugh. Call it my "fawning" instincts, but I always try and make people laugh in different social situations -- to varying degrees of success. So when people laugh at my dumb jokes in fic, I'm really pleased with myself!

34. How much of your personal life/experience do you include in your fics?

😬 oof y'all are gonna be able to spot my kinks after this. But honestly, it depends on which fandom/situation I'm writing for. I wrote a Midnight Mass fic that was very, very personal to my experiences growing up in Texas around Catholics. On the other hand, I don't have the guts to be, uh, so public as the reader in 'blood makes noise'. I think most of my reader characters are a mix of myself and who I want to be.

39. What’s your most self-indulgent wip?

(oh, honey, they all are) i think it's a tie between (working title) Living Dead Girl, where reader becomes Max's blood donor and (working title) Riders of the Purple Sapir, where Din and reader go on a quest for vengeance against the men who killed her father. The cowboy goth in me is REAL excited about both of those.

41. Who’s your favorite character you’ve written?

Max is quickly becoming the little bug in my ear about most things. He has such a distinctive personality from other Pedro boys, I love it so much. All his little faces kill me.

But I've said this to a friend -- i think half the fun writing for the pedro boys is coming up with a reader character that perfectly meshes with them. What personality traits would drive them up the goddamn walls? What do they need to feel fulfilled in a partner? So if "reader" can count as a character, I really liked the reader in Go Ahead, I Dare Ya and Recovery Road. Just as insane as their counterparts.

69. What are your favorite fics at the moment?

YES YES YES i get to GUSH about the fics that have me gnawing at my cage bars:

Psychomanteum by @whatsnewalycat is literally everything I want in a fic. perfect extensions of the characters from the source media. new problems for them that make you see more facets of their personalities. so.must.fantastic.smut it makes me want to scream. the angst and the grief and the literal haunting of a dead spouse - or a spouse that you lost but maybe didn't ever actually have adsfaksldjf GHOSTS I LOVE GHOSTS. i cannot recommend this fic enough. i am on my hands and knees begging people to read it.

This one isn't pedro specific, but @astroboots's Every Me Every You is like my kryptonite. Every new chapter hits me in a place that I didn't know could hurt while being such a fun throw back to the good ol' days of the MCU. i feel like it's written specifically for those of us who were on tumblr during the 2012 avengers take over. Good times.

For just the sweetest, gentlest Dieter Bravo, please consider @stardustandskycrystals 's Curls. I stumbled across it one night before bed and I was up until like 2AM to finish it. It's adorable and I just need them all to be okay forever and happy and little Charlie is basically my child at this point. Oof!

*takes you by the shoulders* if you even remotely like Prospect or the sci fi genre, I am BEGGING YOU to read Compulsion by @iamskyereads. Like. Like. I cannot formulate words to express how fantastic this piece of fiction is. I want to leave detailed, thoughtful comments but my mind just goes blank after reading it. Her work is truly a staggering piece of world-building and character development. I cannot believe this art is just free for me to consume. i am . . . undone by how good it is. (you should also read her Lie To Me series, insanely good too)

I KNOW i'm missing some so if I forgot yours I am SO SORRY FOR BEING AN IDIOT.

This response ended up being way longer than intended but I hope this show how much messages like these matter to me. Thank you again for reading and I hope my future fics don't disappoint you!

#taylor talks #more like taylor cries #this was so much fun and i am so glad i got to gush about my current faves #dieter bravo #max phillips #ezra prospect #javier peña #miguel o'hara fanfic

9 notes · View notes

its-queenofthesilence · 26 days

Text

The Line Between Life and Death | Hercules/Encanto Crossover | Part 1 of ?

Chapters: 1/? Fandom: Encanto (2021), Hercules (1997) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: Miscarriage? Relationships: Hades/Persephone, "Abuela" Alma Madrigal/Pedro Madrigal, Agustín Madrigal/Julieta Madrigal, Hera/Zeus

Summary: Hades and Persephone have spent centuries on centuries waiting for the day when they could finally have a child of their own. And after thousands of years watching all his unborn children die before they can even be born, he will do anything to make sure his little girl survives. Thankfully for him, there is a father in Columbia who is just as desperate as he is to save his children. And who might just be willing to trade for the very thing that would let Hades save his daughter….

He’s been pacing the palace for hours, deep in thought. He wants to be in there with her, by her side but Demeter and Hera were insistent that his temper was too violate to be around his wife in this trying time. But how can he not be with what is at stake? Thousands upon thousands of years, waiting for this day and everything was resting on it. From beyond the grand doors that made their bed chamber, he can hear her, panting and screaming, and the soft murmurs of his sister-in-law and mother-in-law trying to calm her. He runs a hand through the blue fire that made up his hair, as he tried and failed to calm his nerves. It was fine, it would work this time. It had to.

He doesn’t want to think of the hundreds of others that hadn’t even gotten this far, the sobs of his wife every time they lost another one. It had to work. His musing are interrupted by a giant screech, and he turns, eyes wide as he hears it. It’s faint, and soft but he can hear her, their child. Wailing. But he can also hear his wife crying and he knows it’s not a good cry. Hera be damned, this was his Underworld!

He burst through the doors, heedless of Demeter and Hera's warnings. The sight that greeted him tore at his heart - his wife, his beloved Persephone, lay exhausted on the bed, cradling a small, almost still form in her arms. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she gazed upon the child they had waited millennia for.

"My love," he said softly, crossing the room in short great strides to kneel at her side, and to gaze upon their child for the first time. "What has happened?"

Persephone looked up at him, her eyes red-rimmed. "Oh, Hades," she breathed. "Our child... our precious child..." Her voice broke as a fresh wave of sobs wracked her body. “Her soul is fading.” He looks, in his arms, at his child and can see the child, a girl, the way her form is dissipating.

He stares down at their child, and then stands up, snarling as his hair explodes in a giant fiery explosion. Hera and Demeter are unimpressed and unsurprised. “We told you time and time again, Hades. A child of your combined ilk is not possible. This is the underworld, a place of souls and you are a God of Death. Persephone is a Goddess of Life, and spring. You are opposites. This was bound to happen.”

“No! No! There has to be something we can do….we can’t lose another one.”

Hera tilted her head, sighing. She had no love for Hades, especially after what he did to her son, casting him down to earth, ripping his immortality away and then damning his wife to his pit of souls. But, she felt for Persephone, and she would admit he had mostly behaved since the whole “Let’s try and murder my son and take over Olympus” situation. Mostly.

“We cannot prevent further decay of her soul so long as she is alive, but we can put her in stasis until you figure out a solution. She would be frozen in time, you understand this, yes?”

Hades' eyes narrowed as he considered Hera's words. "Stasis," he murmured, his mind racing. "That may buy us time, but it is not a true solution." He looked down at the flickering form of his daughter, his heart aching. "There must be a way to permanently sustain her - maybe if I…no that wouldn’t work.” The man began to pace again, thinking.

Demeter sighed, looking down at her granddaughter. She hated Hades for convincing her daughter to marry him and taking her away from Demeter (The other Gods might call her a helicopter parent behind her back) but she wouldn’t let her Grandchild suffer for the sins of her father. “What about the Fates? They may be able to shed some light.” she said, flicking her eyes away. Hades groaned. “Okay doll, love the idea but heh, unfortunately, I don’t play well with the Fates.” he said, pacing back and forth.

“Because of what happened last time?” said Hera, glaring at him. The God of Death huffed. “Hades, my love. It may be the only way! I know you’ve had mixed experiences with them….not entirely unwarranted mind you, but you must at least ask!” said Persephone, looking at her child with sorrow in her heart. Oh he hated when she looked like that, it drove him mad. He would do anything for her.

“Okay babe…I’ll ask. For you…and for her.”

He hates being here, but it’s a necessary evil. He sees the three of them, pulling another string to cut. He can do this, anything for his wife and especially for his baby girl. He fixes his robes and straightens his shoulders. Hades saunters up to the Fates, his blue flames flickering as he tries his best to appear casual and unfazed. "Ladies, you know I hate to intrude and I know by now, you know all this but before you start with the interrupting stuff, just let me talk okay? I'm in a bit of a pickle here. My little girl - my precious Persephone junior, name pending - well, her soul is starting to fade. And as you know, because I know that you know: I was hoping you might be able to help a guy out." He flashed them his most winning smile, the one that had charmed countless mortals over the millennia, and them once or twice as well.

The Fates eyed him warily, their bony fingers never ceasing their work on the great tapestry of fate. "Ahh, yes, the child of the Underworld and Spring," mused Clotho, the spinner. "Such a delicate balance of life and death. We knew this day would come."

Hades leaned in closer, his eyes narrowed as he fixed the Fates with an intense stare. "Alright, you old biddies, let's cut to the chase. What do I need to do to save my little girl?" His voice dripped with a mixture of desperation and the trademark bravado that was so quintessentially Hades.

“And why should we help you?”

Hades threw back his head and let out a laugh, his blue flames flickering wildly. "Why should you help me?" he chuckled, a devilish grin spreading across his face. "Oh, my dear Fates, I thought you'd never ask!"

He moved closer, his eyes glinting with a dangerous edge. "You see, I have no intention of letting her die. Now, I know you ladies have a... shall we say, interesting history with me." His gaze narrowed as he recalled past transgressions. "But I'm a changed god, I tell you! I've turned over a new leaf. Well, mostly."

Hades leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice to a smooth, velvety tone. "And you know what they say - blood is thicker than water, my dear Fates. I may not have the best track record with you ladies, but family is family, and we’re family. And this little girl" - he paused, thinking back to the flickering form of his daughter - "well, she's the future of our family legacy. The next generation of the House of Hades. You can't let that legacy die, can you?"

He flashed them a roguish grin, his blue flames dancing mischievously. "So whaddya say, ladies? You scratch my back, I scratch yours. I know you've got a soft spot for keeping the family line going. What do I have to do to save my little girl? Please."

“…A mortal body.” said Lachesis, she disliked Hades but she had to respect him for being humble enough to beg for his daughter's life. She can see him blinking, confused. “You need a mortal body. Your daughter is just a soul, she has no flesh and blood body of her own. In order for her live, she will need to survive, in a mortal body for at least a decade or two, before she can survive in the underworld. And I don’t mean find a dead body and shove her in and then drag her down here, she needs to LIVE on the mortal plane for at least a decade.”

Hades let out a low whistle, running his hand through his ethereal blue flames. "A mortal body, eh? Well now, that's a tall order, even for a god like myself." He paced back and forth, his mind racing. "You realize how tricky that's gonna be, right? Keeping a mortal body alive and kicking for a decade or more? That's a lot of work, ladies."

He paused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "But for my little girl..." His eyes softened as he thought of his daughter and wife, both so fragile and vulnerable in different ways. "I'd move the very heavens and earth to save her." Hades fixed the Fates with an intense stare, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "Alright, you ancient crones, you've got my attention. Tell me what I need to do."

The Fates exchanged a knowing glance, their gnarled fingers still working tirelessly at the great tapestry of fate. "The child must live among mortals for at least a decade, without your interference, Hades," Clotho intoned, her voice like the creak of ancient parchment. "Only then will she be strong enough to survive in your realm. And, while she may be taken to your realm after the decade mark, to survive she must naturally ease out of the mortal body. No prematurely pulling her out.”

Hades narrowed his eyes, his blue flames flickering with barely contained impatience. "A decade, huh? No meddling, no popping in to check on her? And even longer in a mortal body. Sounds like a real long haul." He let out a frustrated sigh, drumming his fingers against his thigh. "Alright, alright, I get it. The delicate balance of life and death and all that jazz. But you're talking to the Lord of the Underworld here, ladies. I think I can manage that.”

“Good. There will soon be a man in the lands of South America, Columbia to be specific. He is slated to die soon at the hands of raiders, his thread is nearing the end. He will do anything, and I mean anything to ensure his wife and newborn children are safe from harm. We cannot tell you more than that, but he will be the key to having what you wish. But it will take time. Oh, and you need an empty body, one that had a soul at any point in it won’t do.”

Hades listened intently, his mind already whirring with plans and strategies. A mortal body, Colombia, a man desperate to protect his family - this could work. He just had to play his cards right. "An empty body, you say?" Hades mused, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Well now, that's a tall order. Those don't exactly grow on trees, you know." He fixed the Fates with a pointed stare. "But I suppose you wouldn't be telling me this if you didn't have something specific in mind."

Clotho nodded, the barest hint of a smile playing at the corners of her ancient lips. "Indeed, now go. The hour is upon you. You will know where to go, the blood and carnage that you feel when senseless slaughter occurs will guide you.”

Hades nodded slowly, his mind already whirring with possibilities. "Blood and carnage, you say?" He flashed the Fates a sardonic grin. "Well, you ladies certainly know the way to a god's heart."

He turned on his heel, his long strides carrying him swiftly towards the exit. As he reached the threshold, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder. "You know, I have to admit - I'm impressed. Looks like you old hags still have a few tricks up your sleeves." His eyes glinted with mischief. "I'll be sure to send you a postcard from Colombia. Maybe a nice little souvenir, hmm?"

Without waiting for a response, Hades strode out of the chamber, his blue flames trailing in his wake. He had no time to waste.

Pedro was frozen. No, time was frozen. The birds in the sky had stopped, midflight, the fire of his old home in the distance was still. It was confusing, one minute he’s being stabbed and the next he is watching the frozen face of his wife and newborn children and of his neighbors all around him, each one frozen in time. What was happening?

"I froze time. It's not exactly within my domain as the god of death, but all gods have some control over time, even if it's just for a few minutes.”Pedro whipped his head around. Standing behind him, looming over him was a man nearly eight feet tall, with ash colored skin and blue hair made of flames. He wore a toga made from a black cloth and mist seemed to come off his form, trailing around the bottom of his outfit. “Pedro Madrigal, right? Charon sent along your file, very impressive.” Hades said, making a clipboard with a stack of papers appear, quickly looking it over, flipping through the pages.

“Let’s see: Born to loving parents, you had three siblings, all older, you were a carpenter in life and married Alma Sánchez, now Madrigal, had three young children, triplets, and have now died to raiders, in an attempt to save said wife and kids. Says here you tried to reason with them, appeal to their humanity, yeesh.”

Pedro stared up at the imposing figure, his eyes wide with a mix of fear and confusion. "Who...who are you? What's happening?" he stammered, his voice shaking.

Hades let out a booming laugh, the blue flames of his hair flickering wildly. "Who am I? Why, I'm hurt you don't recognize me, Pedro. I'm Hades, Lord of the Underworld." He leaned in closer, his piercing gaze boring into the mortal man. "And as for what's happening - well, let's just say I’m about to make your day!”

“I…you are not Jesus…”

Hades laughed, genuinely. “Jesus? Oh no, he’s not real…well he was. One of Zeus’s half-breed children, a Demi-God. Tried to start a religion and demolish the worship of the Greek and Roman Pantheons. It worked, buut, he was destroyed as a result. Unfortunately his religion stuck around.” Muttered the God, rolling his eyes at the cross he noticed around Pedro’s neck.

Hades waved a dismissive hand. "But never mind all that. We have more important matters to discuss, Pedro Madrigal." He fixed the mortal man with an intense stare, his blue flames flickering ominously.

“You want to save your kids, right? Those three, adorable little newborn triplets, and that wife of yours, right?”

Pedro stared up at the imposing figure of Hades, his heart pounding in his chest. "My family...yes, of course I want to save them! But how can you help?" He glanced around at the frozen scene, the raiders poised to strike. Hades let out another laugh, practically having to hide how excited he was. "How can I help, he asks!" The god leaned in closer, his piercing gaze boring into Pedro. "I'm the Lord of the Underworld, my dear mortal. Saving lives is kind of my thing - well, usually it's taking them, but desperate times and all that."

“How, how could you help them?” he asked, desperate.

“By giving you a miracle! Again, usually not my field, Pedro my boy, but I am still a god. I will create a safe haven for your family, a house made of pure magic to protect them. The valley we are in will become encased by the mountains. They will be safe from the raiders.”

“But, what if more come? What if other people try to harm them?”

“Tell you what, what I want out of you will be a pretty big deal, so I’ll add a caveat. Gifts. Magical gifts that is, for all of your descendants once they reach a certain age. Powers to protect their home from anyone else who would do them harm.” Pedro stared at Hades, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and desperate hope. "Magical gifts? Powers to protect my family?" He shook his head, trying to wrap his mind around the god's offer. "But what is it that you want from me in return?"

Hades smirked, he could tell the man was desperate, just like the Fates said. "Ah, straight to the point - I like that, my friend!" He leaned in closer, his piercing gaze boring into the mortal man. "What I want from you is simple: a body. Well, more specifically, a female body, preferably newborn.”

Pedro's eyes widened in horror at Hades' request. "A body? A newborn?" He shook his head vehemently. "No, I can't - I won't give you my daughters! That's... that's monstrous!"

Hades raised a hand, his piercing gaze silencing Pedro's protests. "Now, now, don't get your toga in a twist. This is for a good cause, I assure you." He flashed Pedro a roguish grin. "You see, I have a little girl of my own, just like those two little girls of yours, and she's in a bit of a predicament. Her soul is fading, and I need a mortal body for her to inhabit in order to save her."

“But-”

“Look, I am not asking for one of your daughters. I need a body without a soul…like a stillborn child.” Hades grinned, why didn’t he realize sooner? “Yes, one of your descendants, the first stillborn female born to your family I don’t care who, it just needs to be female, don’t want to give my little girl an identity crisis.”

Pedro stared at Hades, his heart pounding in his chest. The idea of sacrificing a newborn, even a stillborn, to save this god's child filled him with a mixture of horror and desperation. But if it meant protecting his own family..."A stillborn child," he murmured, his voice trembling. "You...you promise you'll protect my wife and babies? Keep them safe from harm?"

Hades nodded solemnly, his blue flames flickering. "You have my word, Pedro Madrigal. I will create an impenetrable sanctuary for your family, and bestow upon your descendants the power to defend their home for generations to come." He fixed Pedro with an intense stare. "All I ask in return is that first stillborn female child. A small price to pay for the safety of your loved ones, don't you think?"

“What’s from stopping you from going back on your word?” he asked, hesitantly. “Smart man. One second.” With a flourish of his hand a contract appeared from nothingness, with a floating golden quill. “Feel free to read it over, pretty straight forward.”

Pedro scanned the contract with trembling hands, his eyes darting back and forth across the ornate parchment. The terms seemed clear enough - Hades would create an impenetrable sanctuary for his family, and bestow protective gifts upon his descendants, in exchange for the first stillborn female child born to his lineage.

As horrific as the idea was, Pedro couldn't deny the desperation welling up inside him. The raiders were poised to strike, his wife and newborn babies in mortal danger. If this bargain with the Lord of the Underworld was the only way to save them...He looked up at Hades, his eyes filled with a mixture of fear and resolve. "Alright, I'll do it. Protect my family, and you can have the first stillborn…granddaughter I guess? Most likely, in my family.”

“Perfect. Sign here, here and initial there. And tell you what, since you did me such a favor, I won’t drag your soul to the Underworld with the rest of the pathetic souls. You can stay here and play house or whatever you mortals do.” Pedro's hand trembled as he signed the contract, his heart pounding in his chest. It was a stillborn child, it would be dead anyways, what was the harm?

As he placed the final flourish on the contract, a brilliant light flashed, and suddenly the frozen scene around them shifted. The once barren valley was now transformed, the mountains rising up to encircle the valley in an impenetrable wall of stone. Pedro's eyes widened as he at the raiders, vaporized into dust and a large house, a casa, beginning to form from nothingness. His wedding candle came alight; It was a miracle, like the God said.

Hades let out a low chuckle, smirking at the sight before him. "There, you see? I am a god of my word, Pedro Madrigal." He gestured grandly at the protected valley. “Now, I will be back at a later date to claim my price, have fun!” Pedro watched him go, as time resumed. He turned towards his wife, and children. He did it for them, what harm would it do?

Hades is pacing again, as he listens to his wife fritter on about this and that. It had been so long! Just waiting to get the body had been tedious, let alone waiting for her to grow. All of the man’s granddaughters had been healthy, save the last one which was finally a stillborn, female baby. That had taken thirty-five years, and then it had been another fifteen. He wanted to take her as soon as she was ten, she belonged here, with her real parents, but Persephone had wanted to wait until she was just a bit older, preferably waiting until she died of old age, but he didn’t want to wait that long. He wanted his baby now, while she was preferably still a baby. Well, she was technically fifteen but still!

“Do we have to?” Persephone asked. “I don’t want her to hate us.” she said, worried, pressing into her husband’s side. “Babe, it’s gonna be okay, she’s gonna come home, she’s gonna finally be with us. Besides, they’re a terrible family anyway, we’re doing her a favor.”

“They aren’t that bad Hades, maybe they forget about her sometimes but her parents, her mortal parents absolutely adore her.” she said, flickering hers towards the scrying orbs. “She loves them, it will hurt her to be ripped away from them.” Hades sighed, “Doll, baby she belongs at home. Her soul is finally strong enough. I want our little girl.”

“Oh I know dear…just, try not to overwhelm her, be gentle with her.” said Persephone, leaning into her husbands chest. “I won’t doll, it will be great. Now, I would love to stay and chat but I got us a daughter to collect.” Persephone could only sigh. She would go with him, but she was needed in Olympus for an meeting. She just hoped he wouldn’t be too…too Hades.

“La Familia Madrigal!”

She watches the flash of the bulb go off, and can feel her stomach twisting. It was better that she wasn’t in the photo, she would just ruin it. Like she did everything else. It’s times like this she is bitter she never got a gift. Mirabel sighed, turning away from her family, trying not to hide the tears and self-hatred on her face. It was fine, everything was fine.

She was not fine.

Maybe she should go to bed early, she was feeling tired all of a sudden. Sighing, she started to make her way out of Antonio’s room only to be stopped when a giant earthquake rocked the room, sending people flying and the animals of Antonio’s new room scattering towards to God knew where. People screamed from the impact. Immediately, her family was on the defense, trying to calm everyone. Mirabel watched in shock as the earthquake shook the Casita, her family scrambling to regain their footing. Abuela's voice rose above the din, commanding order and telling them everything was fine. That order was quickly retracted as a second earthquake rippled through the room. People began running, as the earth shook, people grabbing children and loved ones as they ran.

People were pushing and shoving each other as they scrambled for safety. Mirabel found herself lost in the crowd of people, not able to rejoin her family in the chaos of it all. "Quickly, everyone outside! We must get to safety!" Shouted Abuela, trying to lead the flow of people.

Mirabel followed her family and the wave of people as they spilled out of the Casita, out of Antonio’s room and out of the house itself, fear etched on their faces. Every few seconds a tremor would go off, causing more screams and panic. The tremors were growing more violent, shaking the very foundations of their home. Suddenly, just as everyone had exited the house, a deafening crack rent the air and Mirabel's eyes widened in horror as a massive fissure began to open up roughly five hundred meters from the house.

“Mother, what is happening?” called Tia Pepa towards her mother. Alma could only shake her head confused. Everything was going right, Antonio had gotten a gift, what had happened…this must be Mirabel’s fault. Before she could turn and say anything, a bright blue light emanated out of the fissure and a figure of ethereal being, eight feet tall with blue hair made of flames, clothing black as night and smoke trailing off his form, stepped out of the hole with a large, very large as in gigantic, three-headed dog by his side.

“Well, what do we have here? Someone having a party?” Hades said, stepping out. He swept his eyes across the crowd, a little under a thousand mortals, he surmises. “Ooh, wait are those birthday banners I see? Looks like maybe I chose the wrong day to claim my pound of flesh. Whose ever birthday this is will probably remember it for years.” And probably be traumatized, as he was about to take away one of their family members away, forever.

"Who are you?" Alma demanded, her voice trembling slightly. "What is the meaning of this?"

Hades let out a booming laugh, the blue flames of his hair flickering wildly. "Why, my dear woman, I am Hades - Lord of the Underworld!" He swept his piercing gaze across the crowd, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "As for the meaning of this little display..." His eyes glance around the crowd, he can’t see her, but he can feel her. His daughter. Somewhere in the crowd. “I am here to get what your husband promised me.” he said with a vicious smile.

Alma's eyes widened in horror as Hades' words registered. "Promised you? What are you talking about?" She stepped forward, her back straight and her chin held high, despite the trembling of her hands. "I know nothing of any promise made to you. Leave this place at once!" Hades laughed. “Figures, hmmm. One moment.” With a flick of his wrist, the suddenly visible ghost of Pedro Madrigal appeared, glowing slightly ethereal and eyes wide with fear. He appeared right in front of Alma, only to be suddenly tugged and dragged to Hades, who wrapped an arm around his shoulders and patted him on the head like he was a good friend.

He can see the crowd gasping, the woman Alma becoming so pale that he thinks the Fates may cut her thread right now. He doesn’t quite like Alma, the rest of the family is fine if a bit forgetful but Alma? He knows she straight up dislikes his daughter, not considering her part of the family. Which she wasn’t, she was HIS daughter after all. But she was also a God in the making, she should have been worshipped or the very least treated like one of the family by the old lady. “Why don’t I let your husband explain?” he said, looking at Pedro. It would hurt more coming from her own husband, and he felt the need to torment her for his ill-treatment of his baby girl.

"H-Husband?" Alma stammered, her voice laced with disbelief and growing horror. "Pedro, what is the meaning of this?" She stepped forward, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. "What promise have you made to this...this creature?" She couldn’t believe it, she thought she might have a heart attack. She hadn’t seen her husband in fifty-years, and now here he was, or at least his spirit was.

Pedro's mouth felt as dry as the Sahara as he glanced around at his family, their faces etched with a mixture of fear and confusion. How could he even begin to explain the bargain he had struck with the Lord of the Underworld all those years ago? He looks to his eldest daughter, briefly before looking away. He was going to rip her heart out, into pieces.

"I...I made a deal," he stammered, his voice trembling. "To save you all - my wife, my children. From the raiders. I was already dead but you weren’t. He appeared before me, stopping time and then..." His eyes flickered over to Hades, the imposing figure of the god filling him with a mixture of dread and regret. "He offered me a chance to protect you, to give you a home, to give you magical gifts that would protect our family for generations. All I had to do was..." His voice trailed off, unable to complete the horrific bargain. “All I had to do was promise him the body of my ….first stillborn, female descendant. Which is…one of our nietas, Alma.” He can’t name her, it’s too hard.

“What are you talking about? We don’t have any stillborn daughters in our family, or any stillborn children for that matter.” said Julieta, piping up. Hades laughed. “Of course you do, you just don’t realize it. My end of the deal was I got the body of the stillborn so I could save MY daughter from dying. There is an issue with progenies when a god of death and life have a kid, you see and she can't survive on her own, she needs a mortal body. My daughters soul was placed into the body at time of birth, so her soul could get stronger, letting her live amongst you mortals until she was strong enough to come home. Which, unfortunately for you, is today. Stillborns don’t have souls to begin with, really I was going you a favor. You would have had given birth to a corpse. But instead you had the privilege of raising a goddess!" said the God.

Alma's face drained of color as the words sank in. The realization of what her husband had done hit her like a shockwave. "No..." she breathed, her hands trembling. "You couldn't have. Tell me you didn't, Pedro!" All this time, she thought the miracle was born of her husband’s love for his family, and in reality, is was born of a deal with a devil!

Pedro hung his head in shame, unable to meet his wife's anguished gaze. "I had to, Alma. I had to save you, save the children. This...this creature promised to protect us, to give us a home." He gestured weakly at the imposing figure of Hades. "I couldn't let you all die. It was just a corpse, I thought he would take it when she was born, I didn't realize he intended to raise her in our family." The man said, ashamed. He had grown to love her as his own granddaughter, and it pained him just as much as the rest of the family what was going to happen.

“Wait, Abuelo, you said it’s one of your granddaughters…which one?” asked Camilo. He asked but he knew. Surely, it had to be Isabela. And everyone else agreed, immediately, everyone in the town turned towards Isabela. She was a beauty, almost a goddess in terms of appearance.

Alma felt her heart sink as she followed their gaze, her eyes landing on her eldest granddaughter. "No, it can't be Isabela," she breathed, her voice trembling. "She's our precious flower, our gift. Not her, please, not my Isabela." Hades laughed. “The closeted lesbian who secretly hates your guts Alma? No, not even close. I’m sure everyone probably assumes that because my wife is a Goddess of Spring, but no. You are far too annoying for my tastes.”

Isabela was frozen, first from the idea she was secretly a Gods child and now from being outed over the fact she was both a lesbian and hated her own grandmother and her need for perfection. How did this...this immortal being know such intimate details about her? She had worked so hard to hide those parts of herself, to be the perfect granddaughter that Abuela had always wanted. And now, in front of her entire family, it was all laid bare.

Her eyes darted around the crowd, looking for any sign of judgment or disgust, but she was met with only confusion and concern. Except for Abuela, whose face had twisted into a mask of barely-contained fury. Isabela knew she should feel relief that her secret was out, that she no longer had to hide who she was. But all she felt was a crushing sense of dread.

“Wait, then who is it?” yelled someone from the crowd. “Also wait, Isabela is a lesbian? I guess that makes sense, she’s always hanging around the Baker’s daughter.”

Hades chuckled, the blue flames of his hair flickering wildly. "If it's not little Miss Perfect Isabela, then who could it be?" His piercing gaze swept across the crowd, a twisted grin spreading across his face. "Hmm, let me see..."

He forced the crowd to move, pushing them away with magic so the three remaining granddaughters all stood next to each other, side by side in fear and confusion. The rest of the town, and family couldn’t move, only look towards them. Mirabel felt frozen, and not just from being physically restrained. Surely….no, no. It had to be Dolores or Luisa, she was just the Giftless Madrigal!

“Maybe it’s Dolores? Dear, shy Dolores, always the second best, runner up, the shadow of her ‘perfect’ older cousin. Born a week after Isabela and always struggling to be heard. The one madly jealous of her cousin, and who has been trying to subtly prevent the engagement of Mariano Guzmán and Isabela.” Dolores felt her face go red, as from the corner of her eye, she sees Isabela suddenly summon a cactus of all things by her feet. She’s expecting anger, but she sees relief. She thinks back to what the God said, ‘closeted lesbian.’ she realizes now that Isabela doesn’t love Mariano and that gives her hope. Provided she’s n-

“No, I don’t think so. Good luck on your new relationship, though.” Dolores found herself propelled towards her family, removed from the trio who was now a duo.

Hades strokes his chin. “Or maybe, Luisa? Poor, overworked Luisa who the town treats like their personal pack mule, always tired and on the verge of a breakdown. Strong little Luisa who is worried no one will ever love her because she’s not small and dainty like Isabela.” Luisa gasped, shame filling her face. No one was supposed to know! She…she could handle any pressure, she was like Hercules!

“Mmm, nope!” Luisa suddenly found herself with the family. Wait, if it wasn’t her that could only mean…“Mirabel?!?” said Alma, in disbelief, staring at her youngest granddaughter. And the rest of the crowd seemed to be having a similar reaction. Mirabel was the runt of the litter, the giftless one. Surely, the God was toying with them all.

“No, no!” Julieta’s eyes were wide. She had already been panicking when she first learned one of her children were going to be taken away, after all, she had three of the four granddaughters in the family. It was a 3 in 4 chance of it being one of her babies. And now, somehow it was her youngest. Maybe it’s because they’re older or because Mirabel doesn’t have the same abilities as they do, but it’s the worst possible scenario in her eyes.

Mirabel felt her heart sink as Hades' gaze fixed upon her. All eyes turned to her, expressions ranging from shock to horror. She felt like she couldn't breathe, the weight of the revelation crushing her.

"No, this can't be happening," Mirabel whispered, her voice trembling. "There must be some mistake." She looked around desperately, seeking comfort from her family, but all she saw were faces filled with dismay. Hades strode towards her, kneeling before her. The arrogance and haughtiness the God displayed had melted into a tender softness, as he placed his hand on her cheek.

“Hey baby girl. Me and your Mom been waiting a long time to meet you.” He said gently. Oh it was good to finally see his little girl.

“No! You can’t take her, she’s OUR daughter!” Hades sighed, standing back up. The man, Agustin Madrigal was enraged, trying to thrash against the invisible restraints with little to no success. “Julieta and Agustin, was it? I do have to thank you for raising her for me, but I think it’s time we go home, don’t you think so?”

Julieta was struggling not to sob openly. "No, please, no!" she cried, wanting to rush towards Mirabel and take her far, far away from this…thing. "You can't take her!"

Hades raised a hand, his blue flames flickering menacingly. "I'm afraid I must, my dear. She is, after all, my daughter." He flashed Julieta a twisted grin. "The bargain was struck long ago, and I always collect on my debts." Alma stepped forward, her eyes blazing with fury. "You will not take my granddaughter!" she spat, her voice trembling with rage. "That deal was made without our knowledge or consent. It is not binding!"

Hades let out another booming laugh, the sound reverberating through the valley. "Oh, dear Alma, this agreement is indeed binding. Your husband SIGNED it, after all. And as the God of the Underworld, I assure you it is enforceable. Let's be honest, you don't truly care for Mirabel; I've witnessed your interactions with her. So tell me, Alma, if I were to take away your gifts, which one would you miss the most? We both know it would be the gifts."

Alma's eyes widened in horror at Hades' words. He was right - she didn't treat Mirabel the same as her other grandchildren. But how dare he use that against her! "I may not have been the grandmother Mirabel deserved," she admitted, her voice trembling with barely-contained rage. "But she is still my family. And I will not let you take her from us!" The crowd could do little, their bodies frozen.

"Look, this has been great but we do need to go." Hades said, looking at his nails. Before anyone else could protest, he whistled for Cerberus, and the dog came bounding over. With one arm around his daughter's waist, he lifted her up onto the dog's back and waved goodbye, mockingly to the rest of the family. The hound then leaped into the hole and started to dig its way towards the underworld, as the hole began to close.

Mirabel struggled, trying to claw her way off the giant dog and out of the hole but Hades pushed her down, keeping her on the dog. “I wouldn’t do that, Cerberus can go pretty fast, in fact you should hold on. Otherwise, you will just fall for miles and prematurely destroy your mortal body.” said Hades. She tried to struggle but the speed of the dog soon became too fast, and she found herself gripping on to the dog for dear life. Hades seemed unfazed, standing rather than sitting on the dog.

As Mirabel clung to the massive three-headed dog, the descent into the Underworld, she couldn't help but feel an overwhelming sense of fear and confusion. This had to be a bad dream, she couldn’t be the daughter of a God. And even if she was, she didn’t know this man! She wanted her parents, her real parents! The people who raised her!

The descent into the Underworld was dizzying and disorienting. She dared not look down at the endless chasm they were plunging into, afraid she might puke. Hades stood calmly beside her, seemingly unaffected by the breakneck pace of their descent. His piercing gaze was fixed towards her, a strange mixture of excitement and something akin to tenderness in his expression.

The deeper they got, the hotter the air seemed to get. She could almost feel steam coming off of her. It didn’t burn, but it was a bit uncomfortable. Just when she was wondering how far they were going to go, they suddenly burst through a ceiling, as Cerberus fell, easily a mile or two from the rocky, cavern sky of the Underworld and then landed with a thud onto the ground below, with not so much as an injury.

"My...my family," Mirabel whispered, staring back through the rapidly closing chasm above them. She could no longer see them, they were far too deep into the earth, but she still had to look back regardless. Hades placed a gentle hand on her shoulder, his piercing gaze filled with an odd mixture of empathy and determination. "I know this is all very overwhelming, baby girl," he said softly, his voice surprisingly soothing. "But this is where you belong - with your real family. With me and your mother."

“I am not your baby girl!” She shouted, removing his hand from her shoulder. She can’t help it, she glances at her surroundings, trying to find an exit, or something.

They had emerged in a vast, cavernous realm that seemed to stretch on endlessly. The air was thick with an eerie, coppery scent and an overwhelming sense of foreboding. Towering obsidian cliffs rose up on all sides, their jagged peaks piercing the gloom like the fangs of some ancient, slumbering beast.

A river of molten gold flowed sluggishly in the distance, its surface roiling and bubbling ominously. Mirabel shuddered as she caught glimpses of shadowy figures moving within its depths, their mournful cries echoing through the cavernous walls. In the distance, she could see what looked to be a glowing city of light, a beacon in this dark place None of that mattered, what did matter was the giant palace she stood in front of.

Mirabel's gaze was drawn to the massive palace that loomed before them, an contrasting entity in the midst of this bleak and foreboding realm. It was large, and made of the same dark rock as the rest of the landscape but vines and twisting roots snaked up the obsidian walls, with massive trees, their branches heavy with lush foliage, erupting from the very foundations of the palace, their leaves rustling softly in an unfelt breeze. Blooming flowers of every imaginable hue adorned every surface, their petals glistening with ethereal dew. Mirabel caught the scent of jasmine, lavender, and a dozen other floral fragrances that she couldn't even begin to identify. It was an oasis in the middle of the underworld.

It reminded her of Isabela’s room, tenfold. “I can see your expression, I know it’s a lot. But it makes your mom happy so I put up with it. Regardless, welcome home, Princess.”

Mirabel stared up at the magnificent palace, her mind reeling from the sheer scale and splendor of it all. This was her home now? It seemed impossible, a surreal dream that she couldn't possibly be living. "Home?" she whispered, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. "This is not my home." She tore her gaze away from the palace, fixing Hades with a defiant glare. "My home is with the Madrigals. That's where I belong. And I am not a princess, or your daughter."

Hades let out a heavy sigh, the weight of centuries etched upon his weathered features. "I know this must be difficult for you to understand, Mirabel." He knelt down in front of her again, bringing himself to eye level with his daughter. Gone was the imposing, intimidating figure - in its place was a father burdened by the gravity of his actions and his love for his child. “But me and your mother love you so much.”

He reached out a hand, his fingers gently brushing away the tears that trickled down Mirabel's cheeks. "I know this is not the homecoming you imagined. Believe me, it's not how I envisioned it either." Hades let out a low, humorless chuckle. "The Underworld is hardly the most welcoming of realms, I'll admit. But it is where you belong, my dear. This is your home.” He expects her to accept what he says is true, instead, he’s surprised when she slaps him right across the face before spitting in his face. He narrowed his eyes as he wiped the spit from his face. It seemed that this was going to be much more difficult than he had initially thought.

1 note · View note

peterparkersnose · 1 year

Note

“and i will be heartbroken if it becomes embarrassing to stan this wonderful man.” i say this as someone who was in the st fandom…his stans and joe quinn stans are basically the same. so many are in both fandoms and can be so incredibly fucking vile and annoying which is why i don’t engage with joe quinn stans in general or pedro stans on any app besides this one💀on twitter it’s like the gates of hell have opened up and everyone’s fighting all the time. here it’s so easy everyone just blocks each other and moves on. if he ends up getting a bad rep for his fan base it’s the ones from twitter who caused it😭just keep stanning on here and try to mind your business as much as possible

no bc fr let’s talk

i’ve been a pedro stan since march 2022. yes, i’m aware people have stanned longer, all love to them. but this whole pedro wave is exhausting. i love this man, i’ve branded a lot of my content off of him, and it’s just become exhausting with all the people who are constantly sexualizing this man and it’s gotten old fast.

twitter is literally the worst place on the internet.

it’s the eddie munson cringe wave all over again. dare to say i’m mad they did this to pedro. it’s overplayed.

i’ve invested so much time into him and the fandom, and for everything to become cringe just makes stanning him sad for me. i am upset. all love to pedro, i love he is getting recognition, but the obsessive fans have gone too far once again.

mando s3 sucked i’m sorry

i have a secret theory that the old eddie munson obsessed girls are now pedro girls

no hate

but hate

#peterparkersnose #pedro pascal

8 notes · View notes

pedropascal24-7 · 1 year

Note

I think he’s at his peak. sadly i also think it’s not going to last long. He’s everywhere rm and sooner or later there’s going to be something he says or does that enrages the entire internet and his TikTok and Twitter fame will die out. However, he’ll still work obv but the attention is not going to be to the extent it’s at right now

Well, that happens to just about everyone. I actually think it will be a good thing when this wave of fans riding on his current popularity leave and move on to the next of the moment actor. So many of these new fans seem so problematic and toxic. The fandom needs to go back to the way it was before he hit this level fame. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love that Pedro is getting the attention, but it is coming at a cost.

9 notes · View notes

futuregws · 2 years

Note

I love Pedro like crazy have done since he was in GOT, but I'm not one of them crazy fans, I love him and have Respect for him, I don't care who he goes out with as long he is loved and happy,

I find all the photos he has with friends and people so cute, I never think anything off them just a photo,

I think people in the Pedro fandom take things so far and forget that Pedro still a human that can make his own choses,

But hey what fandom does not crazy fans that's don't know when to stop lol.

I wish all fans were like you bc I've been in this fandom for a month or a little less than a month and I'm already tired bc the fandoms I've been in lately have been for fictional characters and there's nothing like this so I'm not used to this anymore but I mean every fandom mostly fandoms from a male artist it's always ALWAYS like this, but with Pedro I don't know if I should be weirded out over it or ignore it bc like I said it's nothing new in fandoms but geez I just saw a repost of coco's post about ep 6 of the last of us, where he had his arm around her and I kid you not in the comments someone commented "she's married guys" which right away its like, okay?? Very random specially bc no one was saying anything, and what in my opinion makes it worse is that someone answered with "that has never stopped anyone before" implying that coco would cheat on her husband with Pedro all bc of a damn photo, I think some people need to realize that just bc we find him attractive and there's this wave of love and people thirsting over him doesn't mean everyone will want something with him OR just bc someone does find him attractive doesn't mean they will automatically want something and to leave their husband for him like let's be for real here, I love Pedro but the world doesn't revolve around him you know

#pedro pascal

6 notes · View notes

oonajaeadira · 2 years

Text

Share it With Me (Thief and Locksmith 6)

Fandom: Casillero del Diablo Wine Commercials. You heard me.

Pairing: The Thief x f!reader (the locksmith)

Rating: T

Warnings: Hard truths. Angst. A monster of flame and rage. Fire and burning, suffocation. Like my usual bullshit, there’s some jumping back and forth in time. Sorry if it’s confusing.

A/N: This is it, kids, the final chapter. Almost a year to the day I couldn’t help myself and wrote a fic based on...not even a commercial. A teaser for a commercial. And then I wrote something more for these two and then...it became a thing. But a thing where I got to write free-form and make up the story as I went, jumping off details in the tiny source material, letting the characters surprise me. Sorry it took so long to end it. But I’m personally happy I waited. I enjoy this result.

The number one question I get asked about this series is about their history. And while it’s been ramping up to solving the mystery, it’s that history that takes center stage here.

Note: Pedro Urdemales is a trickster character from South American--predominantly Chilean--folk tales. He’s very much like Coyote or Anansi. The story in this chapter is original and not part of his pantheon.

And, finally, please let me gush over my cover image!!!!! The Thief, among the saints, commissioned from @mjpens a million years ago with the promise that I would release it as a teaser for the final chapter. Well eff that. I love it so much that it needed to be a part of the fic, plain and simple. I love him, I love Maia, and I love their work. Please go tell Maia how precious they are in this fandom. I need them to know.

The unintended Thief x Locksmith series is here:

What Do You Want

I Know You Can Do It

Come With Me

Let Me Show You Around

Have Any Interesting Dreams?

The extended commercial is here.

Summary: How they met, how they loved, how they hurt, and how they defeated a demon.

A cough echoed from far off, down a story or two through the main atrium of the library, the archival stacks around you mostly muffling it before it reached you, filtering the sound and light from the vaulted space as if through time itself.

The library had been your home for weeks, the closest you’d been to obtaining your goal, so close you could almost close your greedy little fingers around it. The preceding year had been a ramp up in your research–tracking down a rare book connected to your family–and it brought you here, to the archives of the central library, where you were obtaining knowledge legitimately for once.

Since you took up the quest ten years prior, you’d become adept at distraction, going unnoticed, and found you had something of a talent with puzzles and locks. Not totally surprising with your lineage, but many thought all the magic might have bred out of your bloodline long ago. It showed up in you now and then as an intuition or awareness, a receptiveness that you couldn’t quite always receive clearly, but which you also couldn’t ignore.

Which is why you found yourself annoyed to have his eyes on you once again.

It didn’t matter where you set your workstation for the day, you’d look up and find the same man reading or pulling article boxes off the shelves in the same section that you were occupying. Every time you turned toward him, his face was turning away or dipping below the rim of a book. And every time you looked away, you felt his attention back upon you, awareness circling your mind in waves, like the buzzing and bumping of a lazy fly.

A week of that incessant hovering.

All you knew was that he had brown curly hair. Broad shoulders. Thick hands.

And an obvious interest in you. Or, rather, your work.

It had gone on long enough.

Closing the cover on your sensitive notes, you took a stretch, got up, and sauntered over to the sitting area, plopping down in the leather chair opposite his matching one, and waited.

The periodical lowered slowly to reveal deep, mischievous brown eyes. A prominent nose. A patchy, graying beard and mustache that framed just the shadow of a smirk.

“You’re looking for the book.” He had the audacity to show no shame at being caught.

“And you’re watching me do it.”

“The pleasure’s all mine.”

This lips curled around a smile without your permission and you took the opportunity to reveal your family name, trusting that he probably already knew it, but the offered confidence would prompt him to do the same. Correct. A two-word exchange across a zipline of locked eyes.

“So are you here to offer to help me, or were you planning on letting me do all the work and then running off with the answers?”

“Who said I was after the book?”

Your eyebrows were the next to defy you. “So you’re here for me?”

“I think I might be.”

From that first day onward he spoke in diversions, making you feel special in order to get what he wanted out of you. And you let him. Because from that first day you understood the magic between you, knew what ran in both ov your family lines, you with your intuition, and he with his cunning.

He was never a difficult puzzle to solve. He’s a thief. Well. He couldn’t steal your heart if you give it to him willingly, now could he?

“Fine. Watch if you want, but the book is mine. When I’m done with it, it’s yours if you want it so badly.” You got up to go back to your research, but there was something that stopped you when he said–

“Let me help you.”

–something that told you that a time would come when this stranger would not be a stranger and a time when he would need you to say the same thing.

“You should have started with that. But with all due respect, sir, I don’t know you.”

“Would you like to?”

A bold question. Surprising. Maybe not as surprising as the fact that you knew the answer in an instant as you turned back to catch a distinctly attractive twinkle in his eye.

Of course you’d like to. But just because he asked didn’t exactly mean that he was offering.

Damn your gut instincts.

You ignored this knowledge.

You smiled. “I’ve been managing just fine on my own so far. But thanks.”

________________

Opening your eyes in the huge four-poster is disorienting. Something has brought you back from sleep. The light from the fireplace throws long shadows over the faces of the saints and statues and holy artifacts gathered around your bed in the west wing ballroom, shadows that flicker and move, curling Mary’s lip or causing Bartholomew to look askance at you. The further into wakefulness you come, the more you get the feeling you’re not alone here and you scan the collection, waiting to find eyes that are not made of wood or stone, the blue eyes of a demon, or the blackened ones of–

He’s here. That’s why you were dreaming of him. He has to be.

But this one was a pleasant dream. A memory of your first meeting, not the nightmares you usually have when he’s near…

Oh.

Now you remember.

You turn over and lay a hand lightly upon his bare chest, rising and falling in sleep beside you.

His heart beats, but oddly, shallowly, slowly, like an echo from down a never ending corridor. The firelight favors him, glints off the silver in his beard, settles on him like a cat seeking warmth now that he is still and not trying to evade it. His nose and chin cuts into the glow, his lips slightly parted, relaxed, breathing, kiss-swollen.

Your heart pulls.

As much as you want to curl yourself up into him, waking him would be a tragedy. You assume that he doesn’t have much need for sleep altered as he is now, but the act of rest can still be a pleasure.

And you’ve spent quite a lot of time in his arms already tonight.

Looking past him to the fireplace, you know you should sleep too. You’ll need it for what’s coming.

She would have felt the key in the lock. She would be on her way now.

She is made of fire.

She’s wearing his soul on her finger.

He’s been doing just fine by himself so far, but he’s in need now. It has to be someone else. Someone who cares enough.

Someone he loves.

It has to be you.

Let me help you.

The locket lays heavy between your breasts.

You have to make a plan.

________________

The first time you ever woke up next to him, he was almost smiling, but the happiness that should have been waiting at the threshold of his eyes was somewhere else, tucked away. You wouldn’t know it until later, but he was afraid of hurting you, of having something good and having to give it up. Such is the life of a thief–take what’s valuable and either hide it or liquidate it so you don’t get caught with it. Or so you don’t have to bear the pain of having it stolen from you..

Later you would understand that he couldn’t hide or trade you…he didn’t know what to do with you. Didn’t understand you were a treasure he could keep.

“Have you ever heard of Pedro Urdemales?” He asked, rousing his voice from its sleep.

“No.”

Inhaling deep, he pulled you tighter against himself, fitting your chin into the curve of his shoulder. “He is a trickster character in Chilean folklore. A man who travels alone and can fool anyone to get what he desires. There are tales of him stealing from the devil himself.”

“Mmmm. What could someone possibly want from the devil?”

That curve tightened around your face as he shrugged, allowed you to press your lips into it and he folded his cheek to yours. “Lots of things. Riches. Endless wine. Or unlimited power. Eternal life. Wishes to have anything you wanted. Wouldn’t you take that if you could? What would be worth the risk?”

“The only reason I’d tangle with that guy would be to take back anything the bastard stole from me first.”

He laughed then, softly, adoringly, teasing you. “And what do you have that is worth so much he’d want to steal from you?”

You only had one answer to that. And you didn’t even know if he was really yours. So you picked the closest equivalent. “My heart.”

His laugh was more playful then as he tumbled you over onto your back. “Fragile thing. Is it really so precious?”

“Jeez, fine, you letch!” You squealed as he buried you beneath himself and you struggled to escape the tickle of his nips and kisses. “Forget I said anything!”

But he always remembers what you say. That exchange was no exception.

________________

He had his own home, but he preferred to spend nights at your place, dropping by when it was convenient for him or when he was hiding from a potential client or inquiry. “Your bed is more comfortable, Angel,” was his only answer.

He also preferred to work alone, but once you’d begged to help him with a heist and he found out how your skills complimented his own, he was the one who would come begging. You were an amazing lookout, picked up on minute details, quick thinking and good at causing a distraction. Not a great actor, but able to follow directions.

And you were amazing with locks, which particularly excited him. Any heist that required you to disable or foil a locking mechanism would guarantee he would be in your bed that evening begging again...albeit for other things.

He may have done well to learn from you, but he was too busy salivating over his prizes. You, on the other hand, took the opportunity to observe and glean from his set of skills.

So once you knew the location of the book, you took off on your own.

You convinced yourself it wasn’t because you didn’t trust him not to take the book and run. You wanted to do the job alone because you had an irrational need to impress him. To see pride in his eyes. To show him you were a worthy partner in all things.

Going off the grid. Tracking patterns. Noticing the details. Points of entry. Cameras and sensors. Signs of dogs that might bark or bite. Everything you’d learned.

In the end, it was easy. The book was being kept at a grand estate that was mostly unoccupied for the season. Getting past the groundskeeper was nothing. Evading the cameras and disabling the security systems was simple. Eyes on the prize, get in, only take the one thing, get out, cover your tracks.

It was a little disappointing in the end, to be honest. Hardly a grand adventure. The most difficult thing had been the years of research and tracking the damn thing down.

But that was before. There were two timelines now. Before the book, and after.

One was more bitter than the other.

________

You’d returned to your place after your solo heist only to find him cozy in an armchair, glass of wine in one hand, a familiar notebook in another. He’d looked up when you came in, but smiled back at the pages. “How long did it take you to create a completely second set of research notes?”

Ah. So you were right not to trust him.

You knew he’d come to your place now and then when you weren’t there. You could just tell by the air in the room, a prickle in the light, could practically feel the fringe of the carpet pushed down just a little further where he’d stepped, a book just a millimeter pushed in from where it usually rested on the bookshelf, things picked up and set down just outside their rightful footprint.

And he knew that you knew.

It became this quiet game between you–his breaking and entering, you pretending not to notice. At first you thought it was sweet, a test of your intuition, a calling card to tell you he felt at home where you lived…until you started to notice a pattern.

He would pick up one thing and put it down again. Always in a different room. He knew you’d be able to tell and it would draw your focus. Was designed to draw your focus. But you could swear when he’d done this that he’d always also been in other rooms, and his purpose there wouldn’t be so clear. He’d put a hand behind a bookshelf. He’d lifted the bedcover up. He’d pulled the clothes in your closet aside. Just the disturbance of dust or a stray wrinkle or too-neat hanger placement left a trail.

He was looking for something.

Your notes.

Well. He wanted your notes? He would get your notes.

After the first day you’d met him lurking at the library, you’d gone back and coded them. Swapping out place names and dates here and there, randomly putting in whole pages of completely made up facts and figures. Only you knew what it all meant and which parts were authentic.

So you took them out from your usual hiding spot under the packs of frozen veggies in the freezer and tucked them behind the books on your shelves and let him find them.

“What’s the matter?” you smirked. “Didn’t find anything at the Castor estate?”

His smile deepened, seasoned only slightly with the mildest touch of annoyance as he took a sip of his wine and set the glass down. “I thought we might do this together. Clearly you thought otherwise.”

“And yet, you still went looking for the book on your own, didn’t you.”

You made a quick grab for the notebook, snatching it out of his grasp, only to have him trap your arm in the process, springing like a snake. But instead of fangs, this snake had lips that landed gently on your inner wrist and sly eyes that chastised up at you. “I went looking for you, Angel.”

It was a clumsy maneuver, the way he pulled you down onto his lap. The more delicate dance lay in the footfalls of your trust, how you would follow his lead, but then take it back, your intuition reminding you that love could be blinding. That every time he promised you could both have everything, you could end up with nothing and a broken heart to boot.

“Well, my brave girl,” he breathed into your hair. “Did you find your heart’s desire?”

You sank yourself into him. “I did.”

________________

When your eyes open again, it’s not far from morning. You don’t need to turn to him to know he’s awake too.

“You never trusted me, Angelita.”

“You stole my book.”

“Even before that.”

Clamping your stinging eyes shut, you roll your face into the pillow. You can feel what’s coming, dawning on you as slowly as the literal encroaching sunrise outside the great gray windows, your last dream bringing out in stark hindsight your grandest mistake, all this time later. He’s about to peel your denial from you like a layer of dying skin, slowly, lovingly, painfully.

“If I had asked to see your notes, you would have accused me of trying to steal the book,” he whispers at your back, his breath pulsing against your spine. “I knew you wouldn’t share what you’d learned, so I had to go looking for it. I knew you wouldn’t trust me to come with you, so I thought I would follow you in case anything went wrong.”

“It was easy. Nothing went wrong–”

“And I am more grateful for that than you will ever know.” Warm arms slip around you from behind as bitter tears find their way across your cheek and soak into the pillow. It’s the closest he’s ever come to expressing his love in words, but the joy of it is soured by the pinch that comes with knowing that he’d always loved you, that he never betrayed you as much as circumnavigated your mistrust of him. “Nothing was more important to you than that book. Not even me.”

“That’s not true! The book held the spell, summoning the demon….before you, I was going to make a bargain to regain my family’s abilities. But then after meeting you, I planned to restore the whole tree. We could have had everything together. Everything–” without your consent, denial wraps itself around your heart, squeezing until you can only grind out “--and you took it for yourself!”

“Angel–”

“No!” Sitting up and moving away from him on the bed, you continue to avoid looking over your shoulder at what you assume is a wounded face. Though you should. Should look into those eyes swirling with dark figures and find acidic glee in the fact that his betrayal won him an infestation of the soul. “Years! I gave years of my life to find it and then I was going to share it with you and you? Just? Took it. Like the thief you are!” The hurt is taking hold, coursing through you like hot neon, gripping your throat in a sorrowful ache. “And then you left with her, the book was gone, my chance was gone!”

“Angel–!”

“And then more years! But this time just the opposite, years just trying desperately to let go! Trying to understand that my time had been wasted and I was always going to be the one who let the magic just seep out of my line forever. That I would never be anything but this–” you lose the battle, the frontlines breaking to let the sobs through “--a girl going back and forth from a tiny apartment to a tiny store every day of her life, fixing locks and getting yelled at by bitchy uptown women with more in life than I’d ever have–”

“If it’s riches you wanted, I would have–”

“I don’t fucking want your jewels and paintings, god dammit!” The blasphemy should have all eyes on you, but the statues remain stone in the lightening room, no chastisement, no empathy, no presence whatsoever. An empty room with a heartless man and a woman crying her very wounded heart out into the hands covering her face.

He says nothing for a long while. Perhaps because he still can’t say everything he wants to while the stone containing his soul sits on the finger of a demon. Or perhaps he has nothing to say other than to acknowledge his part in all of this, understanding the hurt you’ve been carrying, letting you grieve. But when he finds his words, they are not what you would expect.

“I’m thankful that I don’t have to sleep often. Because every time I do, I dream of that night when she took me. Every time. For years. But I wouldn’t change it for anything.”

It’s like a swallow of hard spirits, knocking you silent, catching your tears in your throat, mid-whine. The cocktail of resolve and regret in his tone is intoxicating enough to finally face him. “Why not?”

“Because I was able to keep you safe.”

It doesn’t matter now what you say, what you ask him. You know he can’t tell you.

But you see your own reflection in his swirling, black eyes, and you already know every answer, the flaying of your denial complete.

He wasn’t the snake. You were.

He had been honest from the very first day.

So you’re here for me?

I might be.

Your obsession with the book–with your plan to use the demon–it was flawed, but there was no way to derail you, you were too driven to prove yourself. He’d taken on the curse himself not only to shield you from it, but to enhance the powers of his family line, to become the world’s greatest thief, to give you everything you could ever want without the danger of dealing with the evil entity. But dark magic has its price and that price is never so straightforward.

Had he spent these last few years in as much torment as you? Wanting to tell you but unable to? Just as unable to stay away, annoying the hell out of you when he shows up here and there, yet leaving you alone for much longer than you can stand. You should hate him more than you do, but you’ve never been able to. Impossible.

Has he been watching over you all this time?

As you hold his gaze and play with the locket on your chest, you know for certain now that there are three enchantments on it.

The slowing of time. The sharing of dreams.

And protection for the wearer.

“Tell me a story,” you whisper.

His fingers reach to find yours, hold them, draw a thumb across your knuckles. “If I can, I will. What do you want to know?”

“Tell me how Pedro Udemales stole from the devil.”

________

After a fight, there was always a moment of quiet. Either you would step away from each other or you would curl farther in. There were never apologies, never words needed said. One of you would always ask for something, and if the other gave it, then it meant all was on the way to being forgiven. Or at least accepted.

The requests were always granted.

Some things never change.

“There are some who say the Devil keeps an elixir of immortality,” he begins as you curl up against his side, “a drink as rich and filling as wine.

“One day Pedro Urdemales was boasting to a friend about his great escapades, his cunning plans and all the treasure he’d stolen.

“His friend was unimpressed. ‘You’re poor as a bone and skill-less to boot,’ his friend laughed, ‘you couldn’t steal an egg from a blind hen.’

“Pedro had an ego on him and tasked his friend with giving him an assignment. ‘Anything you want stolen, I will bring it to you.’ And so his friend said, ‘Bring me the elixir of immortality.’

“So Pedro Urdemales went to the Devil and asked him for the elixir. The Devil laughed. ‘Why would I give that to you?’ ‘I can trade for it,’ said Pedro, ‘I will rid the world of whatever you hate the most.’ The Devil laughed. ‘You could not get rid of all the holy water in the world. It would mean you must rid the world of all its water and all its prayers, for holy water only takes water and words.’

“‘Then I will give you what you want most in this world,’ said Pedro and the Devil said. ‘I want your soul.” Pedro answered, ‘I will give you my soul, but I wish to have it for a few days more. Come find me at the island where the turtles roost in three days time and bring the elixir. I want a fair trade.’ And the Devil agreed.

“It took Pedro two days and two nights to dig a pit on the island where the turtles roost. When the Devil came on the third day, Pedro asked if he might make a prayer to ask for forgiveness before the exchange took place while he still had his soul and God would still listen. The Devil, amused, allowed it.

“And when he sat down to pray, Pedro Urdemales blessed the waters surrounding the island so that it was surrounded by the blessing, encasing the Devil there. Then he splashed some at the Devil, causing him to drop the elixir and fall blindly into the pit. By the time the Devil crawled out of the hole, Pedro was in his little boat and rowing back to shore, and the Devil was trapped there for some time.

“Pedro took the elixir back to his friend and allowed him to take a drink. They say that man lives still. Pedro himself was too clever to do so, knowing that the reward of a hard life is a long sleep. So after a week and a day, he returned to the island where the turtles roost and the Devil sat pouting and Pedro returned the elixir. Because he hadn’t taken any for himself, the deal was broken.”

“Why didn’t the Devil just kill him then?”

Your thief smiles, gives an illuminated shrug, a halo of firelight around his head and shoulders. “He needed a ride back to land.”

Time is running out, but somehow the urgency has yet to shake you. This is the time when you can feel yourself coming into your own, trust our own ability has taken full root. Your thoughts swirl, working on the puzzle, picking the lock of your circumstances. It’s here, the answer is here, you just need to home in on it. You look around at the statues and relics he’s collected here to keep you safe--to protect you--and finger the locket at your throat that does much the same. “So maybe we need holy water.”

His smile fades. “Doesn’t work on her unless you’ve got a pool full of it to push her into. She may look human, but she’s made of fire. A splash would merely evaporate with a flick of her hand. Seen it happen myself.”

“Really,” you cock an eyebrow, reaching out to lay a fingertip on a disappearing dimple. “Get bold and try to escape?”

“A mistake I didn’t repeat. There’s no worse hangover than having the air sucked out of you.”

There. There it is. This is part of the power that runs through your bloodline…by some supernatural means of attraction, that answer has come flying at you..

“My beautiful thief,” you whisper. “Do you by any chance have an air-tight safe?”

_______

The demon’s abilities are limited while it’s on earth in human form. While she can wield some supernatural powers, she blessedly does not have the ability to travel in an instant, weighted down as she is by the souls she carries, souls that are more bound by this material plane.

All the same, she is on her way.

And you are on yours, nearly running to keep up with your Thief, shoes clicking on the marbled floors and jacket fluttering behind him as he takes long strides on his way back to the main hall. “It’s a strange place for a wine cellar, but she wanted it close by her fireplace so I wouldn’t have the excuse to go far if she wanted me around.”

Back in the demon’s sitting room he moves away from the fireplace toward a gaudy painting and tips a golden statuette on its pedestal revealing a hidden door that swings inward to a hiss of a hermetic seal and the one-two-three illumination of a series of overhead lighting.

Rows of wine racks line the small room, but it is otherwise pristine. Austere.

“It’s air-tight?” you ask.

“As a tomb,” he answers.

“It’ll do.”

It should have been you that night. It should have been you taking on the curse. You deserved this fate, not him, that much is finally obvious. Watching him now, his broad shoulders filling out the floral jacket, much more colorful than he used to wear, though something you might have chosen for him. The pout of his lips when he speaks, teasing even when he’s serious, a spark of sass, just enough to cover any doubt or concern, of which he has in perpetuity. The way he always gives you his focus, watches you, you can see his eyes following the curve of your ear, the corner of your eye, the cannon of your lips–

And you’re watching me do it.

The pleasure’s all mine.

You should have trusted him. Protected him. Shared your dreams with him. Taken your time.

“...it’s a safety system–it won’t shut on its own, someone has to manually throw the lever.”

You stare past him at the golden statuette, still tipped to a 45 degree angle, a cherub caught mid-fall from heaven. It’s okay, little one, no need to fall any further, I’ll take over and make the hard landing. “Then you’re going to have to be the one to do it.”

“Angel, no. You’re forgetting something–”

“That the air gets pumped out of the room when the door closes? That’s the point. No air, no fire–”

“And no breath for a human girl.”

“I just have to hold out longer than her.”

For the first time since the night of fire that took him from you, the blackness of his eyes recedes just a little, the swirling there recoiling in fear. His fear.

“Angel.” It’s been so long since his voice has been this gentle, you almost forgot what it sounded like without the subtle sub-roar of the demons that infected him. Before tonight you would have said with certainty that his voice has always purred with mischief. But you know that’s only because you let your bitter disappointment color the past.

But now, now you remember. He used to be like this, just like this. Your charming, gentle thief.

“Angel, there has to be another way.”

“You brought me here to fight a demon. It was always going to be dangerous. What did you expect?”

“I brought you here to outsmart, to use your skills–” He stops when you reach up to unclasp the necklace.

“If you don’t like my methods, then perhaps you should do this heist on your own.” You both look down sadly at the little locket in your hands, its tiny golden gears sparkling through its crystal housing. “But you can’t…can you. Even if you found a way for her to drop the ring or leave it behind…you’re not allowed to take it yourself.” The tiny golden key attached to the clasp winks in the light from the sitting room fire. It fits so beautifully in the locket, as if it was made for it and not the other way around. “It needs to be freed from her by someone other than you, someone who cares for you, and given to you, handed to you, like you did with Blackwell.” His eyes snap to yours, a chaos of fear, hope, love. “And you put three spells on this locket, didn’t you. Time and dreams…but also protection. What happens if I call on them all at once?”

His hand shoots out to grab your wrist before you dare turn the key. “Don’t.”

You smirk. “All you have to do is tell me the truth and this all ends.”

You can see it in his sad but sly grin. He understands your game, knows he can’t win it. But at least he can play. “My wish was to be the greatest thief so I could just easily take what I wanted. Including your heart.”

“Liar,” you wink and twist out of his grip as you turn the key. “Don’t you dare open that door too early.”

The flames in the fireplace slow from a flicker to a wave before settling into a lava-like crawl. Knowing he doesn’t have the power to stop you with words, he hasn’t even tried, his sad eyes on you, the swirling in them slowed almost to stopping as time bends out of frame.

The slowing of time. That’s one.

The banks of lights in the wine cellar flicker slowly as you make your way down the aisle in front of you, running your fingers over the glossy bottles and linen paper labels as you find your spot at the back of the cellar that’s not in a cellar but behind a painting in the house of a thief.

Here, standing straight and sure, you close your eyes and breathe.

Let’s draw her in a little faster, shall we? Make sure she knows exactly where to go.

Two. The confluence of dreams.

When you open your eyes, what you see is not from this time and place. Once again, you’re looking through his eyes, somewhere in the past. No. Sometime in the past. The where is clear: your apartment. Specifically your living room, where a working altar is set up on your coffee table.

His hands are writing, an ordinary pen on ordinary paper, surrounded by candles, a few other trinkets, a teacup with a thimblefull of blood–his own–and the book. This is the moment before the fire, the preparation of the summoning, the creation of the wish to be granted.

It is in my bloodline–this same blood I offer–to want, to want more, to never see my want slaked. My heart has been under a lock since birth, a greediness that I can’t shake, part of the curse of my family name. I wish to have the skill to take whatever is needed to protect and provide for the one I love, to enhance my powers of thievery only and to keep her pure.

And to covet nothing in the world but her.

He finishes by writing your name in sigil script, finishing it off with a scribbled circle of warding, then something that must be his own name, although you can’t see what it is, he is signing it unseen, his eyes closed as if he is swallowing down the thought of what he’s about to do.

Once the wish is folded and sealed, his fingers hold the paper to the candle flame, confirming that the fire will indeed consume it before placing the burning contract into the teacup to mingle with his blood offering.

After that comes the scene that you remember. You, coming into the room, accusing him. Him, running to protect you as the fountain of fire shoots out of the book, a pillar of flame among your bookshelves–

–which are strangely shifting, twisting, becoming wine shelves–

–in a cellar full of dark, gleaming bottles–

And now--! Your eyes are truly open and seeing only what you yourself see.

And she is here, before you. A monstrous beauty with sable hair and blood red lips.

Even if you had time to twist the little key again, it may not slow her down as she rushes at you, bright white teeth and scarlet-tipped nails bared, blue eyes glowing dark in fury and the fire churning beneath her skin.

It’s over so fast there’s no time to process the fear that electrifies your veins. There’s only a moment, a split second to shield yourself with your arms, pressed against the wall at the back of the aisle. As you go down, you can see past the demon to your thief in the sitting room, dragging himself off the floor where she had knocked him down, gasping for breath and flailing for hold on the little statuette as the flames reach you and burn burn burn–

It takes a hundred years. A thousand. You can feel the singing of each pore, the burning down of each hair on your body like tiny wicks. The skin bubbles and breaks and bleeds and fuses and the scream that razors through your throat is ragged and raw.

But then, you see the words, written on the backs of eyelids that are no longer there.

to keep her pure nothing in the world but her.

The pain doesn’t matter anymore.

In her rage, the demon has burst into a violent flame, hell-bent on devouring you and everything around you in order to regain the key to her box of souls. It is an enormous output of elemental energy.

But soon enough her shrieks of rage begin to wither, to sputter out at the end and she whips around in fear, pulling at the shelves, but they only twist and melt, providing her with no fuel–

The air is leaving the room and she shrieks as she shrinks to nothing. She’s burned all the way through the small reserves.

Good. Good. The job is done and you can sleep. It’s surprising how fast it pulls you under, a dizziness, and then, gone.

________

It’s nighttime in the west ballroom when you awake in the fourposter. The stars are twinkling through the high windows and the fire has gently warmed the room. The sheets are silk and feel cool and smooth against your bare skin–

Your skin. Intact. Unmarred. Pristine.

A protection, a warding of evil. That makes three.

Reaching up to the locket that kept you safe you find it…gone.

Did it burn in the fire? Did he take it back? Was it only yours until it served his purpose? A piece of you wonders if it ever existed in the first place. And if it wasn’t for the fact that you were in this theological museum of a ballroom you might question if any of it happened. But then. You feel his eyes on you. You scan the faces.

Saint Christoper. Saint Anne. Francis. And, among them, your thief, the firelight making an exhausted saint of him too, throwing his curls into carved relief and highlighting every crease of care and concern.

Of course he’s here.

“She’s gone?”

He nods. Somber. “She is.”

“But the villa’s still here.”

Another nod. “It is. She may be gone, but the contract is still intact.”

“I see.” You’re not sure what this means. Of course you know he needs you to hand the ring back to him, but then? He can be free of this curse and free of you, go find someone who can trust him like he deserves, can love him like he….Perhaps that was a question for another time. “Then you still need me? One last task for my thief.”

A third nod. This one comes with a bittersweet smile. “I need a ride back to land.”

__________

The wine cellar is void black. Not only are the lights gone, but every surface has been charred. All but one.

As your thief follows you into the room with a candelabra, three shadows of you fall upon a fourth; an untouched portion of the wall holds the silhouette of your cowered frame.

The wine racks are all melted horrors of scaffolding, grotesque skeletons of long-lost creatures in the darkness. Candlelight catches on bits of broken glass here and there, melted into little cruel shapes. The smell of burned wine hangs in the air.

On the ground though, are ten perfect rings. Unmarred, each with a huge sparkling stone. Ten souls, baptized in flame. A thought occurs to you as you pick up the one with the deep crimson stone–

“Did you feel it? The fire?”

“Yes.” It’s quiet, almost an apology, as if he knows that it couldn’t have hurt as much as being bodily bathed in it.

But still. You lift the ring to your lips and kiss it, bestowing all your love into it. Taking his hand, you place the jewel in his palm, curling his fingers over it along with your own. “There now. Back home.”

He only looks down at your combined hands. A moment that seems to stretch into portraiture for all its stillness.

You’re not sure if you should be the one to break the silence. But it seems he cannot do it himself.

“Are you…okay? Do we need to do something else? Another step?”

Shaking his head, he’s quiet for only a moment longer. “If I put it on my finger, the ring just disappears. I get my soul back. I belong to myself again.” Then he raises his swirling black eyes to yours. “But right now it’s still mine to do what I want with it.”

He sets the candelabra on the ground, freeing up his hand to gently take yours.

And slips the ring on your finger.

“Share it with me.”

The shock takes your voice, leaving nothing but air as you whisper, “What?” But then all that air comes rushing back in a gasp as you look into his eyes.

His brown, chestnut eyes.

“Share it with me. Let’s have some fun for a little while longer.”

Without ownership of the demon, its little minions have left him. His eyes are now filled with…you.

“Share what? The villa? The book? Your soul?”

“Sure. All of it.”

He anticipates your protest, but you do not get to make any of it but a “mmmf” before he silences you with a kiss.

And when he breaks away, one corner of his lips pull into a smirk, and one finger comes out to playfully flick the little crystal heart that has not-so-mysteriously reappeared around your neck. Key included.

The ring sparkles on your finger. On a significant finger of your left hand. “So…you’re just fine with me having dominion over you then.” Holding it up for emphasis, you match his game. “You’re basically mine to command. That’s what you want?”

He nods evenly, but his eyes give away something like contentment. “That’s what I want.”

“Hmmmm.” Unsurprisingly, the mischief rises in you. “So…when the demon had this, did she ever ask you to…you know.”

He gives you an even, truthful stare. “Not once.”

“I see. Aaaaand…what if I did?”

“Give a human ultimate power and they’ll abuse it for the basest gratifications,” he sighs, cupping your jaw in his hands. “You don’t need the ring for that.”

A good many minutes and a good many kisses later, you finally let a realization tear your mouth from his. Keeping your arms locked around his neck, refusing to let him go, you admit, “I still don’t remember your name.”

He shrugs, just as unwilling to unwind from you. “You can call me anything your heart desires. I’ll answer to it.”

“Mmmm.” Your eyes fall on the other rings glittering in the darkness of the ruined cellar. The pull of the key on your neck tells you there are many more in a little porcelain box nearby, a few dozen souls now under your maintenance. “What about these other ones?”

“Should we hunt them down? Return them to their owners?”

You smile. “Is that a scheme Pedro Urdemales might get behind?”

The crinkles at the edges of his eyes deepen, and his beautiful, rich brown eyes gleam with trouble. “Perhaps.”

“Well then, Pedro. Let’s go and steal from the Devil.”

________________

LOCKSMITH SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

#the thief #locksmith and thief #casillero del diablo

170 notes · View notes

all-the-things-2020 · 1 year

Text

Year of Fandom Crossovers: June

Title: “Fifty Shades of Orange”

Pedro Character: Dieter Bravo

Fandom Crossover: The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy

Warnings: expletives, mentions of sex, mild LGBTQ+ content

Summary: Dieter Bravo unexpectedly joins the crew of the Heart of Gold.

Notes: I have been a HHGTTG fan since high school. Douglas Adams and Monty Python seriously impacted the development of my sense of humor. The character of Balthazar has been floating around in my subconscious since the late 80’s when I was brainstorming for an unwritten sequel to a fic my high school BFF and I wrote that featured cameos by Ford and Arthur. Since it is June, and Dieter is canonically bisexual, I decided to add a queer flavor to the ending.

@yearofcreation2023 @perennialdoll247

Arthur Dent was confused, but that was not an uncommon occurrence. He entered the lounge on the Heart of Gold and found a rumpled man, close to six feet tall, with uncombed hair, a patchy beard, and a green dressing gown staring at the tea dispenser. He turned toward Arthur and scratched his head.

“Does this thing take American money? And where’s the button for the KitKat?”

Arthur blinked twice, then again for good measure. The man seemed human enough, but then, so had Ford Prefect when Arthur had first met him.

“Erm,” said Arthur. “Excuse me.”

He backed out of the lounge and sought out Ford, who as usual was in his quarters, listening to some sort of electronic banjo music from the latest Arcturian band. “Ford,” Arthur said.

“Arthur,” said Ford.

“There’s a man in the lounge. Wearing a dressing gown. He looks mostly human.”

“Oh, that’s Dieter,” Ford said, waving his hand dismissively. “Zaphod picked him up while you were asleep. Someone found him on their doorstep and they knew we had an Earthman with poor taste in clothes, so Zaphod thought it was you.”

“But he saw me at dinner last night. He had to know it wasn’t me.” Arthur was perplexed. Zaphod was absent minded and scatterbrained (despite the fact that he had two brains, due to having the two heads) but he couldn’t have forgotten about Arthur, could he?

Ford shrugged. “Probably forgot about you,” he said. “He has a hard time remembering what you look like, anyway. Saw the dressing gown and the dark hair and thought ‘Oh, that’s our Earthman.’ I can recognize you right off, but then I was stuck on Earth for a long time. Most sentient beings have a hard time telling Earthpeople apart.”

Arthur was not appeased. “He certainly can recognize Trillian well enough.”

“Well, it’s different with her,” Ford said. “She’s not boring.” He sat up and switched off the music. “Best we go see what our new friend is up to.”

They went back to the lounge, where Dieter was sitting on the floor, looking glumly at a paper cup of tea. “It’s tea,” he said, sadly when he saw them.

“No, it’s not,” Arthur said. “Not really. But it’s as close as it’s possible to get now that Earth’s gone.” He took the cup from Dieter and sipped gingerly at the liquid. As always, it was almost but not entirely completely unlike tea. He grimaced, but swallowed anyway.

“I hate tea,” Dieter said. “And what do you mean Earth’s gone? I was there last week. I think.”

“More like last year,” Ford said. “You’ve got a bit of freezer burn, mate.” He pointed out the frizzled ends of Dieter’s hair and some discoloration on the hem of his dressing gown. “Probably some Gozerians out picking up ‘specimens’ for jollies and forgot you in the freezer.”

“Whoa, there’s two of them!” Zaphod wandered into the lounge. “You been playing with that DIY cloning kit you got for your twelfth birthday again, Ford?”

“I don’t look anything like him,” Arthur protested. “I mean, look at us side by side.”

Zaphod tilted one head to the side, while the other stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, okay, I can see it now. That one’s handsome.” He pointed at Dieter. “The other one is … not.” He turned to Ford. “Which one is yours again?”

“The not one,” Ford said.

“Shame,” said Zaphod. “But I suppose two is almost as cheap to keep as one. He probably eats tea and biscuits like yours, right?”

“I hate tea,” Dieter said firmly. “And I want a KitKat. And an explanation. And a drink. And a joint. At the least.”

“The drink, I can provide,” Zaphod said. He pushed a button on the wall and a cabinet opened, displaying an array of exotic liquors. He used all three arms to pour a colorful concoction into a large snifter, which he handed ceremoniously to Dieter. “Not exactly a Pan-Galactic Gargle Blaster,” he said sadly, “but the best I can do without a full bar.”

Dieter sniffed the drink, took a cautious sip, and then tipped the glass back, downing the entire beverage in three gulps. “Now about that KitKat …,” he said before his eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed in a drunken heap on the floor.

Ford and Zaphod exchanged impressed looks. “Four seconds,” Ford said. “Not bad for such a primitive life form.”

“Humans are not primitive,” Arthur protested. This produced a look from Ford that quickly silenced him. Images of war, corporate greed, environmental destruction and reality television swarmed his brain. Sometimes he forgot Ford was mildly telepathic. “Well, compared to Vogons, we aren’t,” Arthur muttered.

“Your poetry’s better, I’ll give you that,” Zaphod said. “But what are we going to do with two humans?”

“Three,” Arthur pointed out. “Trillian’s human, too. There are three of us.”

“I meant two useless humans,” Zaphod said patiently. “Trillian is a woman. Earth women are amazing. Earth men …” He waved two of his hands derisively at Arthur and Dieter. It was justified in Dieter’s case, as he was drooling on the floor, but Arthur felt rather disrespected.

“At any rate,” Ford chimed in, “I’m sure we can find someone somewhere who wants a pet Earthman. They’re quite rare, after all.”

Now Arthur was properly indignant. “I say, you don’t consider me your pet, do you?”

Ford patted him on the shoulder. “No, no, of course not, mate. But not everyone in the galaxy is as enlightened as I am.” He nodded toward Dieter. “And just look at him.” Dieter was now curled up in the fetal position, sucking half heartedly on the end of his dressing gown belt, making little whimpering noises and muttering the words “KitKat” and “feathers” in an odd accent.

Arthur shrugged. After all, the man had clearly said he hated tea. Perhaps he did need a minder.

***************************************************************

Dieter woke up with the worst hangover of his life. “Take these,” a voice said, handing him two white tablets and a glass of water. The voice seemed friendly enough, so he swallowed the tablets and almost immediately felt better. His vision cleared and his head stopped pounding.

“What the fuck?,” he said, rubbing his hand through his hair. He really needed to stop dropping acid without supervision. “This isn’t my hotel room.”

“No, it’s not,” the voice said. Dieter looked up. It was a blonde woman, seated on a chair. He was on the floor surrounded by a small puddle of drool, but that didn’t stop him from attempting to smooth down the hair he’d just disheveled.

“Um, hi,” he said. She was a bit of a looker. “Is this … your room?”

“It’s the lounge of the Heart of Gold,” she said.

“I thought this was the Westwood Arms Hotel and Conference Centre,” he said.

The woman sighed. “I’m Trillian,” she said. “And this is the spaceship Heart of Gold. You aren’t on Earth anymore, I’m afraid.”

Thoughts swirled in Dieter’s head. He remembered a bit about last night: some guy with two heads and three arms making him a drink; someone mentioning Earth being missing; and either another guy wearing a bathrobe or the world’s worst mirror reflection. “Um … if I’m not on Earth, then I guess there aren’t any KitKats available?”

“No, sorry,” Trillian said. “I might be able to replicate you a KotKat but they aren’t really the same. Mostly because they come from Arcturus Prime and the closest thing to chocolate on that planet is the vomit of a peculiar green dung beetle.”

Dieter felt nauseated, but whether it was the aftermath of whatever chemical was still pickling his brain, or the dung beetle, he couldn’t tell. “Yeah, no, that’s fine,” he said. “So, um, this spaceship …”

Trillian stood up. “You can watch the educational tapes later,” she said. “Right now, you need to get cleaned up. Zaphod put out a classified ad for you and there’d been some interest. The showers are this way.”

Dieter struggled to his feet, swaying lightly. “Um, okay,” he said. “I’m Dieter, by the way. Would you like to have sex with me?” Now that he was sure his head wasn’t going to fall off, he thought he would shoot his shot. Trillian was the most attractive person he’d seen on this ship so far, and he might as well start at the top.

“No,” Trillian said simply. “I don’t think Zaphod would like it much, and besides …” She looked him up and down, her face indicating a certain degree of disgust.

Dieter shrugged. It was like that sometimes.

***************************************

“The Antarian Brain Slugs just want to eat his brains,” Ford said, shaking his head. “We can’t waste a perfectly good endangered species, even if the price is right.”

“But capitalism, man!” Zaphod’s arguments tended to boil down to whatever would get him the most booze and/or sex.

Ford snorted. “There is more to life than money, dear Zaphod.”

“Name one thing.”

“Alcohol.”

“Money can buy it.”

“Sex.”

“Again, money …”

Ford groaned. “Friendship?”

“Friends are ten for a dollar on Jabbux.”

Ford screwed up his face as he thought very hard. It was like watching a seal try to fly. “Inner peace!”

Zaphod laughed. “The monks of Zelus Three have a ten part course you can buy, inner peace and enlightenment guaranteed. I’ve done it six times. I’m ultra-enlightened.”

“Well, anyway, we’re not selling Dieter to the Antarians,” Ford grumbled. “How about this offer?”

Zaphod peered at the screen with one head, while the other was picking its nose. “Hmmm … Fashonia Six. Never been there. Might be good for a laugh. And we can pick up some new clothes for your Earthman while we’re there. That dressing gown is getting a bit tatty.”

“Fashonia Six it is,” Ford said. “Laying in coordinates. Engaging Infinite Improbablity Drive in twenty minutes.” He flicked on the PA system. “All hands, prepare for improbability in twenty minutes. Repeat. Improbability in twenty.”

***********************************************************

“What the fuck?”

Arthur had found that Dieter was quite fond of that sentence. He had said it approximately thirteen times in the past three hours.

“We’re heading somewhere fast,” Arthur explained. “We’d best get to the rubber room.”

“Rubber room?”

“So we don’t hurt ourselves when things go pear shaped,” Arthur said. “And I mean literally pear shaped. Once I went banana shaped and I was terrified of monkeys for a week.” He led the other man down the corridor toward the rubber room. Trillian was already there, checking the integrity of the restraints.

“You can have the deluxe seat,” she told Dieter, “as this is your first time experiencing improbability.”

“Lucky bastard,” Arthur said. “It has a cup holder.” Once, he’d unthinkingly brought his tea (not tea) with him and it had spilled all over the rhinoceros, which had made for an uncomfortable silence, not to mention the tragic loss of tea (not tea).

He and Trillian strapped Dieter into the seat, double checking all the buckles and tie downs and bungee cords. “Is all this really necessary?” Dieter asked.

“You’ll find out,” Trillian said ominously. Arthur simply gave Dieter a cheery thumbs up before taking his own (cup holder-less) seat. He cinched the belts tight and slid his hands into the restraining cuffs.

Zaphod and Ford strolled in, discussing the results of the latest Ultra-Racquetball match. It was a slow point in the sports season.

“T-minus five minutes,” Ford said, as he assumed his seat.

Arthur leaned toward Dieter. “It’s rather fun once you let your mind go mad,” he said. “The first time is the worst. Or the best, depending on how strong your ties to reality are to begin with. I threw up six times. That means my mind was exceptionally dull and boring.”

“T-minus two minutes,” Ford said. “Hang onto your heads, everyone.”

*******************************************

Dieter had experienced most drugs available on Earth, and yet what happened next was beyond anything he had ever seen, felt, smelt, tasted, or heard. Thirteen blue impalas pranced through the room; the fact that three of them were automobiles made the display even more impressive. His hands turned into hamburgers and were devoured by his feet. Arthur became roughly the shape of a large lemon, although his skin was a delicate shade of puce spotted with purple-black blotches. Trillian was riding a one horned lion with ballet shoes on. Zaphod was conversing with a large piece of cardboard. Ford was floating upside down while wearing a skirt made of rhubarb. All of this in just the first four seconds. After that, things got weird.

Dieter’s mind floated freely through the madness. He tasted aquamarine and saw a high C note. Words and feelings drifted past him and he latched onto some of them. A platypus dealt him a hand of poker and he won a stack of plastic chips that turned out to be tiny flying saucers full of minuscule green men wearing blue kilts, who promptly shot him with their ray guns and disappeared. It rained Gatorade and a forest of pickles sprang up around him.

All too soon, a voice began to soothingly chant, “Normality in thirty seconds. Twenty nine. Twenty eight …” By the time the voice had reached “five,” the room was almost back to its original state, save for a slight tinge of lavender and the lingering scent of frogs.

“Whoa,” Dieter said. “I don’t know what that was, but I liked it.”

Arthur goggled at him, his face very pale. There was a dribble of vomit on the collar of his dressing gown. “You … you liked it?”

“Dude, I’ve dropped acid, smoked peyote, drunk ayahuasca, injected stuff some guy in a lab in the back of a panel van cooked up on his Coleman stove,” Dieter said. “But that was the best trip I’ve ever been on.”

Zaphod laughed. “Ford, are you sure you don’t want to trade in your Earthman for this one? He’d be a lot more fun at parties.”

Ford frowned. “I’m rather fond of Arthur, actually. I think I’ll keep him.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Dieter said. “Would you like to have sex with me?”

Ford ignored him and Dieter shrugged. Two down, two to go. He might still get laid, although the idea of settling for Arthur was really dragging him down.

*************************************

Fashonia Six was a small but tasteful planet, close to Fashonia Five, which was much larger and filled with factories where clothing was made from the fibers grown on Fashonia Four. No one talked about Fashonia Three, which was a penal colony for those who had offended the Fashion Police, who were the ultimate authority in the Fashonia system.

“You did send a picture of him, right, Zaphod?” Trillian asked as they walked along the promenade in Guccitown. Everyone was dressed extremely well, which made Arthur and Dieter stand out like very ugly sore thumbs.

“Yeah,” Zaphod said, heads swiveling about to take in the sights. “No accounting for taste, I guess. Maybe they’re doing one of those extreme makeover thingies?”

Dieter was unimpressed. He’d worked in Hollywood for years, been to countless red carpets and after parties and fashion shows, and honestly had no use for fancy clothes. Flannel pants, a comfy tee shirt, Crocs and a bathrobe for chilly evenings was just fine for him. He dressed up for work, of course, because they paid him obscene amounts of money, but it was never really his jam.

Arthur, on the other hand, seemed cowed by the glamorous people passing them by. It could have been because he was wearing actual pajamas and slippers. Dieter had no use for pajamas. Too formal and matchy-matchy. And slippers fell off your feet so easily. Not like Crocs. Switch those babies to sport mode and you could run all day. If you had to. Dieter was not a big fan of running.

“Here is it, number 42,” Ford said. The building was small but made of elaborately carved marble. The door was painted a tasteful shade of pomegranate, to match the potted pomegranate bushes to either side of the entrance.

They went inside to find a cream colored waiting room, with ivory colored chairs, eggshell colored tables and a snow colored rug. A bright green door, painted to match the potted lime trees to either side, led to the interior of the building.

“Welcome to the House of Balthazar,” said a soothing voice. “We will be with you shortly.” Soft jazz began to play, as bland and inoffensive as the decor.

“Posh,” Ford said, looking around. “I hate it.”

The door opened and a young woman with pale lavender hair, which matched her dress, which matched the sprig of lavender pinned to her shoulder, entered the room with a tray of champagne flutes. “Balthazar welcomes you,” she said. “Please, have a sparkling beverage before we enter the inner sanctum.”

To Dieter’s disappointment, the beverage in question was not champagne but rather an insipid lemon-lime soda, almost but not entirely like the cheap 7-Up knockoff he’d drunk as a kid.

When the glasses were empty, the young woman collected them on her tray and led them through the bright green door. The room was empty, save for a table on which a pile of shocking orange fabric had been left in a heap. The woman bowed to them and disappeared through a blue door painted to match the potted blueberry bushes to either side.

They stood awkwardly for a few moments, until a deep voice said, “Welcome to my house.” Dieter looked around, but there was no one else in the room.

“Erm, thank you,” Ford said tentatively.

The voice chuckled. “I see you are confused. Come closer.”

“Closer to what?” Trillian asked.

“To me.” The pile of fabric began to writhe until it had formed an approximation of a mouth. “It’s rather hard to move on my own, so I hope you don’t mind.”

“Is … is the fabric talking to us?” Arthur asked as Zaphod stepped closer.

“Yeah,” Zaphod said. “Totally hoopy. What are you?”

“I am Balthazar,” the fabric said. “I am a sentient form of polyester, brought to life due to an industrial accident involving a power surge from a lightning strike, a radioactive Canopian cuttlefish, and a misplaced ham sandwich. My intimate knowledge of the inner life of fabric has made me a sought-after designer, but alas, my lack of muscles and skeletal infrastructure makes it extremely difficult for me to get around.”

“Cool,” said Zaphod. “But what does that have to do with us? More precisely, with him?” He pointed a thumb at Dieter, who was still trying to decide if this was part of the trip or if reality had shifted way more than usual.

“It has always been my dream, even before I gained sentience, to be a Leisure Suit,” Balthazar said. “A noble purpose of a member of the polyester tribe. And the finest leisure suits have long been known to be those created in the seventh decade of the twentieth century on the planet Earth. This person is an Earthman, and he would be a worthy frame to carry me into the galaxy.”

Dieter blinked. “Wait, you want me to wear you?” He thought about it. It was kinky, but was it the kind of kink he enjoyed?

“Yes,” Balthazar said. “I am willing to pay the asking price for your services, as well as a retainer, food and drink, and sleeping accommodations. In exchange, you will transport me wherever I need to go.”

“Room, board and an allowance,” Dieter mused. “I’m listening.”

Arthur was indignant. “But … but that’s insane.”

“Hey, man, it’s no worse than what I’ve been doing,” Dieter pointed out. “I’m an actor. I wear what they tell me, I stand where they tell me, I say what they tell me. In exchange, I get money and fame, which gets me food and booze and drugs and sex. This deal’s not much different. In fact, it might be better, because Balthazar here will do all the talking. I just have to stand there and look good. I’m really good at that.”

“But a leisure suit? A polyester leisure suit?” Arthur looked perplexed.

“Best of both worlds, dude,” Dieter replied. “It’s a suit, but it’s casual. No tie.” He turned to Balthazar. “I still get to wear my Crocs, right? ‘Cause that’s a deal breaker.”

“Your footwear is your own concern,” Balthazar said. “After all, I want my conveyance to be comfortable. And of course you can wear whatever you like — or nothing at all — at night when we are both resting from the cares of the day.”

“Where do I sign?”

Balthazar shivered and a psychedelic pattern of purple, yellow and blue dots shimmered over his surface. “Whoa!,” said Zaphod. “How’d you do that?”

Balthazar returned to his previous shade of shocking orange. “I told you a cuttlefish was involved in my transformation from mere fabric to sentience. It takes some energy and concentration, but I can change my pigmentation at will.”

“Awesome,” Dieter said. “So, like, a mood suit.” He got a series of blank stares. “You know, like a mood ring? Where the hell were you people in the seventies?”

Arthur blinked. “Oh, yes, that’s right.” He turned to the others and began to explain. “A mood ring was a trinket that changed colors depending on temperature. It was supposed to show the mood of the wearer …”

Here Zaphod cut him off with a wave of two hands. “Yeah, whatever. The main thing is, do I get my finder’s fee?”

“Of course,” said Balthazar. “Margot will write you a check. Margot!”

The young lavender-haired lady came back into the room, with a stack of papers and a large silver and turquoise pen. “I have everything ready, Balthazar,” she said, delicately sliding a portion of him over to clear room on the table for her work. “Excuse me, sir,” she said, flushing slightly, her hands trembling a little. Dieter didn’t really notice, because he was busy checking out her ass. Yeah, maybe he wouldn’t have to settle for Arthur after all, although the idea of what Zaphod could do with two heads and three arms still intrigued him …

********************************************

Arthur was pouting. He was still angry at Zaphod for interrupting his explanation of the mood ring, and even angrier at Ford and Trillian for trying to convince him to trade in his pajamas and dressing gown (which were very comfortable and still smelled like Earth) for something more “fashionable.” Now they were back at the House of Balthazar to say goodbye to Dieter.

“Don’t know why I had to come,” complained Marvin, the android. “Brain the size of a planet and they ask me to attend a farewell party for some apeman.”

“Shut up, Marvin,” Arthur snapped.

“Shut up, Arthur,” said Ford.

Margot greeted them at the door. She was wearing a purple mini skirt with a black leather vest over a lavender blouse. “Welcome to the House of Balthazar,” she said.

“And Dieter,” said Dieter, who was standing behind her in a shocking orange leisure suit over a purple and white patterned shirt. He had one hand on his hip, striking a dramatic pose.

“Yes, and Dieter,” agreed Balthazar, using the breast pocket of the suit as a mouth. “I must say, the freedom I have experienced since joining forces with Dieter has been delightful.”

As Margot left the waiting room to fetch a tray of drinks, Dieter peered over the tops of his sunglasses. “And the amount of sex I’ve been experiencing is also delightful,” he said. “Get this … Margot has a thing for Balthazar. Always has. So she lets me bang her, as long as I wear the jacket.”

“That’s … interesting,” said Arthur.

Dieter nodded. “And the best part is, Balthazar is ace and I’m bi, so from a distance it looks straight but it’s really queer as fuck. I mean, is there even a word for someone who’s attracted to polyester?”

“Polysexual?,” said Zaphod.

Dieter laughed. “Yeah, I like it. Ace plus bi plus poly equals good times for me.”

“It amuses him,” said Balthazar, “and brings joy to dear Margot, who has worked for me all these years without uttering a word about her feelings toward me. I am quite fond of her, in my way.”

“So, all’s well that ends well, I guess,” said Ford, as Margot returned with actual champagne this time. He clapped Arthur on the shoulder. “Sure you don’t want anything before we leave the planet, mate? Maybe some nice trousers or a sport coat?”

“Balthy can whip you up something,” Dieter said. “On the house.”

Both Balthazar and Margot quickly shushed him. “For a generous discount,” Margot said firmly. Dieter shrugged and tossed back another glass of champagne.

“No, I’m fine,” Arthur said. “Although I could use a decent cup of tea.”

Everyone laughed as though he’d told a hilarious joke, but as usual, Arthur was dead serious. Really, who could honestly joke about tea?

#pedro pascal#fanfic #fan fiction #year of creation!#year of fandom crossovers #hitchhikers guide to the galaxy #arthur dent #zaphod beeblebrox #ford prefect #trillian #marvin the paranoid android #funny #the bubble #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x oc #fashion #leisure suits #pride 2023

39 notes · View notes

dirty-holy-things · 3 years

Text

Forget Me Too

Previous Chapter | Chapter 4 | Next Chapter

Read on Ao3.

Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Reader

Words: 8.5k update, 25k total

Chapters: 4 / 15

Warnings: Language. Canon-typical violence. References to injuries. Sexual contact. Oral sex (M receiving). PIV contact. Choking. Spitting. Dom!Javi, Brat!Reader. Slight breeding kink / cum play. THIS IS 18+ ONLY, MINORS DNI.

Author's Notes: Whew, it took me a goddamn minute (aka several months) but we finally have the perfect culmination of sexual tension which leads to absolutely excellent hate-fucking. Literally 3/4 of this is all caustic and antagonistic smut.

Join my TAGLIST to be included in future updates of this story + other Pedro content + other fandom content!

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Peña bit, his tone laced with annoyance and anger, as he looked on at you with the kind of fury that could’ve burned someone alive.

Messina waved her hand at Peña’s comment; you were glad he had been the one to speak up, as you were feeling much the same — a stakeout with Peña was something out of your worst nightmare, and here you were, expected to take the order with a smile. “Peña, you’re not a twelve year old girl. Cut the drama. I know that you know the brothel better than anyone, and you’ll need backup with a brain cell to make this move worth our while.”

You snorted at Messina’s comment, appreciating her affinity for you.

“Don’t think you’re untouchable here either, Doctora,” Messina started, her eyes laser focused on you. “Your recent attitude toward Peña tells me plenty. Get over your shit, and get going. Now. That’s an order.”

Your face burned with embarrassment you left the office space, intentionally avoiding Peña’s gaze as the two of you stalked towards the garage of the compound. You couldn’t believe Messina had somehow managed to read the two of you like a book, considering her removal from Friday night’s escapades — until something clicked within you.

Murphy. He would’ve reported to her, and his details of that night were surely enough to clue Messina in.

As you stalked along behind Agent Peña, you saw Agent Murphy moving through the hallway, holding a large stack of files while he balanced a cup of coffee atop them, a cigarette planted firmly between his lips. You let Agent Peña carry on, not informing him of your sudden stop before the towering blonde man. Reaching upwards, you swiped the cigarette from his mouth and successfully brought it to your lips before he had a moment to respond.

“Your insistent need to meddle in your partner’s romantic life comes from a well-intentioned place, I’m sure of it. Knowing he’s fucked every prostitute in Medellín surely worries you, if nothing but from a health and safety standpoint. But I’m gonna need you to keep that concern far the fuck away from me. Whatever you think may have happened on Friday is wrong, so don’t make it my fucking problem by gossiping to Messina.”

Murphy’s eyes were as wide as saucers, looking completely stunned by your unexpectedly blunt and direct confrontation. “Y’know,” he laughed, “Connie would love you. Remind me to introduce the two of you sometime.”

You were now positively boiling with rage, as he ignored every word you had said about yourself and Javier in favor of his own dismissive commentary.

Murphy placed his free hand on his hips, eyes rolling as he spoke again. “Javi doesn’t like you, that’s obvious. Doesn’t change the fact that he wants t’fuck you — anyone can see that. Honestly, just fuck ‘em and get it over with so the two of’ya can move on.”

You stared into simultaneously genuine and jaded blue eyes, and before you could stop yourself, you felt the muscles in your forearm come alight with a furious energy that felt unfamiliar but somehow just right. Your hand flung outwards, and you connected with Murphy’s stubbled jawline with a resounding crack that felt as though it might fracture the very walls around you.

The rage subsided as quickly as it arrived, and as you came down from the sudden emotional high you had been riding, you instinctively felt the need to apologize. For a moment you felt terrible that you had let your maelstrom of emotions get the best of you; but as you considered your circumstances, you felt less and less of a need to apologize. Murphy had chosen to be both antagonistic and dismissive; you watched the blonde man rub his jaw gently to ease your smarting blow.

“I’d love to meet Connie sometime,” you responded, before turning sharply on your heel to follow the path that Peña had carved through all of the nervous staff. “I’m sure she’s quite the woman.”

Murphy had blessedly decided to leave you alone, quickly fleeing from your frustration; and you were now quickly catching up with the very man you had been trying to avoid — Javier Peña.

“Bout goddamned time, been too busy flirting with —“

You cut Peña off with a sharp glare. “How about you shut your mouth and we get on with the job?”

Javier hummed, a grin working its way onto his face. “Whatever you say, hermosa.”

“Don’t fucking call me that.”

“Doctor Hermosa, then.”

***

Javier Peña had been a thorn in your side from your first meeting, but that thorn had now worked its way even further into your healing side now that you had been assigned to work an op together. An op, that was focused on one of the many brothels that Peña was known to visit. As you looked on at the scantily clad women, you suppressed the hot feeling rising in your throat that threatened to choke you; you didn’t allow yourself to think about which girls Agent Peña had fucked. It was none of your business, and you had no right to have any opinion or feelings about his romantic choices.

The cabin of the parked pickup truck had grown unbearably hot, the humidity creating a cloying and overwhelming environment that nearly made you nauseous. It had been almost two hours of silent surveillance in the sweltering car, and you didn’t miss the way that Javier’s jaw twitched when he saw multiple men escorted in. You almost would’ve found his faint sense of jealousy to be interesting, but you knew better than to spend any time delving into that right now.

Javier was the first to break the silence. “You’re doing better here than I expected, Doctora. Didn’t take you long to find someone to help chase off the loneliness. Just don’t be surprised when that loneliness lasts longer than the ones you fuck.”

You froze at his unexpected and brash words, rendered completely silent as you tried to process and understand what he had just said to you.

“But, you didn’t have to outsource to a brothel, so maybe I’m wrong. You aimed higher, which I can appreciate. I tried that too,” he paused as he stared you down with a look so heavy that you felt pinned to the car. “So I don’t blame you by any means — Sandoval is certainly higher up on the hierarchy than a DEA agent. You’ve gotta be picky with who you fuck around here.”

Javier’s mouth opened, intending to spit forth additional commentary, but you cut him off with a murderous glare.

“That’s awful presumptuous of you, Agent Peña.” Your voice was terrifyingly calm, as you stared down the dark-haired man seated next to you. “I have never fucked my way into any sort of promotion or favor; I’m good enough that I’ve never needed to, so that tactic is all you. And regardless, you looked too drunk to be remembering anything about last night, much less remembering it accurately.”

Javier rolled his eyes, the low light of the evening highlighting the gold flecks within their rich brown depth. “Believe me, I wish I was drunk enough to forget it. You’re not exactly quiet when you’re worked up, hermosa, and I’m very familiar with those sorts of sounds. But hey, it at least sounded like you enjoyed yourself.”

You laughed, suddenly understanding his anger, resentment, vitriol. He thought you had fucked Sandoval, not knowing that your friendly evening with him had ended at your doorstep. “That was all me, Agent Peña. I didn’t come to Colombia to get laid, I came to do my job. Thought you would’ve understood that after Friday night, but I suppose that’s too foreign of a concept for you to grasp.”

His eyes narrowed and lips pursed as he stared on at you, trying to decide whether or not he believed you. It really shouldn’t matter what he did or didn’t believe, but Murphy had already been gossiping with Messina and the last thing you needed was a whole host of rumors flying around about you, so you needed to set him straight. His mouth opened, no doubt to say something else that was intended to hurt you, but due to some sort of divine intervention, he was interrupted by the job you were supposed to be focused on.

The sicario you and Peña had been sent to watch for had finally arrived at the brothel, and he hadn’t arrived quietly — but why should he have to? Working for one of the largest criminal empires in the world, he likely felt untouchable. It was just sheer dumb luck that a snippet of intel had led you and Peña to cross his path. As the man stumbled inside, you and Peña finally emerged from the sweltering heat of the car and quickly moved to the back entrance of the brothel.

Peña went in first, while you covered him from behind. It had been your idea to have him enter before you, seeing as many of the women here would know and recognize him; it was less likely to cause a scene. And you had been correct in your assessment; Peña had to peel more than one pair of hands off of him before your presence, gun included, was noticed by the other women. As they looked at you curiously, suspiciously, the only thought that came to mind was, I feel overdressed.

The scene before you grew serious and somber, and Peña spoke quickly and quietly to one of the women, his voice breathy, gravelly, needy — stopstopstop, now is not the time — and the two of you nervously waited for an answer. It took the woman a moment to respond, likely weighing her odds of collaborating with the DEA versus feigning ignorance; but finally, she indicated where the man in question could be found.

Agent Peña cocked a half-smile at her and winked, before gesturing for you to follow him. You rolled your eyes, but complied; there were more pressing matters than Peña’s consistent flirtations. Music filled the brothel, and you could feel the bass echoing in your chest; likely intended to drown out some of the sounds that the thin walls couldn’t conceal, but it also helped to mask the sound of your footsteps. The few women you crossed paths with stepped out of your way quickly, keeping their heads down as they made themselves scarce.

You were quickly approaching the indicated spot, and you felt a spike of nervous energy as you knew it would likely be a fight to keep the other woman safe. You and Peña had discussed this earlier, and before you even had the chance to bring up her safety, Peña beat you to it. For all of his exploits, for his jaded attitude and tired eyes, he was still dead-set on being the hero, being the knight in kevlar armor. You may not like Peña, but you couldn’t deny that sometimes, he truly tried to be a good man. Just never to you.

Finger hovering against the trigger, ready to fire at a moments notice, you watched Peña nudge the door open with the toe of his boot. The two of you stepped inside, to be confronted with an explicit scene; the woman stepped away, hastily trying to cover herself as the sicario rushed to pull up his pants and flee. Messina had instructed you to bring him in alive, if at all possible; and you chased after the shirtless man, while Peña rushed the woman out of the room and back to the nervous group of women that were waiting below.

The sicario had jumped from the window onto the roof below; it was a short drop, no more than six feet, and you were quick to follow along behind him. As he ran along the rooftop, he turned back to look at you, his face contorted with a mixture of rage and fear that genuinely made your stomach go cold. This man was not going to go down easily — and your assessment was proven to be right as you saw the silver of his gun glint in the low evening light, before several shots were fired off in your direction. You turned on your heel quickly, shielding yourself behind a crumbling brick wall; you could’ve sworn you felt a bullet whiz past your head right before you stepped out of harm’s way. Taking a second to catch your breath, you observed that Peña had now joined you on the rooftop, keeping you covered as you pursued the sicario.

The shingles on the rooftop were loose, but you kept your balance as the sicario came into your line of sight once again. More shots were fired, and you knew that this was going to end one of two ways — with two dead DEA agents, or with a dead sicario. It was an easy call to make, and your finger that had been hovering against the trigger curled inwards for the first time that night. Your gun fired twice, as two bullets lodged themselves decisively into the man’s chest.

Peña called out your name, a mix of fear and anger bleeding into his words as he caught up to you. “Fucking Christ, Doctora — are you alright?”

You nodded, still catching your breath from the precarious rooftop pursuit. “Are — are the women safe?”

Agent Peña nodded in response, his face showing a hint of relief that this stakeout had ended with only one death. You caught the hint of what could’ve been a smile, but it came and went so quickly that you might’ve imagined it.

“Damn good shot, hermosa.”

Your entire body was positively vibrating from the adrenaline that was pumping through your bloodstream, and Agent Peña’s words sent something intoxicating and primal rushing through you. He cocked his chin upwards at you, smiling easily as he stood next to the dead man’s body that was now baking in the Colombian heat.

You realized, somewhat abruptly, that this was the first time Peña had ever said something positive to you. From your very first day, he had fought against you and dismissed you at every possible turn; hell, even when he was trying to get in your pants, he never said actually anything nice. You were filled with frustration that you had to work this goddamned hard to get an ounce of respect, but at the same time… this small bit of praise set your entire body on fire, and for a moment you felt like something within you might explode like a Molotov cocktail.

You loved it.

God knows you shouldn’t, but your rational brain had been entirely shut down by the rush of adrenaline and dopamine that had flooded it. And suddenly, you moved forward on instinct, all thought and reason fading into a chaotic white noise. Stepping forward into Peña’s intimidating and tense frame, you saw something briefly spark and catch fire in his eyes, and you noticed for the first time just how rich and deep those brown eyes were. You grabbed the straps of the kevlar vest, yanking him forward — and you weren’t sure what exactly you wanted to happen in this moment, but you were entirely sure of what your body needed, and Peña seemed to share that need as he growled lowly in your ear, before his arms were fully encasing you and pressing you into the rough concrete wall.

For once, you didn’t stop to think about what was the right choice, the good choice, the reasonable choice. Your lips collided with Peña’s, a harsh and desperate attack, a mess of tongues, teeth, and needy breaths. His lips were chapped but surprisingly soft and full; his mustache grazed against your blazing skin, and you loved the roughness of it. And as your bodies pressed closer and closer together, needing that contact and friction that only the other could give, you felt a spark of tension in your gut as you felt the considerably large length of his cock pressed against you despite the layers that kept your bodies separated. “Fuck,” you gasped, tearing away from Peña’s overwhelming, intoxicating kiss; and he laughed into the soft skin of your neck before biting down.

“Could you ask nicely?”

He couldn’t have just kept his goddamn mouth shut, could he?

As soon as the antagonistic words left his mouth, the rumbling vibrations of them echoing against your flushed skin, you felt your passion transform into a thunderstorm of hatred. You pulled away from his grasp, the abruptness of it threatening to offset his balance on the shaky rooftop. The thought didn’t sound as terrible as it should have.

You couldn’t believe you had done that, couldn’t believe you had let Javier Peña exercise any sort of control over you, couldn’t believe that you had given into him so easily. He opened his mouth to speak once more, and jesus fucking christ you had heard enough of him for one day. And so, for the second time that day, you slapped a DEA agent. Except this time, you had absolutely no regrets for it.

“Fuck you, Peña,” you spat at him, making your way back to the brothel, moving away from him as quickly as your shaking legs could carry you. You heard sirens moving closer through the communa and understood that Colombian police had arrived; you’d have to make a statement, sign off on a few things, but your full report would wait for you until tomorrow. You needed to get home and wash off the dirt of the evening — from the chase, and from Peña’s filthy touch — and you needed a drink and a cigarette.

You fulfilled the barest of obligations before you stalked away from the brothel; you had avoided Peña’s intense and flaming gaze so far, and you intended to keep it that way. You had barely made it a block away before you recognized his footsteps behind you; you didn’t need to look back to know who was following you. “Agent Peña, if you don’t turn your ass around right now, I will not hesitate to shoot you.”

He laughed, and god that made you furious. You were about to make good on your threat when he spoke up. “Get your ass in the car, doctora. Don’t make me tell you twice.”

You laughed coldly, almost cruelly before turning around to face him. “You must have brain damage if you think I’m going anywhere with you. I’ll walk home — I don’t care how far it is.”

Peña’s hand grabbed onto you roughly, as he opened his big mouth again. “You’ve been shot at enough for one night, and I don’t want the paperwork and hearings that would come along with a FBI agent turning up dead on my watch.”

You wrenched your arm away from him, glaring at him viciously before you moved to walk back in the direction of the shared vehicle. You felt a sickening sort of anger trail down your spine as you were forced to recognize that Peña was unfortunately right. You were livid, you were stubborn, but you weren’t stubborn enough to get yourself killed over this. It nearly killed you to comply with Peña’s instructions, but that was at least marginally more survivable than a night spent walking Medellín’s streets alone.

The drive back to the compound was silent as the grave and incredibly tense, but thankfully short. You launched yourself out of the car before Peña even had it fully in park, and you bolted towards your car, wanting to put as much distance between yourself and Peña as possible. Maybe then, you could finally breathe, rather than be absolutely consumed by this firestorm of your own dumb creation.

Your car rumbled to life, and you peeled out of the compound with concerning speed — you gasped for air as the fury inside of you began to smoke and smolder, your mind becoming marginally clearer with every inch of distance that you put between yourself and Agent Peña. You groaned in frustration, both with Peña and yourself, and you repeatedly hit the steering wheel, your body needing an outlet as it was unable to continue to hold everything inside.

You were supposed to be smarter than this. You were supposed to be stronger than this, wiser than this, above all of the chaos and sex and intrigue. You were a professional, with degrees, with titles and awards, and you were acting like a reckless, horny teenager. What the fuck was wrong with you?

Your hands shook uncontrollably, an avalanche of emotions crashing around you as you pulled into the garage, only to be closely followed by Peña. Rolling your eyes, you walked briskly up the stairs and to your door, hoping to lock the door, deadbolting it so neither the day nor Peña could catch up to you.

You heard heavy footsteps getting closer, and you couldn’t seem to get your key to fit in the lock fast enough — and then suddenly Peña was all you could see, all you could sense, as he had planted himself between you and your front door. You groaned, just wanting to be rid of him. “Get out of my way.”

He remained rigid, his forearms crossed over the broad chest that you had been pressed against barely two hours ago. You looked up into dark eyes that were now almost entirely black, his pupils blown wide as he stared at you with an infuriatingly attractive combination of a frown and a smirk. “I’m not going anywhere, hermosa. I think we have some unfinished business,” he hummed, his gaze tracing across you languidly, as if he couldn’t see the anger rolling off of you.

You elbowed him in the side, trying to shove him away from your door. “The only business we have, Peña, is catching Escobar — and since I’m not hiding him in my apartment, I’m gonna ask you again to get the fuck out of my way.”

He laughed, and the sound made your eye twitch — but something else twitched inside of you too. “You’ve got a smart mouth, hermosa. I like that about you, I do. Even when you’re being a bitch,” he said, something dark and powerful creeping into his voice. Before you knew what was happening, you felt two hands moving against your body, one gripping your hip and the other tangling into the hair at the nape of your neck. “Bet that mouth would do even better with my cock in it.”

You gasped, the sound quickly devolving into a pathetic moan as Peña pulled harshly against your hair, forcing you to stare upwards at him. You — you were mad — fuck, you were supposed to be mad — but every nerve ending was blazing like Australian wildfires as you watched your supposedly-strong resolve crumble around you. The hand that wasn’t tightly grasping your keys swung upwards to connect with Peña’s annoyingly-perfect jawline, but instead of striking him, your hand snaked upwards to aggressively yank a handful of his hair — and pull his parted lips to collide with yours.

Surely this was the ninth circle of hell, surely this was the endless inferno that Dante wrote about; it was if the whole world had gone up in flames around you, dragging you into its blistering depths. But despite the burning, despite the scorching, blistering heat, you didn’t feel any impulse or desire to flee. Instead, you chose to dance with the devil — a devil with a mouth made of sin, and a touch that burned like eternal damnation.

The key finally clicked in the lock, a small sound, but one that still detonated like a bomb; there was no coming back from this moment. One of Peña’s broad hands released its grip on you as he opened the door fully, confidently guiding you through the doorway and into your apartment. He kicked the door closed with startling ferocity, but it barely even registered in your mind as you were absolutely lost to your own desire. You hadn’t felt anything like this before, had never felt an all-consuming sort of passion and need that felt as though it could break you in two.

No sooner than the door had closed, Peña’s hands gripped your ass with an intensity that made you gasp in shock and excitement. He growled lowly, the sound quickly lost in the conflict of your mouths as you both kissed, nipped, and bit at each other, each trying to establish dominance — but in the end it was just a mess, primal and filthy, with an edge of pain that only fueled the fire.

Peña was ruthless and unfair in the way that he used his leverage against you; he moved to guide you to the couch, to any sort of surface that could hold the weight of your bodies, and yet you resisted. You couldn’t let him have the power here, in your own apartment, in your own territory. But as soon as your muscles tightened and flexed underneath him, showing opposition, his broad hands that had been digging into your ass now lifted you up entirely off of the ground as though your weight was nothing to him.

Your mouth shifted away from his reddened lips, and your teeth grazed against his pulse point with just a slight increase in pressure — just enough to remind him who he was contending with. He pushed you, and you pushed right back; your resolve might’ve cracked, but you certainly weren’t broken by him. Never compliant, never an easy conquest, not easily won over or inherently submissive. Two bodies collapsed onto your grey couch, the fabric creating friction against any and all exposed skin; it had never seen any company other than yourself, and it was still stiff from the lack of use, but you were well on your way to breaking it in as Peña rolled himself on top of you.

Holding himself up on his forearms, Peña’s frame hovered above you; every muscle in his slim frame was taut, and you could see the desperation and want in his gaze, his eyes feasting on you like he was a man starved. The look almost beguiled you, almost made you forget the laundry list of prostitutes and informants — but nothing could eradicate that history, not bleach, not antibiotics, not steel wool, not confessions to a priest. His history was undeniable, unavoidable, and while you were well aware of it, you found that… you didn’t care much about it in this moment.

The intensity of his gaze, the lust in his eyes, made you preen with a shallow sort of pride; he wanted you. He needed you.

He probably looked at every woman like this.

You kicked away the intrusive thought, not wanting to acknowledge it, at least not tonight. You were already too far gone, all rationale and reason having been abandoned on that crumbling Colombian rooftop. He wanted you, he needed you, and you needed to indulge yourself in this half-truth, this shell of desire.

The buttons of Peña’s shirt came undone with relative ease, your nimble fingers moving quickly to expose the tanned expanse of his chest that was breathing shallowly, suspended above you. He was deceptively muscled, his thinner frame beguiling, hiding his thickly corded and defined build. You admired the frame that caged you in, eyes eagerly taking in the sight as your hands traced across the ridges and intersections of muscle.

“Eager, aren’t we, hermosa?”

You rolled your eyes, nails intentionally scratching against his tanned skin as you pulled the button-down shirt away from him. He was infuriating, but that fury only fueled the fire; it was like fire and gasoline, the two of you together like this. Despite his antagonistic ways, you were on a mission — apparently, a mission straight to hell, and right now you needed him out of those ridiculously tight clothes that he wore.

His belt buckle was next stop along your journey of dangerous decisions, and when you struggled to get it undone, you rolled your eyes in frustration and laid back into the sofa. “Y’gonna do any of the work here, Peña? Because if it’s just gonna be me, I’d rather just go get myself off like I did last night — “

Peña cut you off with a rough kiss, one hand forcefully cupping your jaw as the heat of his tongue delved into your mouth. His other hand pulled at your shirt, and you heard a stray button bounce across your floor as the garment was roughly undone. He pulled back unexpectedly, and you whined in a mix of both disappointment and annoyance. “Peña, what the fu—“

“D’you ever shut up, hermosa?”

Dark laughter stirred from deep within you, and some small part of you knew you were about to regret these words — and yet you dove headfirst into this antagonistic, hedonistic recklessness. You jutted your chin upwards, staring him dead-on in the eyes as you grinned.

“Make me.”

The words had been whispered, but the challenge in them was undeniable. Peña stood and undid his belt before quickly kicking off his pants, and much to your surprise, he wasn’t wearing any underwear. Just as you were about to make a snide comment, Peña’s hands grasped you roughly and hauled you off of the couch, your knees abruptly connecting with the cool laminate flooring. Peña sat down on the couch casually, his thickly muscled thighs spreading as he guided your small frame to rest between his legs; and you couldn’t help but stare with your lips parted as you took in the sight of his fully-exposed cock, which was standing erect before you. The length was impressive, and you couldn’t help but notice the prominent vein that ran along his shaft, but the thickness of it was what made your body throb in anticipation and need. You could feel the dampness growing between your thighs, despite the lower half of your body still being conservatively clothed, and some quiet but rational, realistic part of you wondered how you could ever take all of that inside you.

“C’mon, querida, put that smart mouth to good use,” Peña drawled, his gun-calloused hand reaching out to trace along your jawline before playfully tweaking your lip. Despite Peña’s intentionally provoking words, you held the power right now. And for now, he was forced to wait — forced to wait for you to move forward. You reveled in the power that you held in this moment; your head was cradled between the spread legs of the United States government’s most dangerous DEA agent, and yet you understood that right now, you were the one in charge, the one in control, the one in command. That truth alone sent an electric kind of excitement coursing through you.

You placed both of your soft hands onto Peña’s muscled thighs, noticing how he quivered at your touch; and as you licked away the precum spilling from his reddened tip, you reveled in how he groaned desperately, wantonly, with every trick of your tongue and lips. You licked a wide, flat stripe along the underside of his thick and twitching cock, before swirling your tongue around the reddened and swollen head several times, and then finally taking him entirely into your mouth and into your throat. The unfiltered, unrestrained sounds of pleasure Peña made while your mouth was on him only bolstered your confidence; and you pushed yourself to take his length even further, feeling his neatly trimmed pubic hair brush against your nose as the full, hardened extent of Peña completely filled your mouth and throat. The sensation was intense, overwhelming, threatening to make you gag on his length. Breathing through your nose was crucial, as Peña’s cock was now fully lost to the open warmth of your mouth, and his cock twitched with each stroke and sway of your tongue.

You felt a quivering need growing within your core, aching from the distinct absence you felt, needing to feel him inside of you. At a certain point, you apparently weren’t moving along him at a sufficient pace, and you could feel him repeatedly rutting against the back of your throat before he suddenly used a fistful of your hair as leverage, to move up you and down his length at a startling speed. You pushed against your body’s instinctual urge to gag or pull away, the full sensation of him buried in your throat being almost too much to bear; tears pricked your eyes at the overwhelming sensation, and the few that escaped only seemed to spur Peña forward — quite literally.

Absolute filth was spilling from Peña’s mouth, a fragmented mix of English and Spanish, as he simultaneously praised and degraded you; and yet you somehow found pleasure in both the degradation and the affirmation. You were certain that you could never set foot in a church after this evening with Peña; his consecration and desecration of your body would surely be unforgivable.

“Such a good fuckin’ girl - so fuckin’ good, takin’ me so deep in your mouth like that,” he panted, his length now ramming forcefully against the back of your throat, making you choke and heave in the most desperate way. “Got you fucked silent — ‘least for a goddamned minute — clearly you like t’run that fucking mouth — turns out you just needed a cock shoved in it t’keep you quiet.”

His calloused hands found their place in your hair, twisting and pulling in a way that allowed for him to fully control your movements; pulling you up and away from his throbbing cock, you choked on the sudden intake of oxygen and fought to regain some semblance of composure, but you were already too far gone. Peña smirked at the sight of you; your makeup smeared and melting, drooling at the corners of your mouth, your head feeling dizzy — which only served to send his ego sky-high.

“Mmm, so you’ve clearly enjoyed my cock so far, querida, but what will you share with me? Maybe,” he paused, moving his thickly-corded arm against your body and towards your core. “Maybe, you’ll share this sweet, desperate, pathetic fucking pussy with me.”

You whined wantonly, embarrassingly, as his nimble fingers moved along your sex. Tracing torturously slow circles around the sensitive bundle of nerves, you whimpered, before moving your hips to chase his featherlight touch. This was the man that you hated, the man who had made each and every day a living nightmare. And yet —

Your body arched upwards, into the wise and knowing touches of Peña’s hand, feeling the fire in your belly stoking even higher and higher as you chased the orgasm that you questioned if he would allow you.

Two thick, trigger-trained digits sank deeply and definitively into your heat, stretching you out in preparation for what was to come; you gasped in delight and surprise at the feeling of Peña’s fingers buried within you, feeling full in a way that you hadn’t experienced in quite a while. You rocked yourself against his hands, soft sighs escaping from your constricted throat.

“Well would you look at that,” he hummed, a self-satisfied smirk taking up residence on his chiseled jaw. “You’re takin’ my fingers so good. You ready to have my cock buried in that desperate fucking pussy? Shit, querida, feels like you’ve never been fucked right before, the way you’re fuckin’ grippin’ me right now.”

Your sense of pride and civility had clearly been lost, as you writhed beneath him with an embarrassing degree of desperation; he had nipped and barbed and jabbed you into a sort of submission, quelling some of the fire that typically stirred within you. All you needed was him — and you lost any and all sense of shame as your body vocalized what your heart and your head could not. “No, Javi, haven’t been — fuck — need you to fuck me, please, been so long —“

He chuckled darkly, his voice roughened from the countless cigarettes and hours of angry, desperate interrogations. “Shit, all you had to do was ask, hermosa — would’ve given you what you needed — no need for all this fighting.”

You rolled your eyes instinctively as you stood up from the laminate flooring, your joints appreciating the relief as you stretched with a satisfying sigh. Your surprisingly-steady hand reached out to connect with Peña’s muscled chest, pushing him backwards and into the couch with no small degree of force. Without his body pressed so distinctly against yours, it was much easier to stoke your flame of arrogance and irritation that had served you so incredibly well in getting under Peña’s last nerves. Feeling a particularly agitated spark growing within your chest, you leaned into it, spitting your words at the DEA agent before you. “Clearly, fighting is like fucking foreplay for you, Peña. Have you ever fucked someone who didn’t hate you? Even once?”

He was silent for a moment, and you could see the absolute maelstrom of hatred and lust and rage and agitation and attraction that was boiling within him. A disturbing sense of peace settled around you for just a moment, allowing you to speak once more. “How about Lorraine, huh? How much did she hate you, before you left her at the altar? — Oh, yeah, I read your file — the interviews, the background check, all of it. You broke her heart, but truth be told, you never really had it to begin with.”

Ooh, shit. You had probably crossed about eight too many lines with that last comment; you were never good at knowing where to stop, once you had finally been pushed past that threshold. You were calm and collected 99% of the time; but goddamn, if someone pushed you to that 1%, all lines and limits were gone, obliterated by your ego and rage.

Although you knew that you had severely overstepped, a mixture of fear and pride surged within your gut, only to be met by the stinging blow of Peña’s hand against the soft expanse of your cheek. The heat and the pressure of the blow was blistering, but in a terrifyingly satisfying way, and you fought to bite down the pathetic sound that momentarily threatened to break through. Your head shifted with the blow, but not before you noticed the startlingly blank and inexpressive look on Peña’s face.

“Oh no, you don’t hate me, Doctora,” he drawled casually, his darkened eyes dragging across you like nails on a chalkboard; his gaze was intense, overwhelming, made a shiver run down your spine. “No, you see, you just hate how you feel about me, hate how desperate I make you feel.” His voice was low and tense, you could almost feel the pressure in his throat and chest, constricting within your own body.

You rolled your eyes in an illusion of annoyance, secretly reveling in the way you had gotten under this skin, to surprise him, to unnerve and shock him. Your response was just as leisurely of a drawl as his had been. “Didn’t answer my question, Peña.”

His dark eyes locked with yours, the intensity almost terrifying. “I’ve never fucked anyone who wasn’t eagerly consenting. And while you may act like you’re some tough, cold-hearted, emotionless bitch, I can see right through you.”

“Oh yes — I can see that you’re so meticulously in control all of the time, it’s an obsessive need. And shit, querida, it makes working with you a fuckin’ nightmare, especially with you nagging me about details all the goddamn time. And yet even with all the nagging, even with the locktight grip, you’re always so… calm. Always so… rigid. No, not rigid.”

“Frigid? Is that the word I was looking for? Yes, I think so.” He chuckled dismissively, eyes skating across you.

“Ah, but I can see through all that bullshit, querida. You might be the boss out in the real world, sure — but in the bedroom? You’re the kind of girl that needs someone to wrestle away that control, to make you fuckin’ submit,” he choked out harshly, an avalanche of need crashing through him as his large palms roughly grabbed your hip and your jaw. You could feel his trimmed nails digging into your flesh and you whimpered wantonly, reflexively; you had no sense of shame in this moment, although the morning light might hold other truths.

You had tried to fight off the crashing, overpowering sense of desire and desperation that rolled through you, as Peña clocked the truth for what it was. He was right, that you needed release — and not just in the form of an orgasm. No, you needed to relinquish control — the same control which you clung to desperately, insistently, continuously. You needed to let it all go, to let someone else direct you and guide you, to take charge, to take the weight of responsibility and propriety off of your shoulders.

But that submission wouldn’t come easily; oh no, it would be hard-fought, and a feat in and of itself. Submission meant trusting Peña wholly, and relinquishing your hard-fought, somewhat-authoritarian sense of self.

Had Peña earned any sort of submission from you yet? Had he shown you any evidence as to why you should trust him? No, you thought to yourself. He hadn’t even made you cum, much less given you any sort of indication that you held any more value than the prostitutes he frequented. You might have a secret and inherent need to submit — but you weren’t going to make it easy for him, you weren’t going to be coaxed into submission by just anyone.

Peña’s thickly-corded arms wrapped around your frame, picking you up and lifting you effortlessly before depositing you onto the still-stiffened couch. The rough grey fabric dragged across your back with each movement with each shuffle and adjustment, but you didn’t dislike it, as the abrasive stimulation heightened your senses. Peña hovered above you, his weight resting on his forearms, as his deep brown eyes searched yours for any last-minute indication of hesitation or reservation.

Sensing none, he leaned downwards and kissed you aggressively; your tongues danced against one another in a sloppy symphony before you felt the broad head of his cock pressing against your center. You cried out as you felt the heavy tip of him brush against your clit, only to pull away in a teasing manner. Your breath hitched with each teasing stroke against your soaking-wet folds, and you viciously dug your nails into his tanned, muscled back; with all of that teasing, he deserved to feel some degree of desecration and degradation as well.

Just as your clawed hand was moving towards his narrow, sharply-cut hipbone, he sank deeply into the throbbing and pulsating heat of your cunt. You cried out at the excessive intrusion, your body struggling to take all that which he was giving; and Peña’s already-fragmented voice shattered as he lost himself to the incredibly tight and gripping sensation of your cunt.

“P-Peña — “ You began, your overwhelming desperation for him now hanging on the tip of your tongue.

His calloused hand came upwards to trace against your jawline, before finding its resting place against your throat, the intention behind the pressure entirely unmistakeable. His thumb was pressed securely against your jugular, while his remaining fingers corded themselves across the expanse of your throat. Using his newfound leverage to slightly cant your face upwards, he stared contentedly down at you, his projected calmness beguiling that which roiled underneath the surface. “You’re gonna call me by my name when I’m fucking you, querida.”

You coughed out a rackety, quiet laugh, despite the hand that was wrapped around your throat and constricted your air supply. “Call you — call you by your name? Is that what you want?” You asked, something vicious and darkly spiteful roiling inside of you, in conjunction with the shockwaves of pleasure that radiated through your body. You felt Peña slam his hips shamelessly into your quaking frame, understanding that at this time he was intent on teaching you a lesson, proving a point — presumably one about respect, or maybe about keeping your mouth shut. Not that you were good at either of those things in this context.

“No, I don’t think I will, Agent Peña.” You smiled coldly. You were never a model student anyway.

He continued to drive into you at an unyielding pace, until you were left soaked and sweat-stained. Halfway-suffocated, faintly-choked cries fled from your lips, assuming Peña was not keeping your lips otherwise occupied; you felt dizzy, disoriented, like you were spinning and tumbling through zero gravity, and though the only thing keeping you earthbound was Peña’s forceful thrusts that kept you rammed into the abrasive fabric of your grey couch. The lights of the apartment were blurry, all you could hear was the explicit slapping and squelching of your bodies conjoined with the fuzzy sound of the radio, and all you could feel was the weight of Peña’s body driving into yours.

You felt a familiar tight heat swelling within your abdomen, and you wrenched your eyes shut as you chased that high, chased that release; and right as you were hovering against that edge, walking on that tightrope of desire, Peña abruptly pulled away from you. The complete loss of contact was disorienting; you felt like Alice falling down the rabbit hole, tumbling and spinning and out of control.

Catching your breath, you gazed up at Peña with confusion and rage. Before you had a moment to think, your hand swung upwards to connect with his stubbled jawline —

The stinging in your palm felt perfectly indulgent, satisfying the rage in your chest, but it was short lived.

Peña tutted like a schoolteacher, his hand coming upwards to gently cradle yours. “That’s not how you get what you want, hermosa. Only nice girls get to cum.” You were about to fire off a retort, before his palm securely wrapped around yours; using his leverage, he brought your own hand downwards to crush against your throat, holding it in place as you writhed underneath him and gasped for air. He surveyed you with a neutral expression, flexing his grip against you experimentally. “Let’s try that again, shall we?”

You sputtered out a stifled and gritty response.

“Go fuck yourself,” you choked, pure hatred coursing throughout your veins.

Peña laughed coldly. “I know you don’t really mean that, hermosa. Which is why,” he sighed dramatically. “Which is why I’m going to make you cum. Honestly, I just have a feeling that you’ll be less of a miserable bitch once you do. Call it an investment in my future.”

You vision was spotting in some places, some areas growing dark and indistinct; and although you pushed back against his powerful grip, he still continued to hold your own hand against your throat. As the world began to swim and sway around you, something cracked — like a crack in the Earth’s crust, like an earthquake that threatened to swallow cities. Something cracked — and that something was you.

The fight within you finally died out, like a fire that had been sufficiently suffocated. Your body relaxed, giving into every thrust, every inch, every ounce of contact and pleasure that was offered, and you didn’t fight it any longer. You felt an immense sense of relief with your relinquishing, with your submission; and as Peña continued to ram his cock deep within the pulsating heat of your cunt, you whined pathetically and greedily.

“Shit, Peña, please — fuck — Javi, please let me cum — please let me cum for you —“

He groaned in overwhelming, intoxicating pleasure — you had finally let go, you had finally been wrestled into submission, and hearing you beg for him? That threatened to make him finish right then and there. But he was a gentleman, despite behaviors which would indicate otherwise, and he was determined to have you finish first. Grinning widely, boyishly, his hands moved away from your throat; one moved to trace down across your goosebump-covered flesh before roughly playing with your nipples, while the other hand found its proper placement at the apex of your thighs, carefully and consciously stroking, tweaking, pinching, and rubbing at your sensitive clit.

Your body was tensing and tightening with each thrust, with each stroke, with every modicum of contact, and Peña had to bite the inside of his lip to fight off his impending orgasm; he had to tear his gaze away from your face, knowing that the look of blatant, unabashed pleasure on your face would be his undoing.

You felt your abdominal muscles twitching, as a familiar and overwhelming heat crested within you like a tidal wave. “Javi — fuck, Javi — gonna, fuck — m’gonna cum, please, please, please,” you cried, feeling the blistering heat of unshed tears with every blink of your bloodshot eyes.

He growled lowly, quickening his paces in every manner possible. “C’mon, doctora, cum for me — let that pretty pussy make a mess of me — gimme somethin’ good to think about when you’re being an absolute fucking cunt at work —“

The orgasm hit you like a train that was barreling off the tracks, crashing headfirst into you, knocking the air out of your lungs and your soul out of your body; clenching and crying around his cock, wave after wave of pleasure and overstimulation assaulted and assuaged you, leaving you wholly disoriented and lost to the white-hot heat that obliterated and assaulted every nerve within your body. You whimpered and whined pathetically as he continued to pound into your overstimulated and now-pliant body, chasing his own high as your thoroughly-fucked cunt fluttered and gripped the length of his cock.

You were fully spent, melting into the sofa as he tossed you around like a rag doll; his broad and blisteringly-hot hand found its way to your cheek once more, but rather than slapping you as he had earlier, his index and middle finger traced roughly across your lip before forcing your mouth open, proceeding to bury both digits in the wet heat of your mouth.

“Si, si, mierda — perfect fuckin’ cunt, gonna f-fill you up, querida, y’gonna feel me inside you all fuckin’ week —“

Peña’s words were cut off abruptly by a low groan that echoed throughout the small apartment space, threatening to rattle the damn windows; and you felt his cock twitch inside of you, as your insides were coated with the sticky heat of his release. While some small part of you was alarmed by this, another, more primal part of you reveled in it, a strange and curling sense of satisfaction snaking its way up your spine.

His frame sank into yours as the orgasm subsided, the weight of his body pressing you further into the couch. Some small part of you wanted to draw out this contact, wanted to hold him tightly against you as your hearts beat in tandem to a nervous and staccato rhythm; but a sinuous and sinister piece won out, reminding you of exactly how much you hated this man and the suffering that he had subjected you to, reminding you of all of the other women he had shared this sort of intimacy with.

It was as though two armies were now colliding within you, one fighting to keep him close and to cling to this exceptionally vulnerable connection, while the other fought to force him out, to exile him and to regain the control that had been stripped from you.

Peña seemed less concerned about the weight of the world surrounding you as he rolled the hot weight of his body off of yours, still cradling you closely to him as he relaxed into the sofa. His sinewy, muscled arms wrapped securely around your midsection, holding you tightly against his sweating, gasping frame as you both fought for some semblance of composure.

“Put up an awful dramatic fight there, querida, but it was fun while it lasted. Took you a goddamn minute to learn your place. So now, my question is, are you still gonna be this stubborn and frigid in the office?”

Oh, that comment was truly the end of your rope.

You rose abruptly from the couch, extracting yourself from his grasp. That familiar caustic flame of hatred was reignited within you, making your haunches rise up and your skin prickle at the very sight of him. “What happened tonight, Peña, was a fluke. An error. A deviation. You can rest assured that this,” you emphasized, gesturing between the two of you. “This will never happen again.”

He continued to lean against your couch, stark naked, half-hardened cock resting against his thighs. “I don’t believe that for a goddamned minute, doctora. Clearly nobody’s fucked you like I have. I’ll be waiting, for whenever you come back ‘round.”

You sputtered, trying to settle on a snarky response as he pulled his pants up and tossed his shirt over his shoulder. He winked at you as his broad hand — the same hand that had been buried within you, wrapped around your throat, tweaking your nipples, pinching your clit — turned the doorknob and opened the door to the sweltering heat of the Medellín night.

“I’ll see you Monday morning, querida. Bright and early.”

****************

TAGLIST: @knivesareout @bdavishiddlesbatch @louderrthanthunderr @pedrostories @onebrownoneblue

#narcos #Pedro pascal #javier pena #javier pena smut #javier pena x reader #narcos fanfiction #pedro pascal smut

149 notes · View notes