sweet creatures; aaron hotchner (on hold) — agent ophelia holmes steps in as unit chief when agent aaron hotchner is in the hospital after his encounter with the reaper. who knew all of this would happen because of just one conversation?
it's never over ; joel miller (ongoing) -- he could admit that he was using tess to fill the void left in his soul the day he walked out on her. twenty years ago, he flew too close to the sun and panicked. he was convinced that was his last chance at finding true love. he'd accepted that. but what he couldn't accept was the fact that everything was worth getting to her, and he'd do anything to keep her.
the fool ; pedro pascal (ongoing) — her first big role, a dea agent tasked with taking down pablo escobar’s empire in columbia. she accepted, and the next thing she knew, she was being forced into a year-long pr relationship with a man she’d barely met. when it’s finally over and she feels broken, she has to finally ask herself, who really was the fool?
Plot Summary: Divorce is meant to be final, the end. When two people stop caring about each other. But not when one of you forgets to update your emergency contacts.
Chapter summary: More than two years later, life has moved on for you and Javi, but then a crisis hits.
A/N: 18+only. Warnings for potential pregnancy loss. I’ve finally decided how this ends. One more chapter to go…unless something happens to change my mind 🥰😂
Masterlist
🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫🔫
March 1997
The horse is called Marta.
Javi named her before Ava could talk well enough to object, which Ava made clear was a procedural injustice she hasn’t forgiven. She’d counter-proposed Princesa, Flora, and Azul in the years since, each time formally and earnestly. Javi heard each proposal, gave it serious consideration and each time delivered the same verdict.
“Marta”, he said. “Se llama Marta.”
Ava had eventually accepted this.
She’s up on Marta now – the small red boots you bought her finding the stirrups that Javi has adjusted down to their absolute minimum, her hands on the reins with the concentration of a surgeon. Javi’s beside her on foot, one hand on the bridle, walking the slow circuit of the paddock put in along the south side of the property last spring.
You stand at the kitchen window with your coffee watching as the morning light comes in from the east side of the house, the thing you were told about but hadn’t entirely believed until you lived inside it. Six-fifteen in summer, Javi had said. It’s March now and it comes a little later, softer, lying across the kitchen counter in the long pale stripe that you've been navigating around for more than two years as if it’s a physical object.
Outside, Javi’s talking to Ava, and though you can’t hear the words, you can tell they’re conversing in Spanish. It makes you smile hearing it – the patient register of it, the specific voice he uses with her that’s slower than his regular Spanish. The teaching version, the voice he uses when he’s building something in her that’s going to take a while to build.
Her Spanish is far better than yours, which has become a source of both pride and mild humiliation. She says something and Javi tilts his head the way he does when he’s correcting her gently, saying the same word back at her with a slightly different weight. She repeats it and he nods, making her sit up straighter on Marta, the pride visible from the kitchen window.
You put your hand on your stomach and stroke the round weight of it, wondering if this baby will also turn out to be a fluent, Spanish horse rider.
You’re seven months along, the bump crossing from possibly bloated to unmistakably pregnant somewhere around month four. You feel the baby move regularly now, and what at first felt almost alien, now is as normal as breathing.
You’re still getting used to it, because it wasn’t specifically planned. You and Javi didn’t decide to start trying one day, rather you just stopped trying to prevent it. It took longer than you thought it might otherwise have, but you’ll never forget the look on Javi’s face when you showed him the positive test – the shock that turned to delight within seconds – and the way he scooped you up into his arms then immediately put you down as though he might break you.
This pregnancy has been so different from before. With Ava, you were effectively alone, attending appointments, making preparations and thinking about the future as a single mother. There was no-one to put their hand on your stomach, no-one to buy you spicy chips when you needed them, no-one to toss names back and forth with.
Javi’s been there for all of it so far – every appointment, every whimsical purchase, every name battle. You’ve already vetoed most of each other’s suggestions, agreeing on only one boy’s name and one girl’s name – which effectively means you have actually agreed, only you’re not quite prepared to admit it yet.
Turning away from the window, you gaze around the kitchen.
The house still surprises you sometimes when you come around the corner of the drive and see it there among the oaks, real and solid and exactly where Javi had put it with his hands that December morning two and a half years ago. The builder from Laredo has done it right, exactly as he’d wanted it. The east-facing porch runs the full length, deep enough for the table and chairs and the swing Chucho made from a barrel he'd been saving for no reason he could name until the reason appeared.
The oak branch has its rope swing and Ava’s tested it approximately forty thousand times with more mishaps that you care to remember.
The kitchen has its double aspect – south windows and east windows, the light coming from two directions in the morning. It’s a kitchen you can live in – and you do, considerably more than any other room.
The room Javi designated for you is off the east porch where it gets good morning light. You’ve put a long worktable in it for the designing and ordering and invoicing for your store – Soledad.
You didn’t pick the name because the previous owner had run it for twenty years, was retiring to her daughter's house in San Antonio and wanted it to go to someone who wouldn’t rename it after themselves. The name suits the space – a narrow storefront on Matamoros Street with coolers in the back, a workbench in the front and the specific smell of cut stems and wet floral foam that you love.
You work three days a week, your assistant Eliza taking charge the other days, and, on those days, Chucho takes care of Ava. It had been his own suggestion, and both he and Ava love the time they spend together. She follows him around whilst he does his morning work, narrating the details in Spanish and you know they’re both going to miss one another when she starts pre-school in the Fall.
She constantly comes home with her pockets full – feathers, a piece of bark, a stone – trinkets that she insists are kept even if they have no useful value to the naked eye. You empty them at the end of the day and put them in a bowl on the windowsill of her room that has now become two bowls and is likely to become three before summer.
The shop’s doing well. You have regulars, people who bring their occasions back to the same counter year after year, all of them arriving at the narrow door and leaving with something you've made.
You’re good at it and though you know you’ve been good at it for a long time now, you feel good here in a way that makes it feel like yours, rather than an extension of what your parents built.
The wedding had been small – bigger than your first one in Bogotá, but smaller than it might otherwise have been. You and Javi had been on the same page about that, especially given it was a re-marriage. You held it on the ranch nine months after your New Year’s visit when the building work on your home was already underway. Your parents, who arrived three days before, spent most of the time sitting on Chucho’s porch drinking iced tea and saying very little because very little needed saying.
This time felt different and the thing that made it different wasn’t the location or the September light or Ava in the white dress and sequined sash you chose. It was standing beside Javi and knowing what the years had cost and choosing it anyway.
Again, the officiant had said. You've chosen each other again.
Your parents visit regularly now, your mother cultivating a specific relationship with Ava that operates entirely outside your jurisdiction in a place which things are allowed that are not allowed normally – extra dessert, two stories and money pressed into her palm for toys or magazines or sugar which makes you roll your eyes.
Your father and Javi have arrived at what can only be described as an understanding. They talk about fencing, recommendations for truck tires, and the simultaneous watching of sport on the television with the volume too loud.
No-one mentions the past.
It feels like family – the made kind, the assembled kind, the kind that’s been built from decisions rather than blood.
You think about Joel sometimes.
Not every day, rather the thoughts surface at odd moments when something specific triggers them.
Mostly you think about him when you look at Ava and, when you do, the overwhelming feeling you have is that you hope he’s safe. You hold that hope for him in the way you hold things that aren’t yours to resolve – at a distance, with care, without expectation. He’s chosen his life and you’ve chosen yours.
The grief you feel has changed too. It’s not gone – you don’t think it’ll ever go entirely – and you've made a kind of peace with that, with your heart that’s large enough for the love it holds in full and the grief it also holds, and these things aren’t in competition.
Javi knows this. You've talked about it – not often, not at length, but honestly, in the way you talk about things now that have been hard to talk about before. He’s so different from the man he was before, even more since moving back to Laredo. He’s not the DEA colleague you regularly fucked on filing cabinets anymore, or the husband that kept you in the dark.
He’s open, honest and true, in a way you’d never have imagined.
He laughs more than he ever did and that’s the thing you notice most.
That and the fact that you’re happy.
You have the east light on the kitchen counter in the morning, the sound of Spanish coming through the window, the collection of treasures in the bowl on the windowsill and the baby moving inside you.
This is what you wanted, and your old life seems so far away.
****
This particular Saturday afternoon the house is quiet. Javi’s taken Ava to Chucho's after lunch, her pockets already full, the inventory of whatever’s in there to be presented for the old man's inspection.
You’re meant to be working on the shop orders for April and the invoice for a hotel that’s commissioned centrepieces for a conference. You’ve brought it all to the table in your room and are now sitting in your chair having done none of it
Instead, you've been looking out the east window at the oaks, the rope swing moving slightly in the afternoon wind and Marta dozing at the fence line.
You put your hand on your stomach and think about your baby – about how he or she will fit into this family, what colour you’re going to paint the nursery and how Javi will cope if you end up having another girl for him to become a slave to, because that’s clearly inevitable.
You muse for twenty minutes before you think you should probably do the invoices, but when you stand up to kill more time by making tea first, a sudden pain hits you.
It’s sharp – the word landing in your body before your mind has caught up.
Wrong.
This isn’t the kind of pain that you remember from your last pregnancy or that you’ve been told to expect this time around. This isn’t the round aching weight of the baby growing or the occasional ligament complaint.
This is sharp and low, with a seizing quality to it that takes your breath.
You sit back down and wait for it to pass, keeping instinctively still, hoping that whatever’s happened will fix itself given a moment. But it doesn’t pass. It comes again, the second wave of it harder and you press your hand flat to your stomach as if pressure can negotiate relief, then rise to your feet and look down.
The blood is dark red, seeping through your jeans and trickling down your legs to pool on the cream carpet under your feet.
“Oh God,” you say out loud, staring down at it, the first thought not that which you thought it might be. “The carpet.”
The pain strikes you again as you stumble towards the door, one hand still on your stomach, the other reaching for the doorframe, finding it and gripping it hard.
You need to get to the phone, and you can’t remember where it is. You think you brought it through with you, but a quick glance back at your desk shows that it isn’t there, so you try to scroll your mind back through your movements that morning.
“Kitchen,” you tell yourself and turn in that direction, but the pain comes again before you’ve made it three steps down the hallway. It’s lower and deeper this time, the kind of pain that says, something is happening and it is not going to stop happening because you ask it to.
Your hand finds the wall, the plaster warm from the afternoon sun coming through the hall window.
Phone.
Call Javi.
Move.
The voice in your head isn’t panicking. It’s a deliberate voice, the kind that knows panicking isn’t on the list of available options right now, and it’s a voice you recognise. It’s the voice that has gotten you through other things – arguably worst things.
Such as when you were lying in the dusty Miami heat with three bullets in your abdomen wondering why he wasn’t there so you could die in his arms like you’d promised.
Was that worse than this?
You move forwards, your body making the decision for you, and traverse down the hall with your hand on the wall, less walking, more using it to conduct yourself from one point to the next until you reach the kitchen – and can’t see the phone.
“Fuck,” you swear softly, your eyes moving to the door out onto the porch. If you get outside, perhaps there’s a chance of someone seeing you. Javi might come back with Ava or there could be a delivery or a wandering trespasser or…
The air hits you first, warm with the smell of dry grass and cedar and the creek somewhere below. You stand in the doorway, breathe in and for one specific moment feel like it’s possible that the air will fix this, that the outside will renegotiate the terms of what’s going on inside your body.
Then you look down and see that your jeans are no longer blue. The blood has coated them entirely with a wet darkness.
“No…”
You reach for the rail, your hand finding it then losing it, and the porch boards come up fast to meet you as you slump down, the wood warm under your cheek.
You lie looking at the rope swing moving in the wind in your peripheral vision.
Javi.
Ava.
The baby.
Please don’t let us die here.
****
You hear the truck before you see it – the sound of tires on gravel and the engine growing louder as it approaches. It’s Javi’s truck, you’d recognise it anywhere, bringing Ava home from Chucho’s. You can hear them chattering in Spanish as they get out, hear the doors slamming shut and the sound of their boots.
Then there’s a sudden silence that seems to go on for too long, before Ava lets out a shriek of terror.
“Mama!”
Seconds later he’s by your side, his hands on you – your shoulder, your face – turning you gently.
"Querida,” he says, voice edged with panic. “Look at me. Look at me! What happened?!”
You haven’t even realised that your eyes have been closed. It’s only when you open them and find yourself squinting against the light that you understand. His face hovers above you, his mouth open, and underneath that – terror, clear and undisguised.
"Javi…" you murmur.
"Dios mío," he says quietly, eyes scanning you, voice shaking over the words.
"The baby…. I don't know…I had pain and then…"
"Okay," he says, taking a breath and nodding. "Okay, I’ve got you. We’ve got this."
Pulling his phone out of his back pocket, he punches in the emergency number and gives the address to the dispatcher in the flat tone of a man delivering information and not allowing himself to feel anything about the information while the delivering is happening.
"Papá…"
You hear Ava’s trembling voice from the bottom of the porch steps and see her standing with her hand on the rail, wide-eyed and clearly terrified.
"Ava," Javi says, his voice changing completely as he covers the mouthpiece of the phone. “Come here, pequeño.”
She moves over to you slowly, and he puts his arm around her with the phone still in his other hand and his eyes still on you and the dispatcher's voice coming calmly down the line.
"Mamá está bien," Ava says quietly, her eyes on you.
"Sí," Javi says. "Mamá está bien."
His eyes meet yours and you can see the fear in them, see how he’s trying hard to say one thing whilst feeling another and knowing that you can see both.
"I'm okay," you say softly for Ava’s sake, even though your head is spinning from the blood loss and you can’t feel any movement in your stomach.
"I know,” he replies too quickly, propping the phone against his ear. “Eight minutes? That’s too…okay, okay…please hurry.” Then he hangs up and moves his face closer to yours. “Listen to me, querida.”
“I’m listening,” you reply, conscious that your voice feels smaller, reedier, to your own ears.
"You stay with me, okay? Just stay with me. Eight minutes – they’ll be here in eight minutes, por favor."
"I'm here," you whisper.
"I know," he nods, swallowing hard. "Stay here, okay? Don’t leave me."
Ava tucks herself against his side, her hand finding yours, small and warm, lying against the wood. "Does it hurt?" she asks quietly.
"A little, but I’m okay, baby. I’m going to be okay."
Javi grips your other hand tightly and your gaze flies to meet his again as the minutes tick endlessly by – eight minutes feeling like an eternity when you could be losing the baby neither of you expected but both now desperately want.
In the end, the ambulance takes longer than eight minutes and by the time it arrives, Chucho’s already there, hurrying up towards the house, panting heavily with the exertion.
“Papa!” Javi calls to him. “Toma a Ava!”
“Si,” he grunts when he reaches you, his arms already extended to her.
Ava hesitates, her eyes still on you, her hand gripping yours, until Javi takes hold of her shoulders and turns her gently to face him. “Go with Chucho, pequeño.”
“I want to stay with Mama,” Ava replies, her eyes filling with tears. “Por favor, Papa.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You need to go with Chucho.”
The paramedics are around you by this point, fixing a blood pressure cuff, assembling a stretcher and asking you questions that you try your best to answer. How many weeks, your blood type, your OB’s name, whether you’ve experienced anything like this before. Javi fills in the blanks in a voice that any outsider would consider calm, but which you know means he’s struggling to hold on.
Ava stands a few feet away with Chucho, watching as you’re loaded onto the stretcher and wheeled over the gravel towards the ambulance, Javi releasing his grip on you long enough to hug her, kiss the top of her head and hurriedly promise his father he’ll call as soon as he has news.
Then his hand finds yours again and doesn’t let go.
****
It takes thirty-one minutes to get to the hospital, exactly thirty minutes longer than you know Javi wishes it would take.
“You’re doing great,” the paramedic keeps saying to you throughout the journey when she’s not asking questions you’ve already given the answers to.
“Twenty-eight weeks,” you say weakly, when she asks you again, Javi’s grip on your hand tightening.
"Tell me what you think it is," he says.
The paramedic looks at him. "The doctor will assess her properly when…"
He stares at her, eyes impossibly dark. "Tell me what you think it is.”
She looks at you, then down at her notes. "The symptoms are consistent with placental abruption. That's when the placenta…"
"I know what it is," he says quietly, eyes moving to the window above his head. “I know…”
"Javi," you say softly and his gaze flies to you. "Don't.”
"Don't what.”
"Whatever you're doing, don't."
He looks at you for a long moment, then pulls his gaze to the window again and doesn’t say anything more.
But his grip on your hand doesn’t loosen until you’re pulling up at the ER.
Inside, the hospital is busy and bright – almost too bright for your eyes. A doctor, whose name you don’t catch, conducts a rapid assessment and seconds later, an ultrasound machine is being wheeled in and you wince as the cold gel touches your skin.
Javi stands at the side of the bed, not holding your hand anymore but rather with his arms crossed defensively against his chest, his eyes on the screen, looking for the clear evidence of new life you both saw only a few weeks ago and trying to read the doctor’s face as she watches the swirling shapes in front of her.
"Is there a heartbeat?" he asks finally, impatiently, as the doctor moves the wand and seconds later, you hear it – fast, small but there.
He makes a low sound in his throat that’s half a groan, half a sob and his hand comes back to find yours, pulling it up to his lips and kissing across the back of your knuckles.
“Okay,” he says shakily, looking at you. “See? The baby’s okay. She’s okay.”
The doctor confirms what the paramedic suspected. You’ve suffered a placental abruption, where the placenta separates from the uterine wall, partial in your case, the specific language of partial versus complete carrying its own weight in the room. Partial is better. Partial is the version of this that has options.
“You’ll need regular monitoring until your due date,” the doctor says, wiping your stomach clean. “And bedrest. If the bleeding continues, we might need to intervene and deliver early. But, if this is going to happen at all, it’s better happening when you’re this far along, because we’ve got a much better chance of a successful outcome.”
“Meanin’ what?” Javi asks plainly.
“Meaning, that both mother and baby survive,” she says succinctly.
“So, there’s a chance that…”
“Javi,” you say softly.
“…I could lose both of them?”
The doctor looks at you, then back at Javi. “I’m not going to lie to you, a full placental abruption can be fatal for both mother and baby. Like I said, this is only a partial abruption. If everyone is careful, there’s no reason why this can’t continue as a normal pregnancy.”
Her pager bleeps and she excuses herself, leaving the two of you in the room alone together, your baby’s heartbeat echoing in your ears like a drum.
Javi sits down heavily in the chair next to the bed, elbows on his knees, his hands together and looks at the floor between his feet.
"Say it," you coax after you’ve studied him for approximately a minute.
"Say what," he says, lifting his head.
"Whatever’s happening in your head, say it."
"This is…" he stops and looks at the monitor. “I’ve spent a long time…” He stops again and swallows hard, shaking his head as though he can’t continue.
"Take your time.”
He looks at his hands. "The things I did," he says quietly, “in Colombia. The methods…Los Pepes…what I did to you. What the work was. I’ve spent a long time tellin' myself it was necessary. That the end was worth it. That the body count on the other side of it – the cartel, the traffickers, the men who deserved it…and then there were the ones who didn't deserve it. The ones who were in the way or the ones who knew too much or the ones who…I told myself I was past it. That leavin’ the DEA…that it was worth it.”
"And now?”
He looks at you, then looks at the monitor again.
"And now I think maybe it doesn’t work like that," he says "Maybe you don't get to put it down and call it settled and walk away to a beautiful new life. Maybe it comes back through the things you love. Through…"
"Javi,” you stop him, and he looks at you. “No.”
"You don't know…"
"I know that's not how it works," you say. "I know you didn't do anything to cause this. I know placenta abruption is a medical event and it doesn't care what you, or I, did in Colombia. And I know that somewhere in the last twenty minutes you’ve decided that this is your fault, and I am telling you that it isn't."
“But…”
"Javi, I'm here. Our baby's here. That heartbeat…" you look at the monitor, then back at him. "That heartbeat is right there. That is not a punishment. That is a twenty-eight-week-old baby with a very strong heartbeat being thoroughly uncooperative with any narrative you're trying to build about cosmic justice."
He huffs a breath that might be a laugh. "Thoroughly uncooperative?”
"Like its father," you say softly.
He looks at the monitor again. “Her father.”
“You’ve decided it’s a girl?” You smile at him and he smiles back, small and weak, but a smile, nevertheless.
“It’s a girl,” he confirms. “And if she’s thoroughly uncooperative like her father, then I know she’ll be beautiful like her mother.” Leaning forwards, he reaches for your hand and once more brings it to his lips. “I love you, querida.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, reaching for his other hand and placing it on your stomach. “We both do.”
“Isabel,” he says quietly, rubbing his thumb gently over the swell.
“Isabel,” you agree.
****
Chucho arrives at seven with Ava, dressed in her pyjamas and unwilling to go to bed until she’s had the opportunity to see you and make sure you’re alright. He tries to apologise to Javi for bringing her out, but the sentiment is waved away because both of you are glad to see her.
She comes straight over to the bed and looks at you. “Are you better, Mama?”
“Yes baby, I’m all better now,” you say softly as Javi lifts her up so she can snuggle carefully against your side. “Are you okay?”
“I was scared,” she says in a small voice, her body warm against yours.
“I know. I’m sorry you had to see that, baby.”
“Ava,” Javi points to the monitor. “Look.”
“What’s that?” she asks, lifting her head and blinking.
“It’s the baby’s heartbeat,” he says. “Latido. Can you hear it.”
“Latido,” she repeats and he nods as she stares at the screen. "Is the baby okay?"
"Yes," you say.
“Are you sure?” She looks at you formally and seriously, as though she’s daring you to change your answer, and whilst you want to be honest with her, you’re not convinced she needs to know all the details right now.
“I’m sure,” you reply, kissing the top of her head, and she stays pressed to you for the next hour until Javi gently tries to disentangle her from you so that Chucho can take her home.
"No, I don’t want to go,” she protests loudly, rubbing her eyes. “Quiero quedarme con mamá.”
"Come now pequeña," Chucho says in a voice that isn’t loud, but also isn’t negotiating and Ava stops and looks at him, wide eyed. "Vamos.”
"Go home and sleep, baby," you say, “and we’ll see you in the morning."
"Promesa?” she asks.
"Promesa," you reply, giving her a final kiss before Javi lifts her into his arms, squeezes her tight and then passes her to Chucho. She wraps her arms around his neck, looking at you over his shoulder as he walks away, her small hand waving until they turn the corner and disappear from sight.
After they’re gone, you try to rest, but Javi doesn’t sleep.
You know this because you don’t sleep either, not fully, and every time you open your eyes in the dimly lit room you see him in the chair beside you, sometimes with his arms crossed, sometimes with his head bent, but always with his eyes open.
“Go to sleep,” you say at one point, your voice thick with fatigue.
"I'm fine."
"Javi, please."
“You need the sleep more than I do, querida. Close your eyes.”
You do as he asks because, eventually, you can’t stop yourself and when sleep does come, you dream about your house – the porch, the light, the rope swing and Marta. You see the years stretching ahead of you, the four of you and Chucho on your porch, laughing, making memories on the land which has that purpose, and your body makes a bargain with your mind.
I’m not done with that house.
I’m not finished with that life.
Neither of us are.
****
At two am, the night doctor comes to check on you. He looks at the monitor, at the chart and at you. He asks you about your pain, which has lessened now, and checks the readings whilst Javi watches him with laser like focus.
"The bleeding’s slowed significantly,” he says, with a pleased nod of his head.
"What does that mean," Javi asks, rising from the chair.
"It means the immediate crisis is stabilising. But I want to be careful not to overclaim. She'll need monitoring for the next twenty-four hours, but the trajectory right now is better than it was four hours ago."
Javi looks at the monitor. “What about the baby?”
“There’s a strong heartbeat, as you can hear," the doctor says, "and good movement readings. We'll do a full assessment in the morning when the OB is in." He looks sympathetically at Javi, as though he’s seen many men like him before. "Sit down, and get some rest,” he says gently. “Your wife’s going to need you.”
Once the doctor leaves, Javi slumps in the chair again and puts his head in his hands. Reaching out, you put your hand on his hair and stroke it gently.
"It's better," you say.
"Yes.”
"The baby's okay." He nods. "And I'm okay.”
He looks up at you, and you can see tears hovering in his eyes. "You scared me," he whispers. “I’ve never been so scared in my damn life before, querida and I know that sounds crazy given everythin' we’ve been though…”
"It doesn’t.”
"But when I saw you on the porch…and I saw the blood, and Ava was sayin' somethin’ and I wasn't…I couldn't hear what she was sayin’ because I was lookin’ at you and…I can’t stop thinkin’ about what might have happened if I hadn’t come back when I did. If I’d stayed longer at Chucho’s or taken Ava somewhere else or…" he swallows. “What if I’d come back and it’d had been too late…”
"Javi, I’m here – we’re both here.” His eyes slide to your stomach. "All three of us.”
He exhales heavily, then moves from the chair over to the bed, sliding onto it beside you, carefully shifting you a few inches further over, before moving his body next to yours and burying his face against your shoulder, one hand resting over your stomach.
“What if this had happened before,” he says quietly.
“What do you mean?” you ask, your hand moving to rest over his.
“What if this had happened when you were expectin’ Ava. You’d have been alone. You…” he breaks off and nuzzles his nose into the crook of your neck. “I don’t like thinkin’ about you bein’ alone.”
You rub your hand gently along his forearm, pulling him tighter to you and lacing your fingers through his. “I wasn’t alone, Javi – I had Ava.”
His breath stirs against your neck, and you think he’s about to protest, about to tell you that’s not what he means, and you know it. But no sound comes and you realise that he’s finally succumbed to sleep.
Synopsis: Nicole is seeing the man (Joel Miller) who she began house sitting for in Haddonfield. Upon feeling a lingering presence following her beginning on October 30th, Nicole starts to feel uneasy. The name Michael Myers is often thrown around in the town he was supposedly murdered in, but Joel convinces her to let her guard down.
Other reoccurring characters: Ellie, Marlene, Michael Myers, Dr. Loomis
Pairing: Joel x OC Nicole
Warnings: Sexual references, eventual violence, swearing, age gap (20s & 40s)
Nicole couldn't think of it as a coincidence; she couldn't ignore it. Not when the same green station wagon she had seen earlier that day sat dormant by the curb. She had no idea how long it had been parked out in front of the home where she volunteered to house sit. Aside from the man’s beagle she was alone, and an eerie feeling made the hair stand up on the back of her neck when she imagined the intentions of the stranger behind the tinted windows of the strange vehicle.
Paranoia crept in as she sat by the front window under the cover of darkness staring out toward the desolate street.
What did he want? Why was he parked out front?
Questions swirled in Nicole's mind and she felt frozen. The one that spooked her the most was: why? There were a limited number of answers as to why someone would follow a young woman and then park outside of the house where she resided. All of them were disturbing and left an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"Shit..." Nicole swallowed hard and felt compelled to stay put by the window. A memory of the opening scene from Scream flashed through her mind and she tried her hardest to think rationally.
She glanced over her shoulder toward the corner of the living room and eyed a wooden baseball bat. Without another thought Nicole hurried away from the window to retrieve it and then prepared to sit perched by the window for as long as the car lurked.
Since high school she had been babysitting or house sitting to make money. As a college graduate she hated how that fear of a stranger breaking in had not even remotely subsided. It was surely irrational and unlikely, she knew, though the thought still haunted her at twenty-three years old in the same way it did when she was sixteen. This time, there was valid reasoning for her anxiety. Nicolr closed her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath.
A faint jingling sound made her eyes immediately snap open and she abruptly rose to her feet. Nicole eyed the thin silver handle on the front door as it slowly rocked from side to side.
No... Nicole closed her eyes again for a brief moment and then reopened them. The handle continued to turn with a polite consistency as if not to disturb whoever was inside.
She raised the bat above her shoulder and took a step in the direction of the front door. Realistically Nicole didn't know what she would do if an intruder actually walked in.
It's locked, she reminded herself though the notion didn't make her feel any better. Someone was attempting to slip quietly into the house uninvited.
When a loud click sounded off she almost thought she was in the midst of a nightmare. Inch by inch the door creaked open and all she could do was wait.
Nicole felt the thud of her heartbeat in her ears and then the worst thing she could imagine happened.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! Her body froze. A wave of panic reddened her face and left a paralyzing tightness in her chest just as the door eased open.
"Hello..." a familiar, scratchy voice greeted.
Nicole stared straight ahead, her body still aching with fear as a man entered the home. He glanced over to where she stood like a statue gripping the bat with white knuckles and a smile spread over his face in Cheshire Cat-like fashion.
"Joel?" A warmth spread through her limbs and her body relaxed. Nicole's hands ached as she loosened her grip on the wooden handle.
"What the hell are you doing honey?" He let out a chuckle and gently closed the door behind him, securing the lock.
"I thought..." she swallowed hard and let her body completely relax. "I thought you were away again tonight... that's why I'm watching your dog."
Joel continued to grin and reached a hand down, accepting the bat from hers and ran his other hand over the trim beard he sported. All the fear she had been feeling died down another notch when he kicked off his shoes. “I was going to stay up at that conference a second night but I wanted to.. sleep in my own bed.” He added, “Thought I’d surprise you.”
She couldn't help but smirk at him a bit, though needed to voice her concerns. "I didn't see you pull up. Someone... someone's parked outside.”
Joel squinted his eyes and then pulled the curtains back. His eyes shifted from side to side as he scanned the street in front of the house. "Where?" He asked.
Nicole joined him by the window and felt the conflicting emotions of relief and fear when she saw that the station wagon had disappeared.
"It... it was right there," she pointed with her index finger. "A green station wagon. I saw it earlier too. You don't think-"
Joel leaned in and kissed her, pulling her toward him by the cheek as he cupped the side of her face with one hand.
Nicole kissed him back for a moment until his grin separated their lips. "Joel you don't think... could someone be following me... or us?"
He laughed out loud and tapped under her chin with his first two fingers. "That's movie shit honey." Joel looked back out the window and then drew the curtain back into place. He smiled wide again, highlighting a set of dimples beneath his perfectly trimmed facial hair. "Probably someone who was visiting a neighbor or something."
Nicole took a deep breath and then gave a subtle nod.
"Look if this is too much-" he began but she immediately cut him off.
"It's not." Nicole shook her head and then subconsciously reached for the string on his hoodie that hung against his chest. She toyed with it a moment and then finally managed a smile. "I... sometimes being alone in someone else's house like this just freaks me out, I guess."
Joel snaked his fingers through the belt loops on her jeans and guided her back to him, connecting their lips again. "Well, you're not alone anymore."
Nicole felt desire replacing the anxiousness and fear that had paralyzed her body a moment before and melted against him. She disregarded her feelings of paranoia and immediately switched gears when his arms were around her.
Joel sat back on the couch and reached for both of her hands. He gave a gentle tug, prompting Nicole to sit on his lap as they continued to make out on the couch.
Nicole sighed into a long kiss and felt him do the same. “I'm glad you're home early.”
"Mmm… I missed you." He whispered against her lips.
Nicole eagerly slipped her tongue back into his mouth, moaning as she did and let out a deep breath through her nose as they parted.
She unbuttoned her jeans and then shimmied them down, maintaining eye contact with Joel a she purposely took her time. When his Adam's apple moved up and down in his throat she couldn't help but grin.
"Mmm..." he gave a small smile back and unfastened his belt. “Do you still want to spend the night herr?”
Nicole straddled him before he could remove his pants and kissed him hard again.
Joel leaned his head back against the couch cushion. "You didn't answer my question."
"I’d love to,” Nicole replied. She looked down, taking the top button on his pants between her thumb and index finger before regaining eye contact as she unclasped it.
The sound of breaking glass by the front door made both of them jump and Nicole put her hand over her chest.
"What was that?" She looked at Joel, who was now immediately on guard.
"Stay here." He rose to his feet and listened intently as he made his way slowly toward the front door.
Nicole swallowed hard, not feeling quite as crazy about the station wagon now as she watched Joel ease his way across the room. When he opened the front door her heart rate picked up.
Joel looked up at the light fixture that hung by the door and pressed his eyebrows together angrily when he saw the bulb had been shattered and the small lighting display hung crooked against the house.
"Fucking kids," he mumbled to himself.
"What is it?" Nicole asked, not masking the fear in her voice. She pulled a blanket over her lap.
Joel shouted aloud. "Come back again and you’ll fuckin’ sorry!”
"Joel..."
He slammed the door and locked it before switching his gaze back to Nicole. "I used to love mischief night as a kid. Now I fucking hate it."
"What happened?"
"Someone shattered the light bulb and bailed." He made his way back to her and placed his hands on the back of the couch behind where she sat, capturing her lips again as he bent down to kiss her.
Nicole kissed him back for a second and then forced him to look her in the eye. "I have a bad feeling. That car-"
"It's kids, honey.. classic mischief night shit." Joel kissed her again, this time drawing his lips down her neck. "Besides... I’m confident I can tune up anyone who's stupid enough to try to break in here." He smiled to try easing her mind and then removed the blanket from her lap. Joel repositioned his lips so they hung by her ear and spoke quietly, "Take the rest of your clothes off.”
Nicole took a breath and smiled, closing her eyes when he began to kiss her neck again. Before she could respond there was a pounding knock at the front door.
"Mother fucker..." Joel pushed away from her angrily and stormed toward the front door. Nicole held her breath as he flung it open.
Nicole's heart was pounding in the seconds leading up to the big reveal of who was on the other side of the door. When Joel gave a hearty laugh she let her guard down while laying back under the blanket in her half-dressed attire.
"Marlene." His voice was accompanied by a sigh. "You come here because you and the rest of the Haddonfield police caught the little prick who just smashed my light up?"
"Actually..." she cleared her throat and paused. "Can we come inside for a minute?"
Joel gave a subtle glance over to Nicole and then headed out the front door. "Why don't I come out?”
He closed the door behind him and headed onto the front porch. A smile spread across his face when he saw Marlene’s surrogate daughter, Ellie Williams, standing off to the side eyeing the ground.
"Well, what do we have here?" Joel asked, just slightly amused. He half-smirked to himself as Ellie looked up at him and then turned back to Marlene. "Don't tell me this one’s responsible for this." Joel motioned to the broken light without looking at it.
Marlene glanced at Ellie for a moment, giving a look of utmost disapproval. "She’s going to replace it for you,” adding, "And now she's not going out tomorrow night for Halloween."
"Oh, what the hell? Come on!" Ellie began but Marlene immediately silenced her.
"He can press charges for damaged property," she went on. "And that means I arrest you."
"Whoa easy there chief." Joel smiled wide again. "I'm not going to be the guy who makes a mother arrest her daughter over some crummy light fixture." He glanced at Ellie. "I did dumb shit like this when I was a teenager too, kid. But, damn, are you fucking up my night."
“Marlene isn't my mom,” Ellie corrected.
"I'll send her by tomorrow with the replacement," Marlene promised.
Joel eyed the broken light and tapped it with his fingers. "Home Depot, forty bucks. Don't sweat it." He nodded toward Ellie. "Next time you do shit like this don't get caught.”
Ellie almost flashed a grin but she fought it off and then cleared her throat. "We'll be by tomorrow." She looked at her caretaker.
"You'll be by tomorrow," Marlene corrected.
"Does that mean I get the car?"
Joel let out a louder laugh before motioning to Marlene. "This kid is funny as shit, you know that?"
"She'll be by tomorrow," Marlene repeated, dryly.
Joel continued to get a minor kick out of the situation and smiled wide again. "Don't get caught sneaking out tomorrow night," he said to Ellie. "I know you're going to try." Joel raised his eyebrows at Marlene. "Happy Halloween. Lights out so don't come knocking again until tomorrow night." He laughed at himself and then reopened the door, returning his attention to Ellie. "Night kid."
Joel re-entered the house as Marlene pulled Ellie with her off the porch toward her squad car. He laughed to himself again and locked the door before returning his attention to Nicole.
"I told you it was kids." He raised his eyebrows. "And the sheriff's kid no less."
She laughed, feeling a bout of relief. "I heard."
Joel approached her again and kissed her once on the lips before sitting beside her on the couch. "Now will you let your fuckin' guard down honey?"
Nicole smiled when he snaked a hand beneath the blanket. "Do you want to go down the hall?" She asked him.
Joel shoved his pants down so they fell around his ankles and pulled her back on top of him where he sat so they were face to face. "I think we're doing fine right here."
Nicole wrapped her arms around the back of his neck, smiling as he chuckled and pulled her lips back to his. She let the station wagon fade to the back of her mind as she indulged in her desires for Joel. After the sophomoric disturbance that evening, she was convinced the perceived threats were all nonsense. Life was good.
well 🧍♀️ as a reminder this blog is NOT a safe space for trump supporters but it IS a safe place for women, queers, trans ppl, people of color, undocumented people, and any marginalized group.
pairing: general marcus acacius x virgin!wife!reader
content warning(s); dual pov, arranged marriage, implied age gap but nothing specific, period typical misogyny (Ancient Rome), mentions of violence/warfare, mention (1) of sexual violence (not against reader), mentions of pregnancy, attempted bedding ceremony, reader has hair that can be pinned back, steamy kisses, crazy amounts of sexual tension, discussions of consent because consent is sexy mandatory, virgin!reader, SOFTTTTT marcus acacius, romantic and intimate as hell, grievous historical inaccuracy because it's fucking fanfiction, canon divergent because duh
a/n: this has been living in my head for weeks now, along with every new photo we get of general marcus acacius because of course. this can be read as a prequel to bloodlust, or read entirely on its own. the reader insert is written as the same character in each fic.
this will be part 1 of the wedding night, and part 2 will include smut :)
---
You considered bolting as the sun rose on the morning of your wedding day. Stealing one of the nobleman's horses, putting as many miles as you could between yourself and the General's country house.
But, from what you've heard about the General, there would not be a corner of the earth that he would not find you in.
Your palms were clammy with sweat as the handmaidens pinned your hair back into a style of a bride. You wondered how they couldn't possibly hear the quick, panicky beating of your heart as each moment brought you closer to what you considered a life sentence.
General Marcus Acacius is venerated like a god in Rome, and anywhere else. Men boast about his wartime accomplishments as if they were their own, and ladies whisper about his scarred face like they would a demon within the walls.
So many rumors swirling around the Emperor's most esteemed general.
His hands were permanently stained red with blood, he burns the heads of his enemies in sacrifice to the gods, he kills men with icy calculation, takes women with fiery passion.
You could only imagine what kind of monster was waiting for you at the altar.
---
Marcus was in no good spirits on the day of his wedding, the marriage forced on him almost as much as it was forced on his...
Gods above, his bride.
The idea of having a bride was almost as foreign as you yourself were, since never once had Marcus even considered marrying anyone. With all the bloodshed and near-death experiences, he never exactly considered himself a man that was meant to be a husband. Or a father, for that matter.
Marcus tried not to shudder at the end of the aisle as the chorus began singing, sounding all to close to a death march.
At the sound of the choir, you entered into the wedding hall, for all gods and men to see.
His bride.
The world seemed to be brighter, the flowers bloomed more beautiful, and Marcus' vision turned clearer as you stepped into his sight.
For a moment, he forgot all about the blood of men on his hands. The shame that burdened him was cast off. Maybe he wasn't completely condemned to the Underworld.
The very possibility of you being his bringing him more relief than any wine or fine lady. The possibility of you being in his life was... redeeming. Redefining. Remaking.
One look, and he made a vow, but not to you. To himself.
If any harm were to come to you, he would unleash the fury of the gods upon them. He would protect you to the end of his days. Honor you, and serve you, however you may wish.
---
Fear coated your every nerve as you beheld your soon-to-be husband.
Nothing could have prepared you for just how mighty General Acacius was. Tan, broad, and mighty, dressed in fine white robes similar to yours. His bare hands were strong, made for swinging axes, throwing punches, and taking what he wanted. At the altar, he seemed to be near brooding, speaking his vows quietly, his voice like a roll of thunder.
You managed to keep your voice steady while you spoke your vows, but there was nothing you could do to keep your hands from shaking as the priest brought out the rings.
The general reached for your hand, and you were unable to keep from trembling.
His touch was warm on your skin, his calloused fingers surprisingly gentle as he slid the gold wedding band onto your finger. You found the nerve to meet his brown eyes, finding something utterly unreadable as he held your gaze. Could it be... fondness?
Gods, he was beautiful.
His touch steadied you, though you still exchanged rings with a thundering heart.
"In the sight of Gods and men, you are now Husband and Wife. You may kiss your bride, General."
The priest's words echoed in your head.
Husband and Wife.
The general leaned forward, an unspoken question in his warm eyes.
Swallowing, you gave a near imperceptible nod.
For such a harsh man, such a dominating man, his kiss was utterly... soft. Tender. Almost coaxing.
After a moment, he pulled away first, and you could've sworn he lingered, cherishing the air between you... before turned to the cheering wedding party.
In an instant, he changed, switching from the gentle kiss of a lover to a commanding force, a man that drinks in praise like fine wine.
A mighty man, indeed.
---
Marcus tried his best to not feel too wounded that his new wife was completely terrified of him.
He felt the thundering pulse in your hand as he slid that ring on, and he wondered if you saw the wedding band as a chain, a set of shackles. It's all too true for other women in Rome.
You barely spoke to him during the wedding feast, only giving small nods and forced smiles in between sips of wine. He had a good feeling you were resisting the urge to swallow it down in one gulp.
Marcus couldn’t help but study you— at first innocently, taking in the curve of your lips, the shine of your eyes, the polite smile you gave when someone offered congratulations.
Damn his dirty mind. As the night went on, and the celebrations continued beyond what he would’ve liked, he tried, and failed, not to eye your body as a means of distraction from the rowdy feast.
It started with your neck. He traced the slope of it with his eyes, marking every freckle and curve. He prayed to all the gods that you would want him to leave his marks on you.
Downward, he peeked slightly at your breasts whilst cursing himself. Of course, they appeared perfect beneath your wedding stola, and he wondered what manner of sounds you would make when he took them into his hands, into his mouth.
And then… Gods, those hips—
“Time for the bedding ceremony!” Emperor Geta jeered, pulling you from your seat with a firm jerk of your elbow. His eyes were greedy, scheming. “Let us see what is underneath that—“
Your face flushed with either embarrassment or fear or both. And that was all Marcus needed to see.
“There will be no bedding ceremony.”
Marcus lowered his voice to a deep warning, the kind that has sent men running for their lives.
Geta scoffed, still holding to your elbow. “It’s a wedding, Acacius, it’s your wedding. Don’t you want to show off the prize of your latest conquest? Distribute the winnings? Strip down that—“
Marcus stood, towering several inches over Geta’s slimy face. “I said… there will be no bedding ceremony.”
Geta kept his hands on you, and Marcus’s vision tinged with red hot fury.
His voice was a rumble, a threat in itself. “It’s my wedding, is it not? And I say there will be no bedding ceremony.”
People were watching now, the feast gone silent at this standoff.
Marcus knew how to pick his battles, cut his losses. But when staring down Geta, the most powerful man in the empire, he realized that for you, he would pick every single one if it meant he kept you safe.
The moments that passed were crackling, the tension between the two men sucking all the air from the celebratory hall.
Geta saw something in Marcus’s unyielding gaze, something that told him he would not win this fight, and decided the bedding ceremony wasn’t worth the scrutiny.
As the Emperor walked away, Marcus took your hand, and led you to your marriage bed.
—
You couldn’t find the words.
The general nearly trembled in rage on the walk to the bedchambers, but still, he maintained that odd gentleness, holding your hand as if it were the most delicate thing in the world.
Servants opened the grand doors as you entered, showing a large room with a massive four poster bed and elegant tapestries lining the walls—
Then the doors shut. And you were left alone with the legendary, bloodletting general.
And you still couldn’t find the damn words.
You knew what came next. The husband will take what is now his.
In this case, you expected your husband to take you in the same way he took lands for the empire— violently, mercilessly, with the intention of forging new legacy, through a son of Rome.
“Before you ask, my General, I wish to assure you that I am untouched,” you blurted, quoting what your mother taught you to say before you were to be… intimate. “I am pure, though I can only hope to be worthy—“
“Darling wife,” the general said quietly, so different from the commanding force from the feast. He held your hands in his, leaning down and kissing your knuckles in reverence.
You went silent, shocked at the soft fondness in his tone.
He peered at you with curiosity, and almost amusement. “The only thing I wish from you is for you to call me by my name, not title. No general, no lord, but my name. I hear it so little nowadays that I will look forward to hearing it from your lips.”
“As you wish… Marcus,” you breathed, eyes locked on his.
Marcus let out a little sigh, like he was relieved. “It’s much prettier when you say it.”
You drop your head in bashfulness, more confused by the moment. The way he spoke so kindly, so fondly.
“You know what is meant to happen tonight?” Marcus asked, almost hesitantly. You nod, undeniable fear curling in your stomach. “I need you to understand something, my darling, so listen very carefully.”
He pulled you toward the bed, sitting you both down on the silken sheets. His eyes on yours were discerning, and intent, like he was searching for something within your stare.
“I will never, ever, force myself upon you. Not in this life, or the next, or the next. I know what you might’ve heard about me, and much of it is true, but never would I take a woman without her permission. You belong to yourself, and if you never should like me in your bed, I will honor that to the end of my days."
You blinked at him in confusion. "So, you do not... you do not want me?"
Marcus exhaled sharply, looking down at your intwined hands. "That... that does not matter."
"Why not? A husband has the right to take what is his--"
"No man has any right to take a woman's body for himself, husband or not. What... what do you think is to happen tonight?"
Heat rises to your face, embarrassed at the question. By the look on his face, he was embarrassed, too.
"I don't... I don't know how it works, but some of the other wives at court say that the consummation of marriage is one of the more... painful duties of a wife. What you are meant to do to me... it's painful," you murmured, and quickly begin stammering. "B-but is it a great honor to serve you, my--"
"May I kiss you, darling?"
Some candles had been left burning, illuminating him in a warm glow. Marcus's eyes were soft, a rich, chocolate brown in the light of your bedroom, and something about them made your core flutter like one of the candles.
"Yes... yes, please."
Marcus smiled softly, and moved his hands to the sides of your neck. They were scarred, and calloused... and so warm.
His lips met yours almost hesitantly, like he was holding himself back. They were tender, tasting of sweet wine. Fingers curled lightly into your pinned hair, pulling you closer as his chest pressed against yours.
You moved your mouth with his, suddenly feeling the need for... more. You didn't know what, but you just knew you needed it.
His tongue slipped against yours, and the groan that left his throat left your pussy throbbing.
"Marcus--" you gasped, losing your breath as his lips traveled down to your neck. You could've sworn he moaned in response, sucking at your pulse point, leaving it a delicious shade of red--
"Do you want me to keep going?" He gruffed, trailing light kisses along your throat.
Oh, gods, how you wanted him to. "Yes, but..."
Marcus withdrew instantly at your seemed hesitation, pulling his mouth away but keeping his hands in your hair.
"I'm fearful," you admitted, holding his tunic to keep your hands from shaking with both desire and nerves. "Not of you, but... the rest of it."
Marcus nodded, swallowing. "We could continue kissing, if you like."
You laughed lightly, the nerves mellowing for a moment. "I'm not sure I'm prepared to have you in that way, but I know that I want to. I know that I... I want you."
Marcus's soft eyes shone with fondness, but had a wicked edge to them, like he was plotting something.
"I know I want you as well, darling. I promise, I will make sure you are prepared to have me... perhaps even over-prepared."
Your brows furrowed with confusion. "What do you mean?"
