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worlds-we-write · 2 months ago

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The Weight of It All

pairing: Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader

summary: You’ve been hiding your sickness—and the truth—from Joel for weeks. But when a pregnancy test confirms your fears, the weight of it becomes too much to bear. Telling him risks reopening old wounds… but keeping it secret might break you both.

WC: 3.8K

tags: Age gap (60s Joel x 30s reader), pregnancy reveal, anxiety, crying, panic, mentions of past child loss (Sarah), emotional vulnerability, soft Joel, comfort, domestic tenderness, happy ending

My Masterlist

You’ve been sick for days. Maybe longer.

It started as something small—dull headaches, a little nausea in the mornings, that tight ache behind your ribs when you stood too fast. Nothing worth bringing up. Not with Joel. Not when he already worries too much.

You’d blamed it on stress. On the cold. On whatever dried meat Maria had handed you from the trade post. But it hasn’t gone away. It’s gotten worse.

Today, it hits harder than usual. Your stomach twists before your eyes even open. You lie in bed, curled on your side, one hand pressed to your mouth, breathing shallowly through your nose.

Joel’s already up. You hear him in the kitchen—footsteps creaking across the floorboards, the soft clink of silverware, the low grumble of the stove catching. You try to move, but the moment you sit up, your body rebels.

You make it to the bathroom just in time.

You vomit hard, clutching the edge of the sink like it might keep you tethered. Cold sweat beads on your neck, your spine prickling with heat and nausea and panic.

It’s not the first time this week.

And still, you haven’t told him.

By the time you pull yourself together, Joel’s voice is already calling down the hallway.

“Breakfast’s ready. You up?”

You splash water on your face and don’t answer right away. You can’t. Your reflection in the mirror looks pale, your lips chapped. You stare at yourself a moment too long.

Then you step into the hallway like nothing’s wrong.

He doesn’t question you.

He never does at first.

Joel’s at the stove, dividing up the food onto two plates. It’s not much—just scrambled eggs and a toasted slice of bread—but he’s humming under his breath like he’s proud of it. You try to sit down without making a face. The smell turns your stomach.

“Didn’t hear you get up,” he says, voice low and easy. “Sleep okay?”

You nod. Lie.

He sets the plate in front of you. You force yourself to eat a few bites, chewing carefully, swallowing around the nausea.

“You sure you’re not gettin’ sick?” he asks after a while, studying you. “You’ve been lookin’ a little… off.”

You shake your head too quickly. “No, just tired. Stomach’s been weird. Probably a bug or something.”

He doesn’t push. Just narrows his eyes, then reaches over to squeeze your thigh under the table. A quiet gesture. Comforting. You wish it didn’t make your chest ache.

You don’t talk much after that. Joel launches into something about a new gate they’re reinforcing on the east wall, and you nod along, trying not to gag every time you lift your fork. You excuse yourself early and claim a headache. He offers to make tea. You say no.

By the time you crawl back into bed, you’re already crying.

The test isn’t something you went looking for. Not really.

It’s tucked in the back of your dresser, hidden beneath a pair of old gloves and a cracked mirror you meant to throw away. You remember Maria handing it to you months ago, half-joking—“Just in case.” You’d laughed then. Said something sarcastic. Stuffed it in the drawer and forgot.

But you find it now.

Hands shaking.

Heart pounding.

You stare at the little plastic thing like it’s a weapon.

You haven’t had your period in… shit. You count on your fingers. At least two months. Maybe more. You try to remember when the last time was and come up blank. Just nausea and headaches and crying over stupid things like burnt toast and Joel leaving his damn flannel on the floor again.

You sit on the edge of the bed and peel the wrapper back slowly.

The directions are smeared but readable. You follow them. You take the test.

You wait.

Two minutes feels like an hour.

You pace the room, bare feet cold against the floor, every breath too shallow, too loud. You’re not ready for this. You can’t be. You’ve been careful. Joel’s older. You thought…

You glance at the stick.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

No denying it. No maybes. No confusion.

You’re pregnant.

You sink to the floor and cry so hard your throat burns.

It’s not that you don’t want a baby.

It’s that you don’t know how to have one. Not here. Not in this world. And not with Joel, not after everything he’s been through. After everything he’s lost.

You think about Sarah. The photo he keeps in his coat pocket. The way he still gets quiet when kids are nearby. The way he looks at you sometimes—like he’s waiting for you to vanish, too.

He hasn’t said her name in months.

But you see it in his eyes.

You press your hands to your stomach. Try to imagine what’s inside. Try to make it feel real.

And it does.

Terrifyingly real.

But you don’t tell him.

Not that night. Not the next. Not the week after.

You keep pretending.

Keep hiding.

Keep waking up sick and saying it’s nothing.

Because you love him too much to ruin this.

And you’re afraid—so afraid—that this will be the thing that finally breaks him.

You don’t remember when it stopped being something you could ignore.

Maybe it was when your nausea turned into full-blown vomiting every other morning. Maybe it was the way your body started to ache differently—heavier, tender in places it hadn’t been before. Or maybe it was the way Joel kept watching you when he thought you weren’t looking.

You try to keep up the act. Try to smile when he brushes your hair behind your ear. Try to laugh when he mutters something sarcastic about Jackson politics or how damn cold it still is. You sit with him by the fire at night, listening to the quiet crackle of the wood, letting him rest his hand on your thigh like nothing’s changed.

But everything’s changed.

You’ve got a secret growing inside you. One you didn’t ask for. One you still don’t know how to feel about.

And it’s eating you alive.

You start waking up before Joel does, slipping quietly out of bed to vomit or dry heave into the toilet, chewing your lip to keep from crying out. You brush your teeth in silence. Splash cold water on your face. Sit on the edge of the tub until the spinning stops.

By the time he’s awake, you’re already wrapped in a blanket on the couch, pretending to read a book you haven’t turned the page on in three days.

“You sure you’re not comin’ down with somethin’?” Joel asks again that morning, a mug of tea in his hand instead of coffee. “You’ve been… quiet.”

“I’m just tired.”

He gives you a look.

You try to change the subject. “What time you heading out with Tommy today?”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. Just hands you the mug. It’s chamomile. Your favorite. He’s trying. It makes your heart ache.

“I could stay,” he says slowly, sitting down beside you. “Ain’t nothin’ urgent. We were just gonna check the perimeter out past the ridge.”

“No, it’s okay,” you say too quickly. “I’m fine. Go.”

His jaw tightens a little. Not in frustration—more like… uncertainty. Like he doesn’t quite believe you but doesn’t know how to press without making things worse.

He kisses your forehead before he leaves.

You cry as soon as the door shuts.

You wander out later, needing air, even though the snow’s still packed in frozen ridges along the path outside the cabin. The sky is overcast, the wind sharp enough to sting your cheeks. You wrap Joel’s flannel tighter around you—he left it behind again this morning—and follow the half-trodden trail into the woods behind the cabin.

No one follows.

No one knows.

You find the edge of the treeline, the big flat rock you sometimes sit on in warmer months. You stand there now, breath puffing out in clouds, staring down at your gloved hands like they might hold an answer.

You fish the test out of your coat pocket.

You’ve been carrying it with you. You don’t know why.

Two pink lines, clear as ever.

You could throw it into the snow. You think about it—feel the urge in your fingers, the burst of anger that’s starting to rise like bile. You want to throw it, scream, crush it beneath your boot, pretend this isn’t happening.

But you don’t.

You sit.

And you hold it.

And you cry again.

That night, Joel makes soup. He tries not to burn it this time. You sit at the table and pretend to eat, smiling when he cracks a joke about the carrots being too soft. You’re exhausted, not just physically but from the weight of pretending.

“Was Maria askin’ about you today?” Joel says casually, handing you a piece of crusty bread. “Said she hadn’t seen you in a while.”

“Just been tired.”

“She said you should stop by.”

“I will.”

You won’t.

Joel leans back in his chair, watching you. “You know you can tell me if somethin’s wrong, right?”

You freeze.

He says it so gently, it almost breaks you. No suspicion in his voice, just quiet concern. The kind he only shows when he thinks you’re about to run—or when he is.

You want to tell him. You do.

But fear clamps down hard on your throat.

What if he looks at you and sees a mistake?

What if he looks at you and sees Sarah?

What if this is the thing that makes him leave?

You force a smile. “I know.”

Joel looks like he wants to say more. But he doesn’t.

He just reaches for your hand across the table and holds it in his calloused palm.

And you grip it like it’s the only solid thing keeping you from unraveling.

The nightmares come next.

You dream of blood. Of silence. Of holding something small and helpless and watching it disappear. You wake up gasping, clutching your stomach. Joel stirs beside you but doesn’t wake, and you’re glad. You don’t want him to see you like this.

You start wearing looser clothes. You start avoiding the mirror. You start skipping dinner.

Joel notices. Of course he does. He’s not stupid.

“Did I do somethin’?” he asks one night, voice quiet against your shoulder.

You’re in bed, turned away from him, pretending to be asleep. His fingers brush your arm.

“You’ve been distant.”

You say nothing. Your throat tightens.

“I ain’t mad,” he adds. “Just worried.”

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood.

“I love you, y’know,” Joel murmurs. “Even when you shut down like this.”

That’s the moment your heart breaks.

Because you realize what you’re doing isn’t fair. Not to him. Not to yourself. Not to the tiny life you’re carrying inside you.

But you’re still not ready.

Not yet.

You nod into the pillow, blinking tears onto the fabric.

“Love you too.”

A week passes.

Maybe more.

You lose track of time, counting your life in nausea and guilt and half-eaten meals. Joel never says it out loud, but you can see it in the way he watches you—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle without all the pieces.

You think about telling him every night.

You rehearse the words. I’m pregnant. I didn’t know how to tell you. I’m scared.

But when you open your mouth, nothing comes.

Until finally… it does.

You don’t plan to tell him that night.

It’s the same as every other evening lately. Joel gets back late from patrol, shedding his coat and boots at the door with a tired grunt. You’re already in the kitchen, stirring soup that smells better than it tastes. You’re still too nauseous to eat more than a few bites, but you pretend for his sake.

He doesn’t notice.

Or maybe he does. Maybe he’s just waiting.

The table is quiet as you both eat. Joel hums under his breath between spoonfuls, something familiar—an old Johnny Cash tune, maybe. He thanks you like always. Tells you it’s good even though it’s barely seasoned.

After dinner, he offers to wash up, and you let him. Your hands won’t stop shaking anyway.

You find him in bed later, shirtless and reading something he borrowed from Tommy—a survival manual someone dug up from the library. He doesn’t look up when you enter. Just shifts a little to make room for you under the quilt, reaching out to rest a warm hand on your hip when you slide in beside him.

You lie there stiffly.

Heart pounding.

Stomach twisting.

“You’re awful quiet,” he murmurs after a while, voice rough from sleep already creeping in.

You swallow. “Just tired.”

“Mm.” He turns slightly, fingers idly stroking the hem of your shirt. “You been sayin’ that a lot lately.”

You tense.

“I—” Your voice cracks. “Yeah.”

Joel doesn’t push. Not right away. He just keeps tracing slow circles on your skin, quiet and patient, like he’s waiting for something you’re not sure you know how to give.

And then—

“Been thinkin’…” he says slowly. “Maybe you oughta see that doctor Maria keeps fussin’ about. Just in case.”

You flinch. He feels it.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly, too quickly.

Joel rolls onto his side to face you, propping himself up on one elbow. His brow furrows, and the concern there nearly guts you.

“You’ve been sick almost every damn day,” he says gently. “You ain’t eatin’. You’re pale. You cry at soup commercials.”

You bark a laugh that dissolves into a sob before you can stop it.

Joel’s expression shifts. Alarmed now. He sits up fully, cupping your face in both hands. “Hey—hey. What’s wrong?”

You shake your head, curling into yourself. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“What—? Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s goin’ on?”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

And finally—finally—you say it.

“I’m pregnant.”

Silence.

Not shocked. Not gasped or cursed.

Just… silence.

You feel him go still, like every muscle has locked up at once. His hands fall from your face.

You don’t look at him.

“I found the test a couple weeks ago,” you say, words tumbling now, rushed and raw. “I thought it was a stomach bug, or something I ate, but then it didn’t stop. And I remembered Maria gave me that test a while back and I just—fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, Joel. I didn’t mean to do this to you.”

“To me?”

Your breath catches.

Joel’s voice is low. Barely above a whisper. You finally glance at him.

He looks shell-shocked. Not angry. Not even upset. Just… wrecked. His eyes are wide, jaw tight, like he’s trying to keep something inside from breaking loose.

“I didn’t know how to tell you,” you whisper. “After everything. After Sarah. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

Joel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at the blanket bunched around his waist, like it might offer an explanation he can’t find in your words.

“I thought you’d leave,” you admit softly. “Or worse—I thought you’d stay, but you’d hate me for it.”

Joel blinks slowly. “You really think that little of me?”

“No.” You wipe your eyes. “No, I just—I know what this means for you. I know what it could bring back.”

Joel’s breath hitches. He leans back against the headboard, one hand dragging over his face. The silence stretches between you like a rope pulled taut.

“I ain’t mad,” he says finally.

You flinch.

“I ain’t,” he repeats, quieter this time. “Just… I need a second.”

You nod. Curl your knees to your chest. You try not to cry again, but your chest won’t stop heaving, your hands won’t stop trembling.

Joel stays where he is for a long time. Not speaking. Not touching you.

But he doesn’t leave.

And somehow, that’s what breaks you the most.

Ten minutes pass. Maybe twenty.

Then Joel shifts.

He reaches for you slowly, hesitantly, and when you don’t pull away, he pulls you into his arms.

You bury your face in his chest and let yourself fall apart.

He holds you through all of it. Lets you sob until your voice goes hoarse, rubbing your back and whispering nothing-words you barely register.

When you finally quiet, he kisses the top of your head.

“You should’ve told me,” he says, not angry. Just aching.

“I was scared.”

“I know.” He sighs against your temple. “So was I.”

You blink. “You?”

Joel nods, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes are wet, rimmed with red.

“I knew somethin’ was off. Knew it wasn’t just the weather or the food. I kept thinkin’ about what it could be, and I… I think I knew. I just didn’t wanna be the one to say it.”

“Why?”

He swallows hard. “Because if I said it, it’d be real. And if it’s real, it can be lost.”

Your breath catches.

He cups your face again, thumb brushing your cheek.

“But I’m not walkin’ away,” he says, voice rough but certain. “Not from you. Not from this.”

You close your eyes.

“Joel—”

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admits, whisper soft. “But I want to try. If you want this… I want it too.”

You nod, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I do. I really do.”

He pulls you into his chest again and kisses your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re not alone,” he says.

And this time, you believe him.

You wake to the sound of rain tapping against the window.

It’s still dark, the kind of blue-black quiet that only settles in just before dawn. Joel’s arm is wrapped around your middle, his chest pressed warm and steady to your back, one hand splayed low over your stomach like he already knows what’s growing there.

Maybe he does.

He hasn’t moved all night.

You lie still for a while, not quite ready to break the spell. The room is quiet, the fire low in the hearth, the storm outside soft but persistent. You can hear his breathing behind you—slow, even, calmer than you’ve heard it in days.

It’s the first time you’ve really slept in weeks. The first time you haven’t woken up sick with dread curling through your spine. There’s fear, still. Of course there is. But it’s quieter now. Outweighed by something else.

Something that feels a little like hope.

Joel stirs not long after, mumbling sleep-drunk nonsense against your neck.

You hum softly, shifting to face him. His eyes crack open, still heavy with sleep. You expect him to look tense. Uncertain. But he doesn’t.

He looks soft.

His thumb brushes your hip. “Mornin’.”

“Hi,” you whisper.

His gaze drifts to your stomach, then back to your face. “You feelin’ okay?”

“Better.”

He studies you a beat longer. “You sure?”

You nod. “Yeah. Still tired. A little queasy. But… it’s different now.”

Joel’s fingers flex against your side. “Yeah. It is.”

There’s a quiet pause. Neither of you says it, but it’s there in the air between you. Real. Alive.

“I kept thinkin’ about what I’d say,” you admit quietly. “When I finally told you.”

Joel smiles faintly. “What’d you come up with?”

You shrug. “I didn’t think I’d get that far.”

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his hand lingering at your cheek.

“You were right to be scared,” he says. “I was scared, too.”

You nod.

“But I want this,” he adds. “I want you. I want this baby.”

You blink fast. “You sure?”

“Sweetheart.” His hand moves back to your belly, resting there like it belongs. “I ain’t been sure about much in my life, but this?” He leans in, voice low and raspy. “Yeah. I’m sure.”

Your eyes sting again.

He kisses you softly—slow, lingering, like he’s not in a rush anymore. And for once, neither are you.

Later, when the sky lightens and the rain slows, Joel gets up and pads to the fire to stoke it back to life. You sit on the edge of the bed, wrapped in one of his flannels, watching him move around the cabin like he’s already settled into this new chapter.

He talks as he works.

“Might need to reinforce that back door soon. Wind keeps slippin’ through the cracks.”

“Mmhm.”

“And we’ll need more blankets. If you’re gonna get cold easier, can’t have you freezin’ all night.”

You smile, resting a hand on your stomach.

“Could build a new shelf for the pantry,” he adds, glancing at you. “Start settin’ aside things for winter. For… y’know.”

He gestures vaguely at your stomach, the faintest blush creeping into his cheeks.

You can’t help it—you laugh.

“What?”

“You’re nesting.”

He frowns. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

Joel mutters under his breath, but you catch the corner of his mouth twitching.

He crosses the room a moment later and crouches in front of you, palms resting on your knees.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever we need. You just gotta tell me what’s goin’ on, alright?”

You nod.

“No more secrets,” you whisper.

“No more secrets,” he echoes.

He leans forward, presses a kiss to your thigh, then rests his forehead there for a long moment. When he looks up again, his eyes are glassy.

“You ever think about names?”

Your heart lurches.

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well,” he says softly, “maybe we should.”

You stare at him.

“I know it’s early,” he continues. “But I keep thinkin’ about it. The kind of name we’d give. What kind of person they’ll be.”

You reach for his hand. “You really want this?”

“I already do,” he says.

You smile, brushing your thumb over his knuckles. “What if it’s a girl?”

Joel swallows hard. “Then I guess I’ll have two reasons to keep this world safe.”

You press your forehead to his.

And you both sit there in the early morning quiet, breathing together, dreaming of something you never thought you’d have again.

A future.

That evening, Joel pulls you into his lap while the fire crackles, his hand absentminded on your stomach, thumb stroking slow circles over the curve that isn’t there yet but will be.

He talks to the baby like he’s already met them.

Tells them how much he’s looking forward to teaching them to fish, to play guitar, to run without looking back. He jokes about how stubborn they’re probably gonna be, how it’s definitely your fault, and how he’s not gonna let them out of his sight until they’re at least twenty-five.

You laugh, and cry, and laugh again.

And when you fall asleep in his arms, it’s the first time in weeks that your dreams aren’t full of fear.

They’re full of names.

And tiny hands.

And sunlight.

tags: @lowrisemiller @pedrito-is-punk7 here ya go from a post a couple weeks ago

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gothicpaperback · 2 days ago

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THE WAY HE CARES | ELEVEN

<<<PART TEN |MASTERLIST| PART TWELVE COMING SOON >>>

wc: 4,8k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Joel Miller x You | Enemy Pregnancy

summary: Joel Miller has been my pain-in-the-ass neighbour for years. we argue more than we speak and when we do speak, it's usually through gritted teeth. but when my doctor tells me my fertility’s running out of time, panic sets in. I want a baby and I don’t have the luxury of waiting around for Mr. Right. Joel's a damn good father to his daughter, Sarah. that much, I can’t deny. so one night, fuelled by nerves and just the right amount of wine, I ask him the unthinkable: get me pregnant. no strings.no romance. just biology. i never planned on falling for him. but nothing about Joel Miller ever goes according to plan.

while the story is first person narrative, the OC female character is YOU. she is not named and barely physically described aside from being able bodied and having hair long enough to grab.

tags/warnings: neighbours, enemies to lovers, comedy, smut, sexual tension, mentions of fertility and reproductive issues, mentions of drugs and alcohol.

THE WAY HE CARES | ELEVEN

I’m still on the bed, chest rising and falling like I’ve just surfaced from underwater minutes later. I stare at the space he left behind, the dent in the mattress, the wrinkle in the blanket where his knee was. I can’t quite piece together what just happened.

One minute he was touching me like I was the only thing he could see, and the next... gone. Because what? What happened?

He left so quickly his Miller Brothers hoodie is still on the chair. I stare at it, unblinking.

He couldn't wait to get away from me.

The first sting hits me in the throat in a choke of confusion. My body is humming with leftover need, but it’s eclipsed now by disappointment.

The humiliation comes after, forcing me into a restless sleep.

I spend the next few days spiralling. First comes disbelief. I keep checking my phone like I missed something. A message. A call. A joke to smooth it all over. But after four days of silence I stop giving him the benefit of the doubt.

Fuck this whole idea. Fuck the idea of a baby with my hair and Joel's eyes. What a stupid fucking plan this was.

That’s when the anger starts. I clean the kitchen like it’s my mortal enemy. I scrub down the baseboards, rearrange every drawer, I toss the basket of baby magazines I’d started collecting. I swipe them off the coffee table and into the recycling bin like they’ve burned my hands. One of them flutters open to an article about intimacy during pregnancy and I slam it shut like it’s mocking me.

“A donation,” I mutter, slamming the fridge door. “It’s just a donation, right Joel?”

The memory of his voice makes my skin prickle. That low, calculated suggestion about increasing our odds, like this was some kind of experiment. I was stupid enough to believe it wasn’t just about biology anymore. I let myself feel things like a fucking idiot.

The worst part is seeing him, or, I guess, not seeing him because Joel has decided to revert to full avoidance mode.

I catch glimpses of him only in the periphery, his truck pulling out of the driveway early in the morning, headlights off or the sound of the garage door opening late at night. He's slipping around like a teenager trying not to get caught sneaking in.

What a fucking coward. How could I ever think he was worth my time?

I start keeping my blinds shut. Not out of pettiness, but because I don’t trust myself not to look for him. And because I don’t want him to know I’m still looking.

Because I'm not.

Even though l replay that night sometimes when I can’t sleep. The heat of his hands. The way his voice went low when he said my name. The look in his eyes when he realized what my body had done to him, how turned on he was.

But those are just ghosts now, flickers of a version of us that was never going to last.

I walk around with this raw, exposed nerve in my chest most days. My coworkers notice the shift because ’m curt, distracted, too snappy when someone makes a joke I usually would’ve laughed at.

Ben texts me a message one afternoon about the shitty office coffee and I stare at it for a long minute before replying with a thumbs up. He sends a follow-up:

You okay? You've been off.

I don’t answer and not because I don’t appreciate it, because I do, but because I’m so tired. I crawl into bed at night fully dressed most nights and spend half an hour scrolling aimlessly before I let myself cry.

I think grief is supposed to come in five stages, but mine are more of a shapeless loop.

I go from sadness to rage to resignation and back again, all in the span of a single morning. One moment I’m staring at the ovulation app on my phone wondering if I’ve ruined everything, the next I’m texting Ben a meme just to feel something normal.

Sarah keeps sending me Instagram messages and I keep responding politely but I cringe every time I see them.

Did Dad get a water balloon to the head yet? Have you ever been to Prague? It's so cool! Are you going to the BBQ this summer?

Oh fuck. The neighbourhood BBQ, the one Shellstrop hosts in her large home at the end of the block.

The one I usually attend with my store bought pasta salad and a smile because for the most part I like my neighbours.

Naw, I think I have to work that day.

I tell myself I’m not going because the neighbours will be annoying, that Joel might be there. Mostly that Joel might be there.

But by late afternoon, I’m standing in front of the mirror, putting on a sundress I haven’t worn in over a year. The blue one. The one Joel liked on my phone background.

"Or a blue sundress"

I rip it off my body, cringing before changing into shorts and a band T-shirt. I run a hand through my hair, popping gloss onto my lips before I leave.

The air is hot, clinging to my skin, and I keep telling my rapid pulse this has nothing to do with Joel. That I’m just being polite by attending.

When I show up, the backyard is full of people, kids running between folding chairs, and the scent of charcoal drifting through the air. I wish Sarah was here to talk to. Everyone else is with their buddies in conversation, laughing and clicking beer bottles.

"So glad you made it," Shellstrop says giving me an air kiss when she spots me.

"I wouldn't miss it."

I keep my sunglasses on, even when the sun momentarily disappears behind the clouds and they hide my surprise when I hear his voice.

He’s by the grill, flipping burgers with a practised hand. One of the older male neighbours is beside him chatting animatedly. He’s probably giving Joel advice on how to make the burgers perfect, but know from experience that Joel is great enough on his own.

I catch sight of his profile, his jaw tense, sunglasses hiding his eyes as well. And I know by the sudden stiffening of his shoulders that he feels my eyes on his. But he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t even flinch when I pass him to put my pasta salad on the buffet table.

Others come up to talk to me talking about how wonderful my yard looks, how nice it was of me to volunteer at the block event. I answer with a strained smile, trying to be positive but I can’t when I hear Joel laughing with one of the neighbours, a beer in his hand.

He’s happy and light and I’m here devastated at the loss of him in my life. It feels pathetic and that’s when something inside me finally settles because I realize that whatever we were doing it’s over. It wasn’t real for him and I was a fool for thinking it could be.

Because somewhere in between the jokes and the meals together and the way he looked at me that night I fell for Joel Miller hard. The realization makes me flush just as fast as it makes me want to be sick.

In love with a man who doesn’t want me, the classic case of me.

So I eat my pasta salad, make polite conversation and when I leave I don’t look back in his direction once.

On Monday morning, I wake up different. I don’t check the blinds, I don’t check my phone for a message from him. I put on a dress that fits tightly and pin my hair up. I don’t even glance in the direction of his house when I leave for work. I have sealed off my heart.

I go to work early, focus harder than I have in weeks and I stop myself from rereading old texts. I clear the half-written draft of a message I nearly sent him yesterday.

Hey Joel I wish we could talk. I miss you and

Deleted without thought because I’m done.

And Wednesday when I'm exiting my car, he’s just stepping out of his front door in his work boots and jacket. But I don’t care. He hesitates when he sees me and for one long second, we’re both still. My heart thumps in my chest. Am I angry? Upset? Hurt?

Then he gives a short nod, almost like a flinch, and walks to his truck without saying a word. I clench my teeth and walk inside. I let the door shut behind me, keys in my hand, heart like a cold stone in my chest.

He looked tired and unshaven, like he hasn’t been sleeping. But that’s not my problem. It was never my problem. We tried and we failed. There’s no version of this where I chase after him demanding an explanation.

Maybe that’s the quiet death of whatever we were; no big fight, no apology. Just the slow fade of people who were once something, and then weren’t.

One night, I look at the notepad beside my bed, where I once scribbled down baby name ideas.I tear the page out, folding it and sliding it into the drawer without ceremony, determined to read it only if I ever feel ready again. Maybe I never will.

I curl up on the couch with a blanket and a mug of tea and for the first time in weeks, the silence feels like mine again.

Sarah comes home a few weeks later, eyes bright and a gift bag under her arm. She throws herself into my arms, squeezing me when she catches me leaving for work one morning.

"I missed you," I tell her honestly. "The block didn't feel the same without you."

“You just missed my baking.”

“Possible.”

"My dad drive you crazy all summer?" She laughs. I try to return it but I know it doesn't reach my eyes so I change topics.

"How was Europe?"

She talks so much and for so long that I'm actually late for work, but I don't care. I love her enthusiasm and how her face lights up when she insists I open my gift. I open the box inside the bag, sure to emphasize how gorgeously wrapped the box is.

“When we went to Prague I saw this at the market and thought it was so pretty."

I lift the lid to see a small charm in the shape of a nest with tiny eggs attached to a silver bracelet. Delicate and beautiful and … she got this for me? Her silly old neighbour?

"Sarah," I breathe, "this is stunning."

“The lady at the stall said it was for new beginnings," Sarah says with a shrug. “I don't know why but when I saw it just felt like you."

"I love it," I tell her with a winning smile.

I realize my relationship with Sarah will not wane, even if her father is a bastard. I smile and embrace her again and insist that she and I go to dinner one night, my treat. She seems tickled by the idea.

After that I head to work and start making plans. If I'm not getting pregnant I'm sure as hell not putting off getting laid by Ben. He's been quietly persistent for months. Never pushy, never rude. Always just on the verge of being explicit without being vulgar.

So when he texts me Thursday night talking about work stuff I drop in casually that I'm looking at a very boring weekend ahead.

He takes the bait.

I could make it more interesting. 😈😈😈 Oh could you? Dinner? 7pm? I'll pick you up? Would love it.

I sent him my address, cheeks warming. That familiar sensation of girlish excitement, the sweet, twisty feeling of new romance. It’s the first time in days I’ve felt a glimmer of anticipation that doesn’t decay in my stomach.

Ben surprises me with a dinner at a tucked-away little wine bar in the city. Candlelight, smooth jazz, pasta made in-house. He hits every detail effortlessly and with a smile. He's the kind of guy who keeps his phone in his pocket and asks me questions like he actually wants to know the answers.

For most of the night I let myself forget everything else. I laugh while touching his arm, I flip my hair over my shoulder and lean forward to press my cleavage together, I sip red wine and feel the warmth spread into my chest for reasons that have nothing to do with alcohol.

At one point, Ben reaches across the table and runs his thumb lightly over the back of my hand and I don’t pull away.

“I'm so glad you agreed to this,” he murmurs. “I've been crazy about you since the second I saw you at the office."

I blink, startled by the genuineness of it, marvelling that a man can be so straight forward and emotionally intelligent. Unlike some southern neighbours I refuse to let myself think about.

“Sorry,” he says, pulling back slightly when I just stare at him. “Too much?”

“No,” I say smiling faintly. “Just unexpected. In a good way.”

He’s perceptive, kind and tonight with the night air warm and the sidewalks full of soft city light, I want to be the kind of woman who’s ready for someone like Ben.

We get back to my house just after ten. I invite him in for coffee without thinking, keys jingling in my hand as we step up onto the porch.

"I'd love to," he says before glancing around the street. "Nice neighbourhood."

“Best kept block in Texas, nice and quiet,” I say with a little smile, unlocking the door. “Except when the neighbourhood moms host book club which is really just code for margarita night.”

He laughs, warm and easy. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

I push the door open, standing back to let him in, when a voice cuts through the evening air behind us.

“You forget something?”

The tone is dry, almost bored, but the voice is unmistakable.

I turn my head slowly. Joel's standing at the edge of his driveway, next to his trash bins. Holding one of those silver recycling cans like he just happened to come out at this exact moment. It’s my recycling can. It happens sometimes, his stuff ends up on my driveway, mine on his.

But normally he just places it back on my curb. Never in the years I’ve been his neighbour has he come over to hand it back. He’s barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a faded black T-shirt and he's glaring directly at Ben.

Ben glances over his shoulder, offering a polite smile. “Evening.”

Joel doesn’t smile back. “Evenin’.”

I try to keep my voice neutral. “Hey, Joel.”

Joel’s gaze lingers on the soft drape of my dress and my bare shoulders. The way Ben is standing just a little too close, like the warmth between us hasn’t worn off yet. I wonder what Joel sees and what he thinks is going to happen.

Then again, why should I care?

“You can just leave the can there,” I tell him airily. “I’ll bring it in later.”

I turn back toward my front door, stepping inside. “Come in, Ben.”

Ben follows, but not before offering Joel a small, pointed nod. Not aggressive. Just... male. Goodnight weird neighbour.

I close the door behind us, my hand still resting on the knob as silence settles around us. My heart is beating faster than it should be.

Ben pauses inside the entryway, catching my expression. “Everything okay?”

I swallow. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Ben is immediately concerned, hand on the door handle. "You need me to go?” he asks gently.

And for a moment, I almost say yes. Not because I don’t want him here, but because Joel just looked at me like I’d betrayed him.

"No," I insist before crossing to press my chest to his. "I want you to stay for a bit."

Then I move my lips to his, kissing him gently. He's sweet, his kiss tentative before growing, arms banding around my middle.

The kissing turns heated, his hands roaming, guiding me backwards to the couch. He cages me under him on the cushions, sucking my tongue into his mouth as I moan. It feels so good to be openly desired, to not play games.

But something isn't quite right. Not that Ben is doing anything wrong. But I do pull away from him, whispering his name. He pulls back cheeks flushed.

"I just...I need to take this slow," I explain tentatively to him. "I like you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

His smile is so charming when he looks at me that my face warms. It's so wonderful to be looked at like that.

"I should go," he whispers, mouth pressing a soft kiss to my cheek. "Before I can't."

I chuckle gently, kissing him once more before nodding. It's the right decision; we don't need to rush this.

I have all the time in the world.

Ben has been stepping up his game, texting me little notes during the day, offering to bring me coffee or lunch when I’m buried under work. There’s an easy camaraderie that’s blossomed into something warmer, something charged, but I’m still holding back.

At work, his presence feels like a pleasant distraction: a smile here, a quick touch on my arm there, lingering looks that say he wants more.

But every time Ben leans in, his breath warm on my cheek when we’re alone in the break room, or when he slides his hand to brush my hair away, I pull back. Not with words, but with hesitation.

And each time it happens he smiles in understanding, but with a hint of disappointment I can’t blame him for.

At my place and his, Ben’s visits grow longer. We talk deep into the night on the couch, feet tangled beneath blankets, making out with increasing urgency, but I stop short before crossing the line. I’m afraid of a rejection that will sting.

And then there's Joel.

Across the street, driving Sarah to school, watering his plants. And he still hasn't made any attempt to talk to me. Sometimes I'm convinced he wants to, because he looks at me in a lingering, longing way. But then he gets this twisted up look on his face and always walks away.

But I don’t miss him.

I don’t.

I can’t.

And one night when Ben’s in the kitchen one evening, pouring us both a second glass of wine and I hear a knock, I don’t even pay it any attention. Normally I would be rushing, waiting to see if it was Joel.

But now? I ignore it, laughing at something Ben is saying. His sleeves are rolled up and grinning like he lives here. He doesn’t, not anything close, but there’s looseness to him tonight like he's getting comfortable.

The knock comes again, soft and hesitant. Not a Joel knock. Joel knocks are loud and booming. This might be Sarah needing something.

“I’ll get it,” I say, standing quickly. I smooth my dress down as I walk to the door.

The moment I open it I regret it because Joel stands there on my porch holding a Tupperware container with a cracked red lid, the kind Sarah usually brings to school bake sales.

He’s not smiling. In fact, he looks really nervous. His eyes skim over my face like he’s bracing for something.

“Hi,” I manage, caught completely off guard.

He clears his throat and holds out the container. “Sarah made cookies,” he says flatly. “She wanted me to bring you some.”

I just stare at him for a beat too long. There’s no warm delivery of a neighbourly gift; it’s all in his voice, how thin it sounds. He doesn’t meet my eyes.

I reach out and take the container. “Tell her thanks.”

He nods once. “Yep.”

Then he sucks in air through his nose, his eyes never leaving my face. “Do you think we could t-“

Behind me, I hear Ben laugh at something and Joel’s eyes flick past me toward the sound, and his whole body shifts. I feel it, like a drop in barometric pressure.

His gaze sharpens, mouth pressing into a tight line.

I should say something. I should explain. But I don’t know what would even make sense. He’s just a coworker. It’s nothing serious. I’m just trying to forget how you left without a word after that night. I’m trying to forget how you broke my heart.

Joel takes a step back.

“Well,” he says, voice clipped now. “I did what Sarah asked.”

“Joel-” I start, but he’s already halfway down the steps.

He raises a hand in a vague goodbye that doesn’t look back, just keeps walking toward his house with his shoulders squared like he’s marching into wind.

I shut the door gently, holding the still-warm container in my hands like it might explain anything. I don’t open it and I don’t go after him. Instead, I walk back into the kitchen and smile too hard at Ben, who hands me a glass of wine like nothing happened telling me something funny he saw on his phone.

But my stomach is full of cement and all I can smell is sugar and guilt.

The days pass, and for a little while I think I’m finding my footing again. The way Ben looks at me, the way his hand finds mine without asking, there’s a sweetness I haven’t felt in a long time.But my house feels like a question I don’t know how to answer right now. The wine glasses are still in the sink. The container of cookies is untouched on the counter.

Ben texted earlier to say he wants to take me on another date. Do I like mini golf? I haven’t answered yet. Not because I didn’t enjoy myself on our last one but because it doesn't quiet the ache. It doesn't stop me from waking up and thinking of Joel.

I think about telling Ben about my fertility issues, of my dreams of motherhood. But it all seems too sudden, too fast for that. I start wondering if being a mother is something I truly want. I decide to take a walk one evening to clear my head, to decide if that's my path

I step over a crack in the sidewalk and glance toward the cul-de-sac. Joel’s house is just barely visible from here, the roof line peeking over a neighbour's hedge. My throat tightens.

I rub my hands together, more for something to do than warmth. It’s not cold out, just still.

When I started this journey l I was so sure. I didn’t want to wait for the “right man.” I didn’t want to hinge motherhood on the lottery of love. I wanted a baby because I wanted one. Because I had love to give and space in my life and the stubborn certainty that I could do this.

And then Joel happened. Or, whatever we were happened, all tangled and messy and charged. And Ben is too new. And I can’t ignore the knot in my chest that still pulses every time Joel walks away from me like he did last night.

But the thing that keeps rising through all the noise, louder than the regret, steadier than the fear, is the same truth I knew before any of this began:

I want to be a mother.

Even if it’s hard. Even if it’s messy. Even if I have to untangle my feelings from my plans, even if I have to do it alone.

I stop at the edge of the park. There’s a woman with a toddler across the grass, pushing him on the swing with the kind of patience I’m not even sure I have. The boy squeals, face split with joy, and she laughs, the real kind of laugh all full-bodied and light.

Something swells in my chest and it's not longing or loneliness. It's readiness. It's acceptance.

I press my hand to my stomach, an instinctive gesture. There’s nothing there yet. But maybe someday there could be. I take a breath, long and certain.

Joel may not want to be part of this anymore. But I need to know for sure. We started this together, and I owe it to myself to at least ask. Maybe he won’t say yes. Maybe he’ll say no and close the door for good. But if there’s a chance we can come to some kind of agreement I need to try. Because Joel is a good dad and Sarah is a good kid. Because something in Joel calls to me even through everything.

I start walking back to the house, the late sunlight melting into soft dusk. I move quickly, pulse fluttering as I imagine being close to him again. I've just rounded the block when movement from across the street slows my footsteps.

There at Joel’s front door, stands the long legged, beautiful woman I know as Tess. She leans casually against the door frame, arms loose at her sides, a light jacket over a simple dress. The porch light spills over her hair, turning it into a halo of rich chestnut.

She doesn't notice as I slip down my driveway, hiding behind the car. She's focused on looking pretty.

I watch with my breath catching, as she smiles when the door opens and Joel steps outside with two glasses of wine. He looks different somehow, softness in the way he holds himself as he hands her a glass. His shoulders aren’t quite so rigid and his face not so pinched.

They talk quietly, sipping their wine. Tess laughs a lot and touches Joel's arm often. He doesn't wince or pull away and I feel my scowl deepen.

Sarah is at her mom's on the weekend, this is the perfect time for Joel to have a date. Friday night means she can stay until Saturday without fear of being caught.

As I stand there partially hidden by my car I see as his hand brushes lightly along Tess’s arm so tender it stuns me. Tess’s gaze flickers away for a moment before meeting his again, small and shy. Their wine glasses are placed on the ledge of his patio as my stomach sinks.

I watch as Joel’s hand slides down to the small curve of her waist and he pulls her closer.

No. Don't do it. Don't do it Joel.

When their lips meet it's not quick or rushed, it’s slow, deliberate and tender. It makes bile rise in my throat.

Tess’s fingers thread into the back of his neck, holding him with a steady, calm grip. She leans into the touch, eyes fluttering closed.

I watch it all, the way his lips move softly against hers, the way Tess’s chest rises and falls beneath his hand, the slight tilt of his head as he breathes.

My throat tightens. My stomach twists. I stand frozen, fists clenched tight enough to bite my nails beneath my palms, trying not to let the sting behind my eyes break through.

We were never anything. Not a couple, not even close. But this simple, tender moment feels like betrayal written in slow motion.

Joel’s eyes open. He gazes down at Tess with a strange look on his face. The porch light flickers overhead, and the world seems to hold its breath.

Don't invite her in. Don't invite her in.

I want to look away, to turn and run home, and to pretend I never saw. But I can't stop, it’s like I want to punish myself.

Joel’s hand lingers on Tess’s back for a heartbeat longer before he pulls away, looking off kilter.

Must have been some kiss.

And I try to leave; I really do because I can’t watch anymore. It hurts too much. Except my hands have gone weak at the scene, causing me to drop my house keys. They make a clattering noise on the driveway that draws both their eyes my way.

Fuck.

Tess looks me over before brushing a stray hair behind her ear, still smiling at Joel. Joel looks like he's seen a ghost, face blanching before his expression hardens. He murmurs something that I can't hear to Tess before he steps inside his house, Tess close behind.

The door clicks shut behind them and the night swallows me whole, aching for something that was never mine to begin with.

Then something in my chest burns, compelling me to storm into my house. My fingers are shaking as I compose a text.

Hey Ben. Wanna come over? It's pretty late, is this a booty call? And if it is?

There's a pause and I can imagine him double checking, parsing to see if I'm serious, if I'll follow my text up with a meme. But I don't. I'm deadly serious.

Then I'll be over in twenty.

I pause, finger hovering over the buttons.

Can you bring condoms?

authors notes:

i promise i make up for the angst in the next chapter. i've been editing all weekend so the next chapter should be coming soon. this was the story i was almost finished before i started posting my writing so my other stories will be updated but slower than this one. but im really loving the comments and the shares.

💋💋💋

201 notes · View notes

theetherealbloom · 2 days ago

Text

IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU - CH.10

Chapter Ten: You Should Be Mine For Life

Summary: You find yourself sharing a hotel suite with Pedro Pascal while working on the set of Fantastic Four: First Steps. Despite your different roles—he’s the star, and you’re behind the scenes. Nothing could ever happen between you two… right?

Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader

Warnings: Age-Gap Romance (Not Specified), Eventual SMUT, Crush, FLUFF, Slight Angst, Trope(s), Swearing, Anxiety, Lots of Cliches, Cheesy Dialogue, Romance, Kissing, Real People Fiction, Cameras, Paparazzi, Social Media, Swoonworthy, One-Room Trope, They were roommates, Strangers-to-Lovers, Actors, Hallmark Tropes, the reader can sing and play guitar, the reader is shorter than Pedro, the reader has hair, Alternate Universe, Awkward!Reader, Shy!Reader, Fan Girl!Reader, Cringe, Embarrassment, Starstruck, Heavy Overthinking,

Word Count: 4.2k

A/N: I’m back from the dead! Sorry I took so long to come back— I’m actively in NYC right now for vacation tehe. Love you guys loads and see you in the next chapter! (It's gonna be a whole press tour mess lol)

Side note: I’m dyslexic and English isn’t my first language! So I apologize in advance for the spelling and/or grammatical errors. As always, reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated. Thank you and happy reading!

Gif Credits: @/a7estrellas

Song: Lover Girl by Laufey

Previous Chapter → Next Chapter | Series Masterlist |Main Masterlist|

THREE MONTHS LATER…

Time, as it tends to do when life finally feels like it’s clicking into place, passed in a blur of golden leaves and steady laughter.

London in autumn was something out of a dream. The trees turned to fire—burnt orange, deep red, golden yellow—and every morning was painted with the kind of soft light that made even the greyest skies feel romantic. The air carried a permanent chill now, crisp enough to bite your cheeks when you walked to set, but not enough to take away the comfort of it all. You’d started wearing oversized scarves and Pedro had given you his favorite beanie after you forgot yours one morning—claiming it looked better on you anyway.

Work had become… fulfilling. Really, truly fulfilling.

The set felt like home now. No longer tiptoeing, no longer second-guessing every move or word. People smiled at you when you walked into the production tent. They asked for your opinion. You were no longer “that girl Pedro was protective of”—you were just you. And people had learned you were worth listening to.

Cecilia’s absence had changed the air. Lighter. Calmer. Safer.

There were still occasional whispers about her—especially when legal stuff flared up again—but it was like the storm had passed, and now everyone was just soaking in the quiet relief that followed.

Daisy and Omar had become your anchors. Your safe zone. The kind of friends who brought you your favorite coffee before you even asked, who forced you to take breaks when you looked too tense, who teased you about Pedro only in the kindest, most knowing ways.

And Pedro…

Pedro had somehow become your entire world without ever asking to be.

At first it was simple. Shared coffee in the mornings. Walks back to the hotel in the evenings. The occasional dinner out—nothing fancy, just quiet corners of hole-in-the-wall restaurants where he could slip his sunglasses on and just be yours for a little while.

But it had grown. Deepened.

He knew how you liked your tea now, and that you sometimes needed silence more than conversation after long days. He memorized the way your eyes scanned the room when you were nervous and started touching your arm whenever you needed grounding. He held your hand without needing a reason. He made you laugh when you were stressed and held you when the stress was too much to laugh through.

And you…

You were still a little shy. Still awkward sometimes. Still catching yourself looking at him like you couldn’t believe he was real. But you were getting better at letting him in. Better at leaning into the way he adored you.

It terrified you, how much he made you feel. How much you’d come to need the sound of his laugh, or the way he whispered “hey, it’s okay” when your chest got too tight. But it also felt… safe. Like maybe this was the kind of love that didn’t burn you alive. Maybe this was the kind of love that healed.

The wind bit at your face as you stepped out of set that evening, bundled in your thickest coat, Pedro’s scarf wrapped around your neck like a memory.

“Wait up,” his voice called out behind you.

You turned, smiling instinctively.

He was in his usual layers—hood pulled up, a soft beanie peeking out from underneath. His curls had grown longer, falling over his forehead in little waves. He looked cozy and tired and beautiful, the way only Pedro could look beautiful in forty layers of wool.

“Thought you had a meeting,” you said.

He caught up to you easily, his breath fogging in the cold. “It got moved to tomorrow. I’d rather walk with you anyway.”

You ducked your head, biting back a grin. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true.” His fingers brushed yours, not quite holding—asking. Waiting.

You gave him your hand without hesitation.

The two of you walked in comfortable silence, boots crunching over fallen leaves, your linked hands swinging slightly between you. The city moved around you, busy and bright, but in your little bubble, it was all warmth.

“How are you feeling?” Pedro asked quietly, after a while.

You shrugged. “Tired. But okay.”

He looked at you sideways. “You sure?”

You hesitated. “Yeah. Just… I don’t know. It’s been good lately. Really good. I think that scares me sometimes.”

Pedro nodded like he understood, and of course he did. “Good doesn’t mean the other shoe’s about to drop, you know.”

You looked up at him, cheeks pink from the cold and maybe something else. “I know. I just… I’ve never had this before.”

“This?” he echoed.

You nodded slowly. “Work feeling like it matters. Friends who actually care. And you.”

Pedro stopped walking.

You turned, suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

He looked at you like you’d just said something earth-shattering.

Then, softly, “You have me. Okay? You really do.”

Your heart stuttered. “I know. I’m just still trying to believe it’s real sometimes.”

He stepped in closer, crowding into your space the way he always did when you got shy and started retreating inside yourself. He brought a hand to your cheek, thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw.

“It’s real,” he said, firm but gentle. “You and me? This thing we’re building? It’s real. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You blinked fast. “Okay.”

His lips twitched. “That’s all you’re giving me?”

“I’m still cold and awkward and trying not to cry in public.”

He chuckled, pressing his forehead against yours. “God, you’re cute.”

You groaned, cheeks burning. “Stop.”

“Never.”

You stayed there like that—foreheads touching, breaths mingling—until someone across the street shouted Pedro’s name and the moment broke.

But it lingered. In your chest. In the way his fingers didn’t let go of yours all the way back to the hotel.

Maybe you were finally allowed to be happy.

CHILTERN FIREHOUSE HOTEL — EVENING

The hotel room was dimly lit, bathed in the amber glow of a single floor lamp tucked beside the bed. The rest of the suite was silent, save for the faint crackle of the fireplace and the low hum of city sounds beyond the thick windows. Everything inside was warm—quiet, safe, untouched by the world outside.

You stood barefoot on the plush rug, having just changed into your coziest pajamas—Pedro’s oversized hoodie and a pair of sleep shorts that barely peeked out beneath the hem. The hoodie still smelled like him—his cologne, faint and woodsy, mixed with something undeniably Pedro. You’d never admit it, but you’d worn it to bed more nights than not.

Pedro was already stretched out on the bed, still in his jeans but having shed his sweater, revealing a soft grey tee that clung to his chest in the nicest way. His arm rested behind his head as he looked over at you, eyes lazy and warm, his curls tousled from running his fingers through them.

“You look cozy,” he murmured.

You shuffled your feet, suddenly self-conscious. “It’s your hoodie.”

He smiled, slow and fond. “I know. Looks better on you.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks heating. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s always true,” he teased, echoing what he told you earlier on your walk.

You ducked your head with a smile, biting your bottom lip. Your heart still fluttered around him in that annoyingly obvious way, no matter how many nights you’d spent like this lately—close, quiet, intimate in a way that was domestic more than anything else.

The kind of closeness that felt like home.

You padded over to the bed and climbed in beside him, crawling beneath the covers. Pedro immediately shifted, pulling you gently against his side. His arm wrapped around your shoulders, your head tucking naturally into the curve of his neck.

It felt easy. Like breathing.

“You okay?” he murmured, fingers brushing soft patterns up and down your arm.

You nodded against his chest. “Yeah. Just… a long day. I like ending it with you.”

He kissed the top of your head. “I like that too.”

For a few minutes, the two of you just lay there, wrapped in the hush of the moment. The way his hand stroked your arm. The way your breathing began to match. The way your fingers found the hem of his shirt and fiddled with the fabric without even thinking.

You tilted your head to look up at him, your voice quiet. “Can I…?”

His eyes flicked to yours, tender and patient. “What is it, sweetheart?”

You swallowed. “Can I kiss you?”

Pedro’s expression softened into something that made your stomach flutter. He reached up, cupping your cheek gently.

“You don’t ever have to ask,” he whispered.

Your heart beat wildly in your chest, even as you nodded.

You leaned in first—tentative, shy—and he met you halfway.

The kiss was soft. Lingering. Like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the pace of your breath, the warmth of your lips against his.

You pulled back only an inch, eyes fluttering open.

He smiled, his thumb stroking your cheek. “Again?”

You laughed softly, heart skipping. “Yeah.”

This time it was slower. A little deeper. His hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there gently as he kissed you like you were something fragile. Precious. Like he had all the time in the world.

And for a moment, it really did feel like time had stopped. Just you and him, wrapped up in warm sheets and soft affection, the world fading into nothing beyond this room.

When the kiss broke, he leaned his forehead against yours, his nose brushing yours lightly.

“I’ve wanted to do that all day,” he whispered.

You smiled, lips still tingling. “You did do that earlier.”

“Yeah, but this…” he kissed the corner of your mouth, “this feels different.”

“How?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

Pedro pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, thumb grazing your jaw.

“Because it feels like love.”

You blinked slowly, breath catching.

And for once, you didn’t shy away.

You let the words settle into your chest like a promise. Like a future you were finally brave enough to want.

You reached up and touched his face, your voice trembling just slightly.

“It feels like that to me too.”

Pedro didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. He just kissed you again, slow and sure, and held you tighter.

Later that night, as you curled into him beneath the covers, your fingers linked together and your nose tucked into the crook of his neck, you thought—you could get used to this.

Not just the kissing. Not just the comfort.

But the him of it all.

The falling. The softness. The love.

Pedro thought to himself, as his hand curled a little tighter around your waist, that you were the kindest thing to ever happen to him. Not just kind in the way you smiled at strangers or the way you thanked every crew member even when they were only doing their jobs—but kind in the quiet ways. The gentle ways. The way you spoke to him. The way you let him in.

It terrified him sometimes, how easily he could lose himself in you. In this.

He pressed his nose into your hair, breathing you in. Warm skin, soft cotton, a faint trace of shampoo. He could’ve stayed like this forever.

There had been something inevitable about you from the start. A gravitational pull he hadn’t tried to fight. The slow burn of connection, of comfort, of knowing that one day he’d look over at you, and you’d be looking back at him like this—like the two of you were teetering on the edge of something. That threshold between friendship and something more.

Something bigger. Heavier. Real.

He wasn’t sure when exactly it had happened. Maybe it had been the first time you fell asleep on his shoulder. Or the way you always touched his arm when you laughed. Or that morning when you showed up to set, tired and coffee in hand, and smiled at him like he was the only person who mattered.

But now, with you curled into his side, with your breath soft and steady against his chest, he was sure of it.

You’d crossed that threshold together. Quietly. Gently. Like stepping through a door you both already knew was open.

“You’re thinking too loud again,” you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep.

Pedro huffed a soft laugh. “Am I?”

You nodded, nose brushing his throat. “Yeah. I can tell.”

He kissed your temple, slow and lingering. “I was just thinking… I really like this. I really like you.”

Your breath hitched—just slightly. “Oh.”

Pedro smiled. “Is that all you’re gonna say? ‘Oh’?”

You burrowed closer, heat creeping up your neck. “I’m shy, remember?”

He chuckled, a low, fond sound vibrating through his chest. “Yeah. I remember. I like that about you too.”

You sighed, soft and sleepy and content. “Feels like this shouldn’t be real. Like… it’s too good.”

Pedro pulled back just enough to look at you, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your cheek. His gaze was tender, serious in a way that made your heart skip.

“It’s real,” he said quietly. “It’s so real it scares the shit out of me sometimes.”

You met his eyes, shy but steady. “Me too.”

He leaned in, pressed his forehead to yours. “But I’m not going anywhere. You hear me?”

You nodded.

“Good.” Another kiss, softer this time. Just a brush of lips. “Because I’m gonna take you on so many more dates. And I’m gonna keep holding you like this until you’re sick of me.”

You laughed, breathless. “I don’t think that’s possible.”

Pedro smiled against your skin. “Good. Then we’re on the same page.”

The room settled into quiet again. His hand stroked lazy circles over your back, lulling you back toward sleep. But just before you drifted off, you whispered it—quiet and small.

“I like you too. A lot.”

Pedro didn’t say anything at first. He just held you closer. Kissed the top of your head. Let the words settle between you like a promise, and somewhere, deep in the softest part of his chest, something unfurled.

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — AFTERNOON

It was nearing the end. The kind of end that felt soft at the edges, bittersweet in its finality. The sets were still standing, the cameras still rolling for a few final pick-ups here and there, but the weight of goodbye lingered just beneath the surface of every conversation, every laugh shared between takes.

The energy on set had shifted—relieved, yes, and light with the knowledge that soon everyone would return home to their own corners of the world. But there was a hum of sadness, too. The ache of closing a chapter you weren’t quite ready to leave behind.

You, Daisy, and Omar found yourselves tucked in a quiet corner of the lot, half-heartedly organizing equipment while swapping stories that had nothing to do with work and everything to do with squeezing out every last drop of this strange, perfect little bubble of time together.

“I can’t believe it’s almost over,” Daisy sighed dramatically, slumping against a crate. “What am I gonna do without you two ruining my peace every day?”

Omar grinned. “You’re gonna cry. Loudly. Probably on Instagram Live.”

Daisy threw a marker at him. “Shut up, I will not.”

You laughed, soft and fond, because this was the rhythm of it now. The teasing, the inside jokes, the quiet comfort of people who had become more like family than colleagues.

“Well, I am gonna miss this,” you admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Not just the work. This… all of this.”

Omar nudged you with his elbow. “Hey, you’ll still have Pedro.”

Your face warmed immediately. “That’s… different.”

“Different good,” Daisy teased, wiggling her brows. “We’ve all seen the way he looks at you. Like you hung the stars or something.”

You groaned, hiding your face behind your clipboard. “Please don’t make it weird. It’s already terrifying enough.”

Omar chuckled. “He’s good for you. You’re good for him. It’s not weird—it’s kind of nice, actually. Watching you two make each other… softer.”

You chewed your lip, heart fluttering despite yourself. Because they weren’t wrong.

Pedro had become your safe place in a way you hadn’t expected. The hotel nights tangled in whispered conversations, soft kisses pressed to your forehead, quiet reassurances when the anxiety crept in and tried to convince you this was all too fragile to hold. He made you feel… steady. Like maybe, just maybe, you weren’t the burden you’d convinced yourself you were.

And you were learning to let yourself believe it.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket—Pedro.

You smiled without even meaning to.

Pedro: You free? Need to steal you for a bit.

“Speak of the devil,” Daisy teased as you typed back a quick ‘coming now’.

You excused yourself with a wave, heart thudding a little too eagerly as you made your way across the lot. It didn’t take long to find him—leaning casually against one of the trailers, sunglasses perched on his nose, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets like he hadn’t just made your stomach flip with a single text.

“You stealing me again?” you teased, stopping a few feet away.

Pedro’s smile tugged slow and easy across his face. “Always.”

He closed the distance, fingertips brushing your wrist before they tangled with yours. His touch was familiar now, but it still made something in your chest ache in the best way.

“C’mere.” He guided you out of view, around the side of the trailer where no one would see. “Just needed a minute. With you.”

Your brows lifted, soft and curious. “You okay?”

He nodded. “Better now.”

There was a beat. One of those quiet moments where words didn’t matter, where his gaze on you said everything.

“This is all almost over,” he murmured, thumb stroking over the back of your hand. “And I know we’ll figure it out, you and me. Whatever comes next… I’m in.”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah?”

Pedro smiled, tilting his forehead to rest against yours. “Yeah. I don’t want this to end with the production. I don’t want you to think this was just some… on-set fling. I’m serious about you.”

Your chest tightened, warmth blooming beneath your ribs. “I know. I believe you.”

He kissed you then, slow and sweet. The kind of kiss that wasn’t about heat or hunger, but about promise. About staying. About choosing.

“I love this stupid job for giving me you,” he whispered against your lips, and you laughed—soft, a little shy, but filled with something bright and hopeful.

“I’m really glad you stole me away today,” you whispered back.

Pedro grinned. “Like I said. Always.”

PINEWOOD STUDIOS — EVENING

WRAP PARTY

The string lights flickered softly overhead like lazy fireflies strung between scaffolding and studio walls. Someone had dragged out a couple of tall heaters, but it wasn’t the warmth that made you feel safe—it was the people.

It was the way Omar had his arm slung dramatically over Daisy’s shoulders, both of them mid-laugh at some inside joke you’d probably heard a dozen times by now but would gladly hear again.

It was Vanessa holding up her phone, pouting as she took a selfie with Joseph, only for Ebon to photobomb them from behind with two peace signs and the world’s most exaggerated grin.

It was Pedro standing a few feet away, his gaze finding you in the crowd, soft and sure even from across the lot.

You made your way to him, weaving between half-empty champagne glasses and clusters of crew saying their goodbyes. He smiled when you reached him—tired, warm, familiar.

“You disappearing on me again?” he teased, his fingers finding yours with ease, pulling you just a little closer.

“Not disappearing. Just… observing,” you said, giving him a look. “Big difference.”

Pedro hummed. “Is there?”

You nodded. “One involves me wandering off. The other involves me staring at you like a creep from across the party.”

He laughed, the sound sinking into your bones like sunlight. “Good to know where we stand.”

Someone nearby popped open another bottle of champagne with a cheer. The music shifted into something a little slower, softer—Fleetwood Mac, of course. Always someone’s go-to.

Pedro’s thumb was drawing slow, lazy circles over your knuckles again. “You holding up okay?”

You tilted your head. “Are you?”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ask me tomorrow. Right now… I’m just glad you’re here.”

You squeezed his hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Before he could say anything else, Joseph called out. “Oi! Group photo. Everyone—get your asses over here before Omar starts posing like he’s in a Vogue spread again.”

Omar gasped dramatically. “How dare you imply I’ve ever stopped.”

Laughter rippled through the group as everyone started gathering beneath the lights. Pedro’s hand settled comfortably at the small of your back, guiding you into the mess of arms and shoulders and grins.

Vanessa had appointed herself selfie queen and was demanding everyone squeeze in tighter. “Come on, come on—look like you like each other, for Christ’s sake!”

“Debatable,” Daisy joked, elbowing Omar playfully.

“Pretend it’s a Marvel premiere,” Ebon said with a grin.

“Say ‘Thank god it’s over!’” Joseph quipped.

“THANK GOD IT’S OVER!” everyone cheered in varying levels of enthusiasm as Vanessa snapped photo after photo, laughing between each one.

Someone handed Pedro a disposable camera for fun, and he held it up, eyebrows raised. “Alright, say ‘I survived stunt week!’”

You caught his eye right as he pressed the shutter.

“I survived stunt week,” you mouthed with a grin.

Click.

The moment caught forever.

When the photos were done, people began peeling off in smaller circles again—cigarettes lit, last drinks grabbed, plans made for karaoke bars and greasy breakfasts.

Pedro didn’t let go of your hand. He tugged you gently toward the quieter side of the lot, where the lights dipped lower and the noise faded into something background and soft.

You stopped beneath one of the overhead lamps, its light catching in his hair, brushing the edges of your features with gold.

“Thank you for tonight,” you said quietly, biting back the smile pulling at your mouth. “You really didn’t have to do all this for a date.”

His brows rose. “You think I planned the whole wrap party just to impress you?”

You laughed. “Admit it—it’d be very ‘Pedro Pascal’ of you.”

“Okay, maybe a little,” he teased, then softened. “But I meant what I said. We’re not done, you and me.”

You met his gaze, heart thudding slow and steady. “I know.”

Silence settled between you—not heavy, not awkward. Just full of things unsaid that didn’t need to be said.

“I would’ve been happy if we’d just… stayed in bed, watched TV,” you admitted after a beat, your voice quieter now. “Could’ve saved yourself the trouble.”

Pedro’s smile curled slow and fond. “Oh, don’t worry. We’ve got plenty of nights ahead for that.”

You huffed a soft laugh, playful despite the warmth crawling up your neck. “God, I probably need to set all my socials to private. Or just delete them entirely. One photo of us holding hands, and it’s game over.”

He grinned. “Too late. Daisy posted you already.”

Your eyes widened. “She did not.”

“Oh, she did. Captioned it something sappy about family and wrap parties. Clever girl.”

You groaned. “I’m gonna have to deactivate.”

“You’re not,” Pedro said, tugging you a little closer until his nose brushed yours, soft and easy. “You’re just gonna let them talk. Let them guess.”

“And us?” you whispered, already leaning into him. “What are we doing?”

His thumb brushed your cheek. “Whatever we want.”

And then—softly, sweetly—he kissed you.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just… certain.

A kiss is like the closing of a chapter and the start of something new.

A kiss that said: this is ours now.

Behind you, the others called out drunken goodbyes and promises for breakfast. Someone cheered. Someone groaned about cabs.

But here—beneath this quiet light, beneath his fingertips steady at your jaw—it felt like none of it touched you.

Only him. Only this.

Somewhere in both your pockets, your phones buzzed quietly with messages and notifications neither of you noticed.

For now, there was only this moment.

And the rest could wait.

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pascalispunkczechia · 1 day ago

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Get Wet For Me

Summary: You wake up at 3 am, soaked and desperate. Javier Peña is sleeping next to you. Peaceful. Naked. You try to handle it yourself. He catches you. And shows you why you don’t ever fucking touch yourself without him.

Warnings: 🔞, explicit smut, masturbation, oral (f receiving), vaginal fingering, squirting, creampie, unprotected sex, rough sex, dom!javi vibes, possessive behavior, dirty talk, praise kink, light degradation, overstimulation, obsession-coded, feral energy, zero plot just sex

Note: Javier is not real and yet he’s destroying my nervous system. I wrote this fic and now I can’t make eye contact with myself.

Word count: ~ 1.6k

You’re in bed. Clock says 3 am. AC’s humming.

He’s right next to you. Javier Peña. Your fucking boyfriend. Naked. On his stomach. One arm under the pillow, the other by his head, face buried in the sheets. Breathing slow, heavy. He came home wrecked tonight. Probably something with Escobar, or that psycho Los Pepes crew. He’s been quiet lately. Off. Tired as hell.

You wanna let him sleep. You really do. But your pussy is throbbing. You want him. You want his cock. Yeah, he already fucked you stupid before bed. Gave you two orgasms. But now? Almost four hours later? You need it again. Just thinking about what he does to you makes you drip.

Get a grip. Let him sleep. You try to behave.

But then you turn toward him. See that perfect fucking ass peeking out from under the blanket. And yeah. That’s it. You’re done. You need something. Anything. So you slip your hand between your legs. Just a little relief. Just enough to take the edge off.

You rub your clit, slide a finger in and fuck, you’re soaked. Like actually soaked. No idea where all that came from, but now you can’t stop. You pull the blanket over your head just in case. Hips start moving. Knees up. All you can think about is what he did to you earlier.

“Ohh fuck,” slips out. Louder than you meant. But you don’t give a shit. You’re too far gone.

Until like - maybe a minute later - the blanket gets pulled off your face. You freeze. Eyes snap open.

And there he is. Hovering over you.

Javi.

Shit.

“What the fuck, hermosa…”

You freeze. Face on fire. Look at him like you’re all innocent.

“Seriously?” he mumbles, voice low and rough. “You’re fingering yourself next to me while I’m out cold?”

“You were out like a fucking rock,” you blink up at him. “I didn’t wanna wake you.” Then after a second: “I missed you. I missed your perfect cock. What was I supposed to do?” You give him a look, you know the one.

“You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

You shake your head.

“You want me to watch… or take over?”

“Take over. Handle it, Javi,” you whisper. You’re begging now.

“Alright then… spread your legs for me, hermosa. This is my job now.” He grabs the hand that’s still between your legs. Pulls your finger out - the one that was inside you - and puts it in his mouth. Sucks on it. Just… slow and dirty. You almost fucking die. It’s disgusting. It’s filthy. It’s so Peña.

And yeah. That little “ohh fuck” that woke him up? So worth it.

He pulls your finger out of his mouth and drops your hand by your side. Then moves right between your thighs. You’ve already got them spread wide for him. Just how he likes it. And he’s just watching you. Staring like he owns you. “Look at me.”

You do.

And fuck, the way he looks back at you; you can’t look away even if you tried.

“This–” He pushes two fingers into you without warning. Deep. “–this is mine. And now you’re gonna show me how fucking desperate you are. How much more you need me than your own fingers.” He starts moving them immediately. Circling right where you need it. Pressing exactly on that spot you can never fucking get by yourself.

You’re squirming under him, already panting, eyes rolling back. He’s not breaking eye contact, not even for a second. You can’t see shit anymore but you feel it. The way he’s staring. Like it’s burning right through you.

There’s thunder outside. Low, distant. But it makes everything feel ten times heavier. Wetter. Louder. Colombian storms hit different. So does he.

You lift your hips into his hand. Needing more. Needing all of it.

He grabs your ass with his free hand, pulls you right into the angle he wants. “Who made this pussy wet?” His voice is low and rough and wrecked.

“You,” you whisper. That’s all you can say.

He stops moving. Just for a second. Still buried in you, fingers soaked. Then pulls out. Slow. On purpose. Fucking glistening.

You feel that emptiness hit like a slap; but then he pushes your hips down, spreads you wider, and goes down on you. No warning. No teasing. Just mouth on your clit, tongue deep, all in. You let out a sharp gasp, whole body tight as a wire.

“So fucking sweet. So wet for me.” His voice is muffled against your pussy, and it makes your spine arch off the bed. “Don’t do this shit without me again. You hear me? This is my job.” He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t stop. He just holds you down and eats you out like he’s been starving for you for days.

You’re grabbing at the sheets, twisting them, trying not to scream. Long, slow licks. Then sucking. Then circles that make your eyes blur. Tears hit your cheeks before you even realize it. And outside - the storm’s getting louder. Crashing, rolling. So is your fucking body.

One hand’s on your hip, the other flat on your stomach. He’s keeping you exactly where he wants you. He’s not letting go until you fucking break. “I wanna feel it when you come,” he mumbles, still buried in your pussy. “Wanna feel it right on my tongue.” Then he starts sucking harder. Tongue moving in circles right there, hitting every nerve you have.

And it’s too much. You can’t fucking take it. There’s nothing to hold onto. Nothing grounding you. The pressure’s climbing fast, tight like a wire inside your skin, and it’s like your whole body’s breathing through his fucking mouth. You’re gasping, fingers digging into the mattress, thighs shaking… you can’t run, can’t hide, and you don’t even want to, but fuck, it’s too much. It’s fucking torture. “Javi…” It slips out, broken and desperate. You don’t even know if you’re begging or warning him.

He fucking smirks. You feel it against your skin. Like he knew this was gonna happen. Like he wanted it like this. And then - he slides a finger inside you. Just one. Long. Deep. Smooth. Like it’s nothing. Like you’re not already fucking falling apart underneath him.

And then it fucking hits. That hot wave deep in your stomach - sharp, sudden, unstoppable. Your whole body snaps tight, your heart skips a beat, and then… you fucking squirt. It shoots out of you in a fast, hot burst that rips a raw sound straight out of your throat. No filter, no control, just a full-body, desperate cry.

It hits his mouth.

And your hands fly into his hair, grabbing tight like you’re falling off the fucking edge. Maybe you’re pulling. Maybe you’re just holding on.

He doesn’t even flinch. He doesn’t pull back. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t act surprised. Like he’s done this a hundred fucking times. He just swallows. Keeps going. Keeps licking like it’s nothing. Like it’s everything.

Your eyes are wet. Your legs feel heavy. Your whole body’s fucking melting in his hands.

He finally pulls back, mouth shiny, breath heavy. And leans in close, whispers it into your thigh like it’s a secret: “There it is, hermosa… that’s what I want. That’s what I fucking need. You - like this. Fucking mine. My squirting miracle, you hear me? Only my tongue get this out of you.”

And you know he’s right. It’s only him. Only his mouth. Only his fucking tongue. Only him.

Your grip loosens in his hair. You can finally breathe again.

He slowly drags himself up your body, torso pressing into yours, mouth brushing your skin on the way up. He doesn’t sit up. Doesn’t leave you. Just presses his chest to yours, hands sliding under your ass, you feel all of him.

His cock’s hard as a fucking rock. Pressed low against your stomach, desperate, heavy. “This is what you do to me. You and that perfect fucking pussy…” He growls it out, then pulls back just enough to line himself up.

And then - no warning, no questions, just a rough hiss through his teeth - he fucking slams into you.

Your body takes him so easy, so fucking wet, that it rips a low, broken sound right out of his throat.

He sinks in all the way. Buried to the fucking base. He moves once - hard, deep - and then he’s holding you like you’re the only fucking thing that matters. “So fucking beautiful… all mine,” he mumbles into your ear, and then starts to fuck you. Steady. Hard. Focused. Like he’s punishing you. Like he’s worshipping you. Both.

But it doesn’t last long. You’re still shaking. He’s hanging by a thread.

And when he finally comes, he holds you tight, buries his face in your neck, and just lets go. You feel all of it. Hot, deep, everything he’s got, spilling inside you like it’s the only thing in the world that matters. He stays on top of you, doesn’t move.

You feel grounded. Safe. Like you could actually breathe.

His hands are stroking your sides, face pressed into your neck like he can’t let you go even for a second. He starts kissing your collarbone; soft little bites, the way he always does. You used to laugh about it. How he’s such a fucking nibbler. Always going for your throat, your jaw, like he’s starving. He fucking loves it. And you love that he loves it.

“So fucking beautiful…” he whispers after a second. Voice wrecked. “Don’t ever wanna do this any other way.”

You smile into his shoulder. Because yeah. You don’t want it any other way either. Not when he’s still inside you. Not when you can still feel him everywhere.

• thanks for reading •

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berryispunk · 1 day ago

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Your Hands On Me

Had this idea just before drifting off, so I take no responsibility for whatever my half-asleep brain came up with. Sweet dreams, darlings 🌙

word count: ~ 600

You’ve only been on a few dates with Frankie so far—a casual dinner, a night out at that dive bar where the jukebox played your favorite song like it knew, a shared popcorn cinema evening where your hands touched once, barely, and you both pretended not to notice.

Tonight, though, he’s in your space.

Insisted on cooking at your place, saying, “You just sit there and look pretty, I got this,” and you obliged, happy to let someone else deal with your sad excuse for a kitchen. He moves through it like he belongs, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration as he plates dessert with surprising care. A rich, chocolate mousse he claims is an old family recipe. “But don’t tell my Tía Rosa I forgot the orange zest.”

You laugh, and he watches the sound bloom on your lips like it’s his favorite part of the meal.

You both sit on the couch after, full and warm and a little buzzed from the wine. Your knees brush, then linger. Chocolate still lingers faintly on your tongue. Frankie leans in slowly, his hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth like he’s memorizing the moment before he kisses you.

It starts sweet. Sticky and soft. You both still taste dessert on your lips. But it deepens quickly, like it always wanted to.

Your hand finds the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing skin. You’re not even sure when you shift onto his lap, just that it feels right, necessary, like gravity demanded it. His hands steady you instinctively—one at your waist, the other sliding up your back. The kiss turns breathless, open-mouthed, sinful. You’re both still fully clothed, but everything about the way he touches you makes you feel on fire with want.

And then his hand dips lower. Trails around the waistband of your leggings, waiting. You don’t stop him.

He watches your face carefully as his fingers slip beneath, slow, deliberate. You’re still seated in his lap, lips parting around a gasp as he finds exactly where you need him most. Your fingers curl into the back of his neck, nails grazing skin as you whimper softly, hips shifting to seek out more of the friction he’s giving you.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged. “Just like that.”

His touch is firm, sure, but never rushed. He doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask for anything in return. He just gives and bathes in the way your body responds, the way your breath hitches, the way you fall apart right there in his lap—still clothed, still clutching his shoulders like he’s the only thing tethering you to this earth.

You come undone with a quiet cry, half-buried in the crook of his neck, lips grazing his jaw. When you finally go still, muscles trembling with aftershocks, a flush rises hot in your cheeks. Embarrassment prickles up your spine but Frankie doesn’t let it settle.

“Hey,” he says, coaxing your face back to his with a hand at your chin, eyes dark but so tender. “That was hot as hell, baby.”

You open your mouth, about to deflect or joke, but he doesn’t let you. Just leans in and kisses you again, slower this time. Reverent.

“If that’s how you sound when it’s just my hand,” he rasps, mouth brushing your ear, “I can’t fuckin’ wait to hear you when I’m inside you.”

Your breath stutters, thighs tightening around him instinctively.

And still he doesn’t push. Just holds you there in his lap, rubbing gentle, grounding circles into your hip, letting your heartbeat calm down while his own pulses hard under your thighs.

thanks for reading 💌

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orcasoul · 3 days ago

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The Lesser of Two Evils

Summary: Julia's sudden visits begin to unnerve you. You and Marcus hit a bump in your relationship but not even that can dampen the growing desire between you both...

Warnings: smut! (under 18's DNI!), fluff, swearing, angst, heated argument, slow burn, enemies to lovers, age gap, protective Marcus Acacius, OFC/reader.

Word Count: 7, 724

A/N: Smuuuuutttt!!! finally, we get to the good stuff. It's been a long time, ahem, coming (no pun intended). I'm so happy they finally get to take that step and give themselves to each other 😋😘😍

Chapter 12 Belonging

Since the night you opened up to Marcus, something had changed within you; a kind of.... surrender. For too long you've had only yourself to rely on, only your perspective to guide you through the toughest and darkest moments in your life. It's all you've known. But after allowing Marcus just the slightest glimpse into the shame and desolation that has followed you all of your life, you've come to realise that maybe you don't have to carry this alone anymore, maybe accepting help is just what you need, and for the first time you find yourself willing to be more vulnerable around him. He didn't judge you and turn away from you, didn't look at you in revulsion. He'd offered support and understanding and a shoulder to cry on. His reassuring presence and his gentle encouragement had slowly enabled you to begin facing years of trauma and darkness and in the few weeks that had passed since that night, your bond with Marcus has deepened more than you could have anticipated.

He has become so much more than a friend; he's your comfort, your strength, your beating heart. A part of you wishes you could shout out loud for all of Rome to hear, how deeply this man has touched your heart and soul. At least in the privacy of the villa neither of you have to hide your feelings as the slaves aren't permitted to speak of their masters' business. Gentle gestures of affection; lingering touches, forehead kisses and adoring looks have become a common sight in your home now. At first the slaves had been unsure of what to make of this turn of events. They'd tried their best to appear unfazed but you won't forget the barely contained surprise flash across their faces the first time Marcus held you and kissed your forehead in front of them; now they don't bat an eye. Of course, the more heated moments where when you were both alone. Even if it were only for a few moments, while the servants were elsewhere an empty room or a secluded part of the Hortus would serve as the backdrop to the fiery passion brewing between you both.

Sometimes Marcus would initiate it, sometimes you would and everytime his touch would leave you craving for more; more of his taste, more of his scent, more of his large calloused hands roaming your skin, more of the electricity his caress would send skittering up your spine. This man has become an addiction for you. You've both become like lovestruck teenagers, never being able to be close enough to one another. This is the happiest you've been in... so long. However, this is one issue... Julia. For the past fortnight she has inserted herself into your lives on numerous occasions, often times arriving without warning. Is this normal for friends? Given your lack of friendships throughout your life you don't really know the etiquette between friends. How close is too close? You can't deny that whenever she visits you feel like you're intruding. How can someone make you feel like that in your own home? Marcus always makes sure to include you in their interactions but Julia, at some point during every visit, somehow manages to subtly alienate you, just like she's doing now.

While she converses fondly with Marcus about moments and memories from their shared past, you let your attention wander about the Hortus, casually sipping your wine. Watching a fat bee buzz form flower to flower is more entertaining than listening to Julia yap on as if the world is centred around her. Your attention is brought back to them when Marcus stands, excusing himself with the assurance he'll be back in a few minutes. With a tight smile you nod, watching him walk away. Urgh, don't leave me alone with her! If Julia is as uncomfortable as you she's good at hiding it. Her posture and confidant countenance radiate superiority as she turns to look at you with a saccharine smile. "So..." she begins, pausing to take a slow sip of her wine. "I've noticed you've settled in well here, Alia." "Yes thank you, My Lady," you reply in a steady voice. Julia sighed with fake sweetness. "How many times must I ask you to call me Julia? As I've said before, any friend of Acacius' is a friend of mine."

You shift uncomfortably, unsure if your objection would cause offense. "I don't believe it's appropriate for someone of my station to address someone of your station so intimately." Julia chuckled, shaking her head as if you were some simpleton. It instantly irked you. "If I say it's appropriate, then it is. Besides, all my friends call me Julia and we are friends, are we not?" Forcing a smile onto you face, you reply, "Of course we are... Julia." Julia's smile widened, her triumphant expression making you feel uneasy. You swear she can sense the apprehension you always feel around her? You dare believe she may even enjoy it. "How long has it been since you arrived here?" You had to take a moment to think. "Uh... five... six weeks," you answer. Gosh! Has it really been six weeks? Everything still feels so new to you.

"I must say, life here seems to agree with you," Julia went on. "Not only have you embraced our culture, you've also become somewhat famous. Everyone from high class to lower class speak of you in awe. You've gained quite a reputation." A slight grimace took over your face, uncomfortable with the attention. "I don't understand why they focus so much on me. Marcus is the one who deserves the admiration. Even now, when he's supposed to be recovering he puts his duty to Rome first," you deflect. Julia smiles. "Yes, he does. He's a very honourable man." For once you agree with her, your own smile impossible to hide now. "He is... and he's been so good to me these past weeks." "He's like that with those he cares about," Julia's expression softens as her tone turns intimate regarding Marcus.

A little jolt of... jealousy? twists in your gut and you mentally chastise yourself. It's silly to feel like that; after all they've known each other far longer than you've known Marcus. Julia continues, "Marcus... he's like family to me and family is the most important thing in this world," she pauses, levelling you with a serious look, "I'd never let anyone take advantage of him." Who the hell does this woman think she is?! Her voice may be soft but the glint in her eye is unmistakable. She actually sees you as a threat to Marcus. A part of you wants to laugh in her face at the absurdity of it all; another part burns to tell her to stay out of your business and if anyone can't be trusted, it's her. But maybe that's what she wants; a reaction she can use against you. Like hell will you give her the satisfaction.

Instead you meet her stare and mustering a serious tone, you reply, "Neither would I." It's a simple statement but the meaning behind your words landed on Julia just as you'd intended. That became obvious when her carefully placed mask of confidence and superiority slipped for a second before she corrected her error. You have to fight the urge to smile at her reaction. She's obviously unused to being treated so unceremoniously. With a sickly sweet smile, she says, "I'm happy to hear that. Acacius is very fortunate to have friends who care for him deeply." You give her a tight smile and before either of you can speak again Marcus returns, taking his seat and remaining oblivious to what had just passed between you and Julia. Julia's sweet persona is now back as she chats and laughs lightheartedly with Marcus, like she hadn't just threatened you.

Watching her, it's clear; this woman excels in the art of manipulation and with the power she wields as the dowager empress, this could turn ugly. There's always been a niggling feeling that something just wasn't right when it came to her friendship with Marcus and seeing the blatant falseness she is showing right now, you're beginning to wonder if she's even capable of forming genuine bonds. Surely Marcus can sense it too? It can't just be you. During the rest of her visit, you keep your composure, smiling along and engaging in the conversation while trying your best to understand what exactly her angle is here, if there is one, because you could also be wrong in your perception of her, after all you are from two different worlds. Maybe the social dynamics of Roman society is just something you'll never fully comprehend no matter how hard you try. But ones thing's for certain; you'll never let her cause any kind of rift between you and Marcus.

The next morning Marcus had left straight after breakfast; another meeting with the praetorians apparantly. He'd never discussed these meetings with you and you know when it comes to official business it's not your place to pry. The only thing you did wonder was why? In the past month Marcus had been attending these meetings more frequently, sometimes returning home with the look of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. The sight of him troubled makes your heart ache for him. But how can you help? It's not like he's at liberty to discuss these matters with you. Whatever is weighing him down, you hope it'll be resolved soon, for his sake. Today Marcus will be away for hours and since it's Cassia's day off you'd decided to seek her out. You've both become close over the weeks since your arrival and never having any close female friends growing up, you find yourself appreciating her company more and more.

Catching sight of her in the hallway by the entrance doors you call out, making your way over to her. "Good morning, Alia," Cassia smiled warmly, adjusting her satchel across her body. "Good morning. Are you going to the market again?" you ask, smiling in return. Cassia nods, "Yes, only for an hour or so." "Would you like some company?" Cassia's face lit up. "I'd love some company," she beamed but then her expression dropped slightly. "But would the Dominus allow you to leave the villa?" "Allow...?" you raise an eyebrow in mock indignation. "Oh, f-forgive me," Cassia stammered, "I just meant-" It's fine," you chuckle, waving it off. You understand her concern but as a free woman and a citizen, and with the absense of male members of your family, you get to make your own decisions now. "I know you meant no offence, but if you've no objections I'd love to join you." "Of course," Cassia grinned. "l'll be back in a moment," you said enthusiastically and rushed to your room to retrieve your own satchel.

When you got to the gate you expected maybe some uncertainty from the guards - this being your first time leaving the villa without Marcus. What you didn't expect was flat out refusal to let you leave. "I'm sorry, My Lady," one of the guards said as he blocked your path. "You cannot leave without the general present." A sense of ire prickled under your skin at the mans' gruff tone. You're a free woman for goodness sake! What's the point of freedom if it is only a word? "Did the General order you to keep me here?" you demand, keeping your breathing steady while inside your heart is racing. All your life you'd learned to keep your head down, to obey without question. Going against everything you've learned feels not only foolish but downright dangerous. But the rational part of your mind knows you are in no danger, no matter how intimidating the guards may be and you are no longer the meek and docile slave.

The guards' eyes snap to yours now, his stony epression wavering. "No... but he wouldn't want you to go out there by yourself-" "I won't be by myself," you interject, gesturing to Cassia. The guard refuses to move. "I'm afraid I still can't let you pass. The General-" "Does not own me," you say sharply. You take a deep breath, lowering your tone. "Look, I understand you have a job to do but I'm well within my rights to come and go as I see fit. So please, step aside." The two guards cast nervous glances at each other, clearly uncomfortable with this situation. Cassia stood beside you, silently watching the whole exchange. After a moment the other guard relented. "Let them pass," he said with reluctance. They both stepped away from you and as you and Cassia began the half hour walk into the city a strange and welcome sense of liberty fell over you. This is true freedom; being able to decide where you go and what you do.

*****

The meeting with the praetorians was worse than Marcus had expected. Even with the extra presence of soldiers throughout the city the unrest only seems to be growing. What began as a rise in food theft at the markets has now turned much more serious; gatherings at public podiums where brave - or stupid - speakers air their grievances of the emperors are becoming more common, which in turn is riling up more and more people and enabling open hostility towards the wealthier members of society. This is not the Rome Marcus fought for under the rule of Septimus Severus. The stability the former emperor brought after the last civil war is rapidly being undone by his disasterous sons who didn't even care enough to be here today. The enitre city could crumble around them and those two would bury their heads in the sand until the last minute.

Marcus had to see for himself just how dire the streets were becoming so he'd joined a patrol for the aftrenoon and what he saw left him both frustrated and worried. All along the outskirts of the city the poor and destitute wailed for scraps of food and denarius and elsewhere men called passionately for weary citizens to demand change. The resentment and anger from everyday people was so palpable Marcus can still feel it now as he enters the courtyard of the villa. Even his horse seems edgy as he dismounts and hands him over to the stable boy. How did things get so bad so quickly? In the months since he'd left for the Germanic campaign Rome had descended into hopelessness. Sighing heavily, Marcus can feel the beginning of a tension headache behind his eyes.

Entering the villa, Marcus can think of only one thing, one person who can help him feel better; you. "Alia...?" Marcus called as Silas appeared to take his cloak. The smell of cooked meat and fresh baked bread hit Marcus' scenses and made his stomach rumble. He'd been so preoccupied with the days' problems he'd forgotten to eat. "Good evening, Dominus," Silas greeted Marcus with warmth and respect. "Good evening," Marcus replied, looking around. "Where's Alia?" There was an awkward silence before Silas spoke. "She hasn't returned yet, Sir." Marcus' head whipped round to Silas, eyes wide, unsure if he'd heard correctly. "What?! What do you mean "hasn't returned"? Where did she go?" Silas took a step backwards, his normally nuetral expression etched with worry. "She left with Cassia earlier today. I believe they were headed for the market."

Marcus' heart lurched in his chest. You went out... ALONE, without any sufficient protection; what the hell! "The Market?" Marcus growled in disbelief. "Y-yes, Dominus. That's what Cassia told me." Marcus spun on his heel and stalked across the courtyard to the two guards positioned at the entrance. Marcus could see they looked afraid. Good they'd better be afraid. You let her go!" Marcus exploded at the closest guard, an inch from his face. The men backed up slightly. "General..." the closest guard said, nervously. "Why did you let her leave? Are you stupid?!" Marcus spat, looking between the two men. "Sir, we couldn't keep her here against her wishes. She's not a slave or under house arrest and since you gave us no specific orders-" "Orders!" Marcus could feel his blood begin to boil the longer this went on. "I should think it would be fucking obvious that you don't allow her to venture out alone!"

The guards lowered their gazes, the other one now speaking. "You're right, General. The fault is ours, forgive us." "Forgive you," Marcus seethed. "If anything happens to her I'll skin you both alive! You..." Marcus snapped his gaze to the man closest to him. "Prepare a horse and ride out at once and pray for your sake you find her unharmed." "Yes, sir," the guard nodded quickly then ran towards the stables. "And you, keep an eye out. If she returns while I'm gone make sure she is well cared for." Marcus didn't even wait for the mans' response before turning swiftly and rushing to the stables to ready his horse. His mind began spiralling as the seconds passed. What were you thinking?? How could you be so careless? Dangers lurk around every corner and you have just opened yourself up to said dangers.

If anyone hurts you... Marcus's chest thightend at the thought. He shakes his head; he can't think like that now. If he even entertaines such possibilities he won't be able to keep a clear head and he has to find you; that's all that matters now. Suddenly voices in the courtyard catch Marcus ear. Bursting through the stable doors, his breath catches in his chest at the sight of you quickly walkking towars him across the courtyard, with Cassia behind you and being led by a guard. You're safe! Overwhelming relief crashes over Marcus, the icy dread that threatened his very sanity moments ago abating. But now, with the absense of blind panic another sensation wells up - anger. He storms towards you, closing the gap within seconds. "Leave us," he ordered the guard while keeping his eyes fixed on you. "Where have you been?!" Marcus demanded, shoulders taut, frown lines deepening his brow.

The smile on your face - albeit a nervous one - fell instantly. "I... was with Cassia today," you answer, frowning. "Do you have any idea how worried I've been?" You cast a glance to Cassia who seems very interested in the ground right now. "We just went to the Market and then to the theatre. There was no cause for concern." "You went into the city with no protection and you expect me to not worry," Marcus scoffed then looked to Cassia. "You should have known better than to take her out there!" Cassia's cheeks turned bright red. "I'm sorry, Dominus. I didn't think." "She's not at fault, Marcus," you quickly came to her defence. "I invited myself along so the blame is mine alone." Movment in the courtyard caught both yours and Marcus' attention. Fantastic! The entire household has come outside to see the commotion. Without warning Marcus' hand reached for you, his grip solid around your upper arm and he began to pull you towards the villa.

"What- Marcus, let go!" you protested, angrily, digging your heels in the ground. You grab his hand trying - and failing - to release his hold on you. The man has an iron grip and you're powerless in his grasp. The Triclinium door slams shut with a rattle behind Marcus as he turns to face you, face like a thundercloud. "You had no right to do that!" you fumed, fists clenched at your sides. "Would you rather have an audiance??" Marcus shot back. "I'd rather you spoke to me like a rational man." "Do you realise the danger you put yourself in today?" Marcus continued to berate you. "Anything could have happened to you." "What danger, Marcus? Cassia goes into the city all the time -" "Cassia has grown up here. She knows the city, you don't." The headache Marcus felt earlier is returning with a vengance and you're inability to see sense is not helping. How could you so easily dismiss the ever present dangers? You stood closer to Marcus, hands on your hips. "If It's safe enough for Cassia, it's safe enough for me."

Marcus turned his back, crossing one arm over his chest and sighing heavily, pinched the bridge of his nose with the other hand. You're just not getting this! "The fact you believe that just goes to show naive you are," he said, through gritted teeth, his back still facing you. "Don't patronize me. I'm not a simpelton," you snapped, moving closer still. "I'd never go anywhere on my own. I trust Cassia. You can't just lock me away here for the rest of my life!" Marcus dropped his hand, looking at you over his shoulder in disbelief. "I'm not trying to lock you away, damn it!" he turned back towards you, his voice growing louder with frustration. "I'm trying to keep you safe!" You are both practically chest to chest now, neither of you willing to concede. The tension in the room is reaching boiling point. "I didn't leave one prison for another!!" you yelled.

Marcus' jaw dropped, a moment later his eyes turned dark and cold. "Is that what you think this is?" he growled lowly. Shit, you shouldn't have said that. It's not true, you know that and you immediately wish you could take it back. But before you could, Marcus spoke, his voice laced with hurt. "After everything we've been through, everything we've done for each other, that's how you see me; as some kind of captor?" "Marc-" "Why am I even bothering!" Marcus exploded. "Do what you wish from now on, see if I care. Go on out there..." Marcus raised his arm in a quick sweeping motion towards the outside and in that moment the atmosphere shifted. Your body, reacting on instinct flinched violently backwards, eyes closing and face turning away, waiting for the sting you've felt so may times to burn your cheek.

Only it didn't come. Marcus dropped his arm and froze, staring at you like he'd just been knifed in the heart. Shame wraps it's tendrils around you, heavy and crippling. What a stupid thing to do. Meeting Marcus' eyes, you notice them glisten as they soften. "Alia..." he breathed your name so delicately it almost made you cry. "I..." Marcus swallowed thickly, unwilling or unable to speak, you don't know. He then turned slowly, opened the door and walked through without looking back, leaving you alone.

*****

Guilt. That's what you feel now, that and remorse. Marcus had no right humiliating you like that in front of everyone but it doesn't excuse what you said. He has upended his entire life to make room for you and you threw it back in his face. Urrgh, his face; no matter how much you try, you can't escape the image of those big brown eyes looking at you with disbelief. And then you went and made matters worse by cowering like a mouse just because he raised his arm, god's that was pathetic! What must he think of you? You dread to think given the crestfallen look on his face. It was as if you'd cut him open and left him with nothing. You're not sure how long you've been sitting out on your balcony, slipping further into self condemnation, but it must be getting late as the sun is beginning to set.

Your dinner sits cold and barely touched on your dresser. Marcus had sent Flavia with a tray and, while you appreciate the thoughtful gesture, you just didn't have the appitite. All evening you've been silently debating wether or not you should go to Marcus. You want nothing more than to apologise and move on from this but would he even want to see you right now? Your words had wounded him deeply and it's churning your gut up. You have to speak to him; the longer you leave it, the harder it will be for the both of you. Even if he's still angry and refuses to see you, at least you tried. Taking a deep breath, you rise from your chair and with your heart pounding you head for Marcus' chamber.

*****

Marcus sat at his desk, pouring over the documents for the household expenses. He doesn't need to do it, he's always on top of this stuff but right now he needs a distraction; anything to take his mind off of you and the fear he saw flash across your face earlier. He's seen that look once before, the same look you gave him months ago when you were forced into the cage that imprisoned him. He went too far, he sees that now. Instead of allowing his anger to get the better of him he should have tried to diffuse the situation. It crushes his soul that you thought he was about to strike you. As if he would harm even a hair on your head. He feels sick just thinking about it. Did he do the right thing leaving you alone? Is it the right thing to do now? How he longs to take you into his arms and apologise but he doesn't want to cause you any more fear. He'll give you space and when you're ready, you'll come to him... he hopes.

The villa is quiet as you walk through the lowly lit hallway to Marcus' room, as if the building itself is holding it's breath in anticipation. Standing at his door, you take a steadying breath, exhale slowly and tap gently. "Come..." Marcus' deep tone breaks the silence. You open the door and step inside. Marcus' head is lowered, deep in concentration with the parchments scattered over his desk. "Am I disturbing you?" you ask, meekly. Marcus' head snapped up, his look of surprise morphing into a look of relief. "Not at all," Marcus' insisted, rising from his chair. "Come in. Forgive me, I thought you were Silas. Please, sit," he said, gesturing to the edge of the bed. You close the door and sit down, Marcus sitting beside you, leaving more space than you would like. "Marcus, I came to apolog-" "I'm sorry about-" you both began at the same time, but stopped abruptly. A soft chuckle came from Marcus, which in turn drew a smile from you, the tension easing instantly.

"Please, you first," he urged. "I want to apologise for what I said to you. It was inexcusable and wrong of me. You didn't deserve that," you sighed. "Alia I-" "No please, let me say this," you placed your hand over Marcus' resting on the bed. "I didn't mean it. I was angry and I lashed out. It was so unfair of me to compare here to my village. You have no idea how grateful I am for everything you've done for me and continue to do." Marcus smiled, turning his hand over to hold yours. "I'm sorry too, Alia. I overreacted. I'm ashamed of myself for treating you the way I did. I swear I'm not trying to control your movements or stifle you..." Marcus paused, his face contorting with remorse, "...and I'm so sorry for frightening you. You have to know, I would never hurt you," his tone grew grave. "I'd die before I ever hurt you." Your heart aches for Marcus in this moment and you want to put him at ease. "I know you'd never hurt me. I'm sorry I reacted like that." Marcus' hand tightened around yours.

"Why are you apologising for that?" his voice strained in disbelief. "Because I saw how it hurt you." Marcus exhaled. "I don't want you to ever fear me." Standing, you pull Marcus to his feet and make him stand in front of you until his tall frame is towering over you. You place his arms around your body and wrap yours around his mid section, looking up earnestly into his eyes. "If I believed for one moment you'd ever hurt me I wouldn't be in your arms now. I trust you with my life, Marcus," you declare. "It's just sometimes my body reacts to tense situations and I can't control it, but it doesn't mean I believe you capable of causing me harm." Marcus let out a breath of relief, tightening his embrace and burying his head in your neck. "I love you, Alia," he whisperd into your ear. Your stomach gave a little flip as his words settled somewhere deep inside you, warmth and joy spreading through your chest. Pulling back, eyes wide, you loose yourself momentarily in Marcus' soft gaze.

"Y- you love me?!" Marcus smiled adoringly cupping your cheek. "With all that I am. I don't expect you to return the sentiment yet, I just wanted to tell- Omph!" Now Marcus' eyes widened as your lips crashed hungrily onto his, your fists clutching his tunic like you couldn't pull him close enough. A searing kiss of heat and tongues ensued, moans being swallowed by each other. After a few moments you break the kiss and pull back, breathless and flushed. "I love you too, Marcus," you gush, taking in every inch of his beautifully weathered face with your eyes. "So much!" The smile Marcus gives you makes your heart soar. He pulls you back into his body, practically devouring your mouth before peppering kisses along your jaw and neck as you wrap your arms around his shoulders. A moan, slow and needy escapes you at his tantalizing touch and oh! Is that...? Yep, it's Marcus' erection brushing against your pelvis. Your own body responds with a sudden throb between your legs, warmth spreading to your lower belly and your heart beating faster.

You press your hips further into his already semi hard cock and Marcus groans as he becomes fully erect. "Marcus..." you whisper, voice thick with arousal, "I want you. I want all of you tonight." Marcus pulls back from kissing your neck, his expression a mixture of arousal, hope, and uncertainty. "Are you sure?" he asks, breathing heavily. "Yes," you nod, "I want to know you in every way possible." You press a slow kiss to his lips, "I don't want to hold back any longer." Without another second wasted, Marcus' hand slid around the back of your head, connecting your lips and pulling you flush against him. His hands slide down your waist and, squeezing your arse cheeks in his hands, he picks you up and you instinctively wrap your legs around his hips, letting out a surprised squeal. You could feel Marcus grin against your lips. "Do you feel what you do to me?" he purrs as he slides you lower until your clothed pussy is sitting atop his cock.

It's impossible to stifle the lustful gasp in your throat, even more impossible to stop yourself from pressing down onto him. Marcus walks you over to the bed as if you are weightless and with no impairment from his injured thigh. Your core throbs with raw, primal need. You can already feel yourself getting wet. This is it, you think to yourself as Marcus gently lowers you onto your back, his solid body hovering over yours. You're finally going to experience what it's like to have the man you love make love to you, something you never thought you'd have. Marcus begins to trail slow, wet kisses down your neck until he reaches your collarbone. "Can I take this off?" he asks, bunching your tunic in his hands. You nod, biting your lower lip and sit up, allowing him to pull it up and over your head. Despite the warm night air your skin breaks out in goosebumps. No one has ever seen you naked before and to be this bare in front of Marcus is both nerve wracking and exhilarating as his dilated pupils hungrily drink you in.

But then you remember the angry looking scar on oyur shoulder. Shit! You didn't think this through. Suddenly very self concious, you splay your hand over the scar in an attempt to hide it. Marcus, noticing your abrupt shift in demeaner and hand placment, furrows his brow. "My love...?" he soothes, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. "You don't ever have to hide from me. I want to see all of you." You shake your head, jaw tight, eyes averted. "I can't," you grimace, "it's so ugly." Marcus doesn't say a word; instead he sits back on his haunches and removes his own tunic, now as naked as you. Your eyes widen as you observe the man before you; wide strong shoulders, thick arms and a chest hardened and sculpted by years of training and battles, his belly is just the right amount of hard and soft with a trail of dark hair leading to... oh wow. You're no expert on male appendages (obviously), but it's undeniably big. It makes you wonder if it will even fit. As you rake your eyes back up along his body you notice the many scars, both old and more recent, littering his tanned skin.

He truly is breathtaking. Marcus takes your other hand and traces your fingertips along his damaged flesh. "Do you think these are ugly?" he asks, softly. Your eyes snap to his. What an absurd question. "Of course not!" you exclaim. "These mean you are still here; still alive. They're beautiful, Marcus." Marcus gives you a knowing smile. "The same is true of you." The sincerity in Marcus statement is enough to rid you of any lingering shame and with a grateful smile, you lower your hand. Marcus leans in, pressing a featherlight kiss to your scar. "Beautiful..." he murmers. Laying you down, his lips begin a descent to your chest, his tongue licking and savouring the taste of your skin. When his mouth settled around your hardened nipple your back arched upwards, your hands gripping his hair and your breaths becoming heavier.

Marcus' cock is almost painfully swollen now, every moan, every writhe beneath him fuelling his arousal to the point where he could come right now. He'd imagined exploring and worshipping your body for so long and now that he gets too, it's almost too much. No woman - and he's known a few intimately in the past - has ever made him feel like you do. It's like he's been waiting his whole life for you. His hands roam your smooth skin as he latches onto your other nipple and it takes all of his willpower to not grind his hips into the mattress. "Oh, Marcus...!" you gasp, grabbing his hand and bringing it to your other breast. Marcus kneads the soft mound causing you to arch even further, your legs falling open. Marcus slots his thigh between your legs and brings his mouth back to yours. The head of his cock rubs over your clit and you gasp at the sensation, opening your legs wider.

Marcus groans into your mouth, pressing himself against your core, every rub making you wetter. A mix of feelings cascade of you; love, lust, want, but also slight trepidation. This will be your first time and although you want this, want Marcus, a part of you is nervous. "Marcus, wait," you pant, breaking the kiss. Marcus stops and looks at you through blown pupils that make his eyes appear even darker. "Are you okay?" he rasps, just as breathless as you. You nod, "Yes, but before we go any further I need to tell you something." "What is it?" he probes, sitting up and pulling you with him. Oh god's, where to begin? Would confessing ruin the moment? Would your lack of experience put him off? Heat rises to your cheeks, this time from embarrassment. "I... uh...I don't- I mean..." you huff a nervous titter, looking down to your lap. "I've never done..." you trail off, looking up to meet Marcus' gaze and see recognition dawn on his face.

"You're a virgin," Marcus states, no judgement in his voice. You nod and sigh. "Yes. I know of sex and what needs to happen but... I've never done it. Are you dissappointed?" "Dissappointed?" Marcus says, increduliously. "By my lack of experience," you clarify. Marcus takes your face in both hands. "I could never be dissappointed in you my sweet girl," he kisses the tip of your nose. "You're perfect the way you are." Pressing your forehead to his, you let out a relieved sigh. "Alia, we don't have to do anything tonight if you're not ready-" "I am ready, Marcus," you insist, "I just wanted you to know that I'm a little nervous." Marcus' arm snuck around your waist, his strength easily pulling you into him and he smoothed the apple of your cheek with his thumb. "It's okay," he smiled. "I'm going to take good care of you. If at any point you feel uncomfortable, just say the word and we'll stop." You smile and nod eagerly, "Okay."

Finding each others' mouths once more, Marcus encourages you to lay down and settles his body between your legs, his stiff shaft straining in it's own skin. "I'm going to get you ready for me," he purrs, his fingers going to your moist slit. Coating two fingers in your arousal, he teasingly traces circles over your clit, watching raptly as your eyes roll back with a breathy moan. He begins at your neck, kissing and licking his way down to your tits, then to your stomach until he reaches your pubic mound. "W- what are you doing...?" You lift your head to see him. "Shhh... do you trust me?" Marcus hums, voice thick with desire. "Yes..." Marcus grins, eyes gleaming. "Good girl. I'm going to make you come on my tongue. Just relax. You'll enjoy this." As your head falls back, Marcus parts your thighs even further, relishing the sight of your clistening cunt. He kiseses up the inside of your thigh until his mouth reaches your folds. Gathering extra saliva on his tongue, he licks all the way from your perineum to your swollen clit in one long tortutous sweep.

Your instant moan is music to Marcus' ears and it spurs him on as he increases his ministrations, flattening his tongue on your lips and flicking your nub with the tip of his tongue. Your hips begin to tremble and buck and Marcus lays his arm across you, keeping you in place. "Oh my- Marcus!!" His name sounds heavenly falling from your lips in desperation and it sends a jolt of pure carnel desire through him, all the way down to his twitching member. He could happily spend the rest of his life between your legs, dragging out the most sinfully wonderful sounds from you. He now focuses his tongue on your clit, alternating between licking and sucking. His fingers skim across your entrance for a moment before he sinks one inside, your walls warm and silky around his digit. As he begins to stroke your tunnel, you gasp, your hands flying to his hair again as you buck up uncontrollably into his mouth. "Oh, t- that feels good! Keep going!" Marcus is only happy to oblige. He sinks a second finger in and begins curling his fingers along your velvety flesh.

He can feel your walls beginning to clamp as your pants and moans become louder and more desperate and, oh, how beautiful you sound. "Tell me..." he croones between licks, "have you ever touched yourself?" "Mmm... yes," you whisper. "Recently?" he smirked. "Y-yes!" Marcus swirled your clit again, fingers now pumping in and out of you, the squelch of your juices accompanying your wails of pleasure. "And what were you thinking about when you came?" "You, Marcus!" Your confession made Marcus delirious with pride. "That's my good girl," he praised, "Now let go and give me everything you've got." Marcus returned his mouth to your clit, swirling, flicking, sucking like a man possessed while his fingers sank even deeper until he found that spongy spot. Moments later your walls squeezed tightly around his fingers, your legs shaking, fists tightening with the cry that followed and warmth gushed all over Marcus'mouth. He lapped at your release, savouring every drop of your sweetness on his tongue.

Marcus raised his head, the sight of your heaving breasts making him smile. Crawling up over your body, he caged your head with his forearms, pressing a deep kiss to your mouth. The look of pure fucked out bliss in your eyes might just be his new favourite thing. "How was that?" he smirked. "A-maz-ing..." your voice shuddered, a large smile breaking out. Marcus returned the smile. "I think you're ready for me now," he winked. Marcus situated himself between your legs, hooking one over his hip. Notching his weeping head at your hole, he looked into your eyes and slowly pushed the tip of his cock inside. The stretch is shocking, the intrusion causing you to tense slightly. Marcus stills, giving you time to adjust to his thickness. "Okay...?" he asks. "Yeah..." you answer, breathily, "just so big." Marcus smiles and it makes your chest flutter. "Just relax, you're doing so well," he says, encouragingly, kissing your shoulder.

After a few moments he pushes more of his length into you until a sudden sharp jab between your legs causes you jolt, sucking air in through your teeth. "It's alright. That's the worst of the pain over. It happens to every woman during her first time," Marcus reassures you. You weren't expecting that at all but with Marcus guiding you through everything and his obvious care for your comfort you find yourself relaxing around his girth, wanting to feel more of him. With a heavy breath in your ear, Marcus feeds the rest of his cock into you, filling you completely. He buries his face in your neck, his groan mixing with your own. "Fuck, you're so tight!" he says, marvel coating his words. Your hands, which were gripping his shoulders, slide to his back, feeling the muscles and scars that make up the man he is. "Marcus, move... please," you practically beg. You don't have to ask twice. Slowly, Marcus pulls his hips back, sliding his thick dick along every inch of your walls, then just as slowly, he pushes all the way back in and... OH FUCK! That feels good! More than good!

As Marcus' vieny manhood plunges in and out, your hands instinctivly grip his back harder until your nails are digging into his flesh, while a building warmth of ecstacy pulses low in your belly, tickiling every nerve ending you possess. You've pleaseured yourself before but this is on a whole other level! "M-Marcus! oh my- that feels..." "uh...I know," Marcus grunts as he thrusts deeper and harder, his heavy breaths and the feel of his his bare skin on yours reducing you to a state of lust and arousal you didn't think possible. Your swollen pussy flutters around his cock, heightening the sensation of being completely filled, each delicious drag of his meat taking you further and further towards euphoria. Marcus picks up the pace, pounding into you, the slap of sweaty flesh and pleasured moans filling the room. "Urgh, right there!" you whine when Marcus hits a spot that has you seeing stars. "Yeah? That feel good, sweetheart? Marcus smirked, sinking his teeth into your neck - not enough to hurt but enough to excite you. "Yes, don't stop!" And he doesn't; again and again, he thrusts and pumps in and out, in and out, your flesh and his becoming one.

Your hands grip his arse and you squeeze tightly as pressure swells up deep inside your pussy. "God's, you're incredible, Alia," Marcus praises you, his chest heaving with exertion. "I think I'm going to..." Marcus raises his head, desire and fire swirling in his eyes as they lock onto your own. "Come for me. Let me see what I do to you." With the deep timbre of his voice, the lust in his gaze and the force of his shaft you can hold on no longer. Wave after wave of rapturous pleasure bursts through your core, spreading to every part of your body, your hips shuddering of their own accord. You cry out but it's slightly muffled by the ringing in your ears, then you hear Marcus' voice, strained but supportive as you come down form your high. He continues to delve in and out of your soaked pussy, his own release moments away. With one last powerful thrust, he pulls out and empties his pulsating dick into his discarded tunic, throwing it onto the floor beside the bed. He then lowers himself gently on top of you, his lips crashing to yours, the kiss deep and passionate. You're both a sweaty, breathless tangle of limbs.

"You okay?" Marcus asks tentativly, smoothing back sweat soaked strands from your forehead, his gaze soft and hazy and his cheeks flushed. "Okay?" you giggle, cupping his face. "I'm fantastic! You're fantastic." Marcus grins from ear to ear. "That was so much more than I ever imagined it could be," you tear up, suddenly overwhelmed. "Peace, my love," Marcus cooed, wiping a tear from under your eye. He settles down beside you, taking you with him and tucking your body into his, your head nuzzling into his chest and leg draped over his waist. Marcus wraps his arms around you and you sigh contentedly. "Did you enjoy it?" you ask, strumming your fingers over the hairs on his broad chest. Marcus' hold around you tightened, his lips pressing into the crown of your head. "There is no word to describe how much I enjoyed it. You are everything to me, Alia. I love you so much." Tears fill your eyes again, your smile so big your jaw muscles ache. The love you have for Marcus swells in your chest, the intensity of it threatening to consume you. If this was your last night in this life, you'd regret not one moment of it. "I love you too, Marcus," you sigh dreamily, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles. Marcus sighed in return, "Rest now, darling. I've got you."

@bbyanarchist @myownwholewildworldwhole @imherefordeanandbones @picketniffler @h0w-1-wanna-l1v3 @chrissy-forfucksakes-wakeup @meetmeatyourworst @yorksgirl @joeldjarin @echo-ethe @whirlwindrider29 @abbyanarchist @suzyface @missadangel @evyiione @longlivekingminnn @heramj @javiismyhsbnd @kxthxrinx0310 @inept-the-magnificent @liciafonseca @marrowfrog00 @moompie @anoverwhelmingdin @negrita2345 @mallingcalling-blog

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fandom #marcus acacius x you #marcus acacius fanfiction #marcus acacias x reader #marcus acacius fluff #marcus acacius gladiator ii #marcus acacius smut #the mandalorian fanfiction #marcus acacius #marcus acacius x ofc #marcus acacius angst #gladiator 2 #general marcus acacius #general acacius #marcus acacius imagine #marcus acacius x female reader

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firsttarotreader · 2 days ago

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This baby! Photo courtesy of Lux Pascal.

#pedro pascal #pedro pascal fandom #baby pedro #lux pascal

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dallianceangel · 2 days ago

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an au where there's no outbreak, sarah is alive, tess is joel's girlfriend, it's summer, and you're staying at their place for two weeks and have a tendency to wake them up every morning by blasting girlfriend by avril lavigne and walk around the house in a sundress with very little on underneath.

tess knows you've got a crush on joel, but he's acting oblivious...

(this plot might change as i write it though)

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xbeababyx · 12 days ago

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He’s so sexy with long hair, fit so well on him

(even when they're messy🥹)

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lazysoulwriter · 20 hours ago

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brain go brrrr ── ✦

requested! thank you. ♡ content: wife!reader, post-shower, domestic fluff, munch!Pedro, oral (f receiving)

Pedro’s sitting on the edge of the bed, still in his hoodie and boxers, talking about work with one hand running lazily through his hair. He’s not even looking at you — he’s looking at the wall, animated, hands moving as he talks about tomorrow’s shoot.

“So we’re doing the space scene tomorrow. You know, where Sue and Reed—”

You walk out of the bathroom, towel-drying your hair, completely naked.

You don’t even think about it. Just wander across the room, grabbing one of his old t-shirts from the drawer and a clean pair of underwear, humming softly to yourself.

Behind you, silence.

You glance back. “You were saying something about the space scene tomorrow?”

Pedro is just staring.

Mouth parted. Eyebrows raised. Hands frozen in mid-gesture. Eyes glued to your ass like it personally offended him.

He blinks. “Uh—I—I’m going to space?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you asking me or telling me?”

Still stunned.

You smirk, finally turning to face him fully. “You okay, astronaut?”

He drags a hand down his face like it’ll help reboot his brain. “You just… walked out here all—” He gestures vaguely to your body. “Naked and damp and glowing and like you don’t know you’re the hottest thing on this planet or any other.”

You snort, stepping closer, amused. “You’ve seen me naked a thousand times.”

“Yeah, and every single time it’s like—” He cuts himself off, staring again. “I can’t even form sentences right now.”

You pause in front of him, tilting your head. “Did I just make Pedro Pascal forget how to talk?”

His hands shoot out, grabbing your hips like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. He presses slow kisses to your belly, lips soft and reverent. Then lower. And lower.

You gasp when he nuzzles right between your legs, his nose brushing your soft curls.

“Pedro—” you murmur, laughing breathlessly, “you are so easy.”

“What?!” he mumbles against your skin, kissing gently, his voice all faux innocence. “You’re gorgeous. And naked. And my wife.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers curl into his hair anyway. “You’re obsessed with me.”

“I am,” he says shamelessly, licking a soft stripe up your mound. “So let me show you how much.”

You look down — he’s already staring up at you with those damn puppy eyes, mouth hot against your center, all needy and sweet and entirely gone for you.

“Can I eat you out?” he asks like it’s the most important question in the world.

You raise an eyebrow. “Like you haven’t already made that decision.”

He grins, pulling you even closer. “Just being polite.”

And then his tongue is on you — slow and deliberate, kissing and licking like he’s savoring dessert. Moaning like you taste better than whatever was in his fridge.

You give up trying to tease him. Just throw your head back and let him worship you like he was built for it.

Tomorrow, he’ll go to space.

Tonight, he’s right where he belongs — face buried between your thighs, soft curls against his nose, humming like your pussy’s a love song.

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

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andy-15-07 · 19 hours ago

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Imagine having a baby 👩‍🍼. Also, imagine it's a boy because there's way too many baby girl fics, and I'm honestly getting tired of it. Whether by marriage 👰‍♀ or accident, it dosen’t really matter because the father isn't in the picture. Also, your baby is mute. On top of that, you have known Pedro Pascal since childhood 👧, and for some strange reason, your baby adores Pedro. Like every time he comes for a visit, the baby starts crawling towards him, wanting his attention. Yes, I want this to be a oneshot, pretty please Andy 🙏.

The Language of Love

PAIRING: Pedro Pascalx reader

WORD COUNT: 829 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Masterlist II |

Joel Miller Masterlist

You never imagined motherhood would be so quiet.

Not because your son, Mateo, was an unusually calm baby. No, it was because Mateo hadn’t spoken a single word,not yet. And though he was two years old, he still communicated in his own unique ways: expressive eyes, bright smiles, and countless gestures that only you seemed to fully understand.

That wasn’t to say you didn’t try everything. The doctors, the specialists, the speech therapists , you saw them all, each with their gentle reassurances and hopeful promises. “He’s absorbing everything,” one said. “His voice will come,” another assured you.

Yet some days, the silence stretched long, filling the space between you with a quiet worry.

But today was different.

Because today, Pedro was coming over.

Pedro Pascal.

Your childhood friend. The boy who grew up two houses down, who knew every secret hiding place, who shared scraped knees and dreams under the sun-drenched sky of your small town. Though life took you in different directions , Pedro off to chase his acting career, you to build a life on your own terms , he remained a constant, like a steady lighthouse in the fog.

And now, Mateo’s favorite person.

You heard the knock before you saw him.

“Y/N! I’m here!” Pedro’s familiar voice called, just like it always did, loud and full of warmth.

You hurried to the door, fumbling to pull it open, your heart lifting at the sight of him. He was taller now, leaner, with the same mischievous smile that had charmed so many, but your heart always reserved it just for you.

“Hey!” you greeted, stepping aside to let him in.

Mateo sat on the living room floor, surrounded by a fortress of colorful wooden blocks. His big brown eyes tracked Pedro’s every move.

“Hey, Mateo!” Pedro crouched down, arms wide open. “Come see your old friend!”

Almost instantly, Mateo’s face lit up. He dropped the block he was holding and began crawling toward Pedro, the speed surprising for a toddler.

You smiled through the lump forming in your throat. There was something magical in how Mateo responded to Pedro , a silent language only they shared.

Pedro reached out his hand, and Mateo grabbed it tightly, clinging like a lifeline.

Pedro’s voice softened. “Hey, little guy. What’s up? Missing me?”

Mateo babbled in his own way, pointing to the blocks as if issuing a challenge.

“Oh, you wanna build something?” Pedro grinned. “Alright. Let’s do this.”

You settled onto the couch, watching them build and laugh. Pedro’s exaggerated expressions and soft tone made Mateo giggle, and though the baby couldn’t speak yet, his eyes sparkled with joy.

After a while, Pedro looked at you, concern threading his voice. “Y/N, are you holding up okay? I know it’s hard sometimes.”

You sighed, nodding. “It’s… a lot. Some days I feel like I’m losing him to the silence. But then he looks at me like that , like he understands everything , and I remember it’s not about the words. It’s about love.”

Pedro reached out, squeezing your hand gently. “Mateo’s a smart kid. He’s got you. And he’s got me, too.”

You laughed softly. “You’re his favorite, you know that? Every time you come over, he crawls right to you.”

Pedro shrugged, grinning sheepishly. “Hey, who wouldn’t want that kind of welcome?”

Mateo suddenly stood up, wobbling, and took a few unsteady steps toward Pedro, arms outstretched.

Pedro’s face lit up. “Whoa, look at you! Taking steps for me? That’s huge!”

Mateo tried to speak , opening his mouth and closing it quickly , but no words came out.

Pedro knelt beside him. “Hey, it’s okay, bud. You don’t have to say anything for me to know you’re amazing.”

That evening, after a long day of play, you and Pedro settled on the floor with Mateo between you, surrounded by scattered toys and soft blankets. The little boy rested comfortably in your lap, eyes bright but tired.

Pedro looked down at Mateo, who was nestled comfortably in your lap. “You ever think about what you’d say if you could talk?” he asked gently.

Mateo reached out and touched Pedro’s cheek with a tiny hand.

You smiled, brushing your fingers through Mateo’s hair. “I think he’s telling you already , just in his own way.”

Pedro’s eyes glistened. “Yeah, I think you’re right.”

Days turned into weeks, and Pedro’s visits became a ritual for all three of you. Mateo thrived in the warmth of his presence, and you found comfort in knowing you weren’t alone on this journey.

One afternoon, while Pedro was making funny faces to coax Mateo into laughing, you caught him looking at you with something deeper in his eyes.

“Y/N,” he said softly, “I’m here for you. Always. Whatever you need.”

You reached out, taking his hand in yours. “Thank you, Pedro. For everything.”

Mateo babbled happily, wrapping his tiny arms around Pedro’s neck.

And in that quiet, beautiful moment, words weren’t necessary.

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gothicpaperback · 18 hours ago

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the quiet | four

wc: 3,5k | rating: 18+ for eventual smut | Boston QZ to Jackson Joel Miller x reader

summary: you don’t speak. not since outbreak day stole your voice and everything that mattered. when a smuggling job gone sideways leaves you in the care of Joel Miller and Tess, you don’t ask for help, you don’t want it from the powerful woman and intimidating man. but Tess sees something in you, pulling you close, showing you warmth. her partner Joel keeps his distance and you prefer it that way, you’ve learned not to trust men. Joel doesn’t want to get involved with you, not when his loyalty already belongs to Tess. but feelings don’t listen to reason and as tension builds between the three of you, so does the quiet pull between you and Joel; dangerous, unwanted, impossible to ignore.

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

tags/warnings: family trauma/abuse, alcoholism, slow burn, sexual tension, descriptions of violence, enemies to lovers-ish, love triangle, boston to jackson joel, mentions of violence. i will add more tags as they become relevant.

the quiet | four

Joel and Tess are chatting in front of you, their eyes darting to you over their shoulder every so often. Like you're a dog they worry will stray from the leash.

Your fists still ache from putting those assholes in their place, the blood gummy on your knuckles. You keep your head down, still irritated at Joel. You glare at the back of his neck, at the line of sweat down his flannel shirt.

He's ugly, you think. Features too squinty, too hard. He's brutish with his too large hands and feet, like an overgrown puppy without the charm.

Tess and he brush shoulders when they walk. You notice Tess leans more into it, her face in profile as she looks at him.

You step off the main street and follow them through a narrow alley that stinks of wet trash and piss, the kind that sticks in your throat. It’s quieter here but not by much.

"Come here," Tess orders and you join her by a puddle leftover from yesterday's rain. You allow her to submerge your hands, wincing at the sting of her scrubbing the blood from your raw knuckles.

Joel watches this passively when he's not surveying the space for encroaching civilians.

As you move again, you begin to make mental notes of all the places you've travelled today; the rundown alleys and the bustling streets. This will come in handy when you're alone, when Tess and Joel tire of their forced philanthropy.

Finally, the three of you stop in front of a house with a painted on symbol you don't recognize. Tess' hand doesn’t even reach the rusted door before it swings open from the inside.

A bald man steps forward, imposing with a thick neck and many tattoos. He has a cigarette behind both ears. He scans you before he looks at Tess like he knows her.

"You’re early,�� he says in a low, clipped, voice.

"Made good time." Tess shrugs.

Joel remains at her side, beefy arms folded in front of him. He's like a loyal watchdog, waiting for his instruction from Tess to strike.

The man snorts and steps back, letting you all in. “That’s a first.”

The inside of the room is dim, just one oil lamp flickering on a table surrounded by cracked chairs. The windows are boarded up from the inside, the only view a sliver of daylight through uneven planks. It smells like old wood, mould and cigarettes.

"Take a seat," the man says pointing to them. Tess and Joel continue standing, so you do as well.

"This isn't a social call, Murray," Tess sighs. She sounds tired. But then again maybe she's always tired in a place like this.

Murray chuckles showing a gap-toothed smile you find oddly charming. He reaches into the desk drawer to bring out a folder. He drops it on the desk with a heavy thud. “ID, ration cards. Good thing Joel was able to describe you."

You raise a brow curiously.

"The ID is a class-3 overlay," Murray explains. "Had to find someone that could look like you. It's. Clean enough to pass inspection if you don’t act like a dumbass.” He looks at you, frowning. "Backstory is this, you're originally from Somerville but you got shuffled around the evac camps.”

“Everyone says that,” Joel mutters.

"So we know it works," Murray replies glaring at Joel before levelling his gaze your way. "You got all that?"

You nod.

"Good." Murray grabs the cigarette from behind his ear and lights it with the match that rests beside your folder.

You reach for the folder, but Murray slaps his beefy hand down over it. You flinch when he blows smoke in your face.

“Payment first.”

You dig into your pack and pull out the cloth pouch full of pills. The ones Tess told you to bring this morning. Murray takes the pouch, opens it, inspects it and grins his approval before he finally slides the folder toward you.

“Keep the story tight. If anyone asks where you’re staying now say you’re in overflow housing.”

You nod fingers tight around the folder.

"You fuck up and get caught you don't give them my name. As far as anyone outside this room knows, we have never met."

"She gets it," Tess interrupts. "No need for the speech."

Murray points his cigarette in your direction, ashes falling gently onto the desk like snow.

"I'm saying it for her benefit. If I get taken down because of her loud mouth-"

"She doesn't talk," Tess says quickly. "Your secret is safe."

Even if you were more loquacious you wouldn't ever talk. You can’t afford to screw this up, not with Maggie trusting you, not with your place on the edge of the QZ hanging by a thread.

You nod at Murray. I understand, before taking the paperwork and the ID and putting it in your backpack. The ration cards - enough for maybe a week - go into your jeans pocket. You're starving and hoping they can explain how to access it.

Murray looks at you as the three of you prepare to head out. He narrows his eyes specifically on you, voice raspy.

“You want to survive in this zone? Keep your head down, earn your keep, and never make people feel like you’re in the way. They’ll use that as an excuse to turn you in.”

You can only nod.

Outside again, the sky is starting to cloud. You bring out your new fake ID. Your fake name is Amelia Ripley. The birth year is off by two and the photo is grainy but passable.

"Decent work," Tess says as she and Joel pass it back and forth to one another. "But Amelia Ripley sounds like a stripper."

"Let's just see if it works," Joel cuts in irritably. "I got disposal detail in a bit."

The line to the distribution center is long, but you expected that. You look at the families, singles, and elderly, everyone standing shoulder to shoulder in the slowly chilling air. Some talk but most don’t.

A kid near the front throws up and no one even reacts. He just gets yanked aside by his mother who wipes his mouth with her sleeve, and gets back in line.

When it’s your turn, you step forward like you’ve done this a dozen times. You hand over the card without making eye contact. The FEDRA officer scans it, frowns for a split second then it clears. The printer spits out your rations: three meal vouchers, a water token, a slip for a pound of dry lentils.

You move down the line and take them all with numb fingers from an officer around your age who stares at you longer than necessary. He holds the voucher in between his thumb and forefinger until you look up at him.

He's handsome with black hair and eyes so blue they almost look dark. He has a short beard and he looks at you questioningly and your stomach sinks.

Fuck. This is it. Not even a day in and you've been caught.

He surprises you by releasing the vouchers and you shove them into your pocket, eyes back on the ground. You don’t breathe again until you’re back around the corner and out of sight, heading back to Joel and Tess with a relieved look on your face when someone taps your arm.

"Please help me. I'm so hungry."

You glance at your elbow to see a young girl of no more than six. Her face is streaked with dirt, her clothes worn.

Your heart aches as you see her holding her belly and looking up at you with wet eyes. She looks so young, so innocent. You want to help her and you feel the ration voucher in your jeans. Surely you can spare the beans for her.

You reach into your pocket, about to grab one of the vouchers when Tess appears out of nowhere to grab your wrist, stopping you. She turns her attention into the girl.

"Get lost," she hisses.

You watch the young girls wide innocent eyes turn into narrow slits, her little face going from innocent into furious.

"Fuck you, cunt."

Your eyes jolt open at the sound of that word coming from such a young voice. She rolls her eyes, no longer holding her stomach in pain.

She spits at your feet, giving Tess one last glare before she starts weaving through the crowd. You catch sight of her approaching another woman and now the play -acting has begun again. Her body moves sluggishly her arms winding around her midsection as she moans.

"You can't give anything of yours away," Tess scolds. "You give it to one and they'll come out of the woodwork asking for more."

You catch Joel's face from here and you feel humiliated all over when you see his look of disgust. You nod, feeling foolish.

"Let's go," Tess says, not waiting.

You follow her, ration vouchers in your pocket, a fake name in your mouth, and the sound of your own uneven heartbeat loud in your ears.

They lead you to a small section of town that looks rundown. People shout at one another, women carry screaming children, civilians hunched in line, merchants eyeing you with suspicion or desperation.

Your legs ache, and despite being mostly empty the bag straps dig into your shoulders.

Joel stalks ahead with Tess; his broad shoulders hunched tight beneath his jacket, boots thudding on the cracked pavement. He’s built like someone who used to work with his hands and never stopped: broad shoulders, solid arms, that hard look around the eyes like someone who’s seen everything and just stopped reacting.

Tess doesn’t bother hiding her sighs anymore.

“Keep up,” she snaps when you hesitate at the intersection.

The farther you go, the more the Zone shifts. Gone are the crowded walkways and barter stalls of the town square. Here, the buildings are taller ad grimmer. Steel mesh covers the windows.

Guards pass with bored expressions, not even looking at you twice. The air smells like urine, and the heavy chemical tint of bleach.

Cleaning supplies, but you don't want to linger on that thought.

“This way,” Joel mutters, turning down a narrow alley half-blocked by a rusted-out food truck, its tires stripped and one side collapsed inward like a kicked rib cage. A piece of cardboard flaps from the truck's window. Someone has scrawled "FUCK FEDRA" in faded red paint.

Finally, Joel and Tess stop at a concrete building with no sign. It might have been a school once, maybe a store. It’s hard to tell. One of the glass doors is missing, replaced by a dented metal sheet bolted to the frame. The other hangs crooked on its hinges.

Someone’s drawn chalk arrows on the wall pointing toward the basement and you notice the steps leading down are slick with damp moss.You walk slowly, careful not to slip. The last thing you want is Tess or a Joel cussing you out for not being able to walk in a straight line.

Tess knocks on the pipe beside the door: Two quick raps then one slow one. You wait. Tess shifts her weight, looking irritated.

“Lisa’s probably screening.”

“I know,” Joel mutters. “Just give her a sec.”

More waiting.

Then a clang of metal scraping on metal. The basement door creaks open an inch, then fully as a woman steps out.

She moves twitchy like someone who’s used to hiding behind walls. Her dark hair is tied in a knot at the back of her neck, sleeves rolled to the elbow. She gives a phlegmy cough before spitting a yellowed glob by her feet.

Her eyes scan Joel and Tess first, and then settle on you with a kind of clinical detachment that makes your skin crawl.

“You guys adopt?" she asks wryly.

Tess jerks his thumb in your direction. “A favour for a friend.”

It's like you're an animal or a piece of cargo they want to unload. Lisa stares at you, waiting for you to say something but you just look back at her passively.

Lisa’s gaze doesn't move. “Does she talk?”

“Not really,” Tess says. “But she listens.”

"Good." Lisa pushes the door wider. “Come in.”

The stairs creak as you follow. The air gets colder. Underground, the ceiling presses low, the lights dim and buzzing with old fluorescent flicker. You step into what looks like a converted records room with concrete walls.

Filing cabinets are gutted and stacked to form a divider. In one corner, someone’s built a desk out of a hospital gurney and plywood. A generator hums in the back room, barely masking the tick of a wall clock.

There are maps everywhere. Pinned to walls, layered on clipboards. One table holds only keys, tagged with plastic labels in shaky handwriting. A cork board shows the Zone broken into colour-coded sectors. Most of it is marked red. A few patches are green.

“I’ve got maybe one place that’ll work,” Lisa says without preamble, walking to the map. “Zone 5. Won’t be clean but its quiet, and the guy running it doesn’t ask questions.”

"We need zone 4 at least."

"There's nothing available for an immigrant outside area 5," Lisa says through a heaving cough that makes her eyes water. "Might have something opening up in a few months but it's a maybe."

Tess is shaking her head. "She won't survive a day there."

It's a testament to how shitty the place must be if Tess is trying to get you out of it.

"Tess I don't know what you want me to tell you," Lisa says with a frown. "They've cracked down on paperwork and your friend here needs to get work detail and prove herself to work up some goodwill. Then, maybe, if something comes up she'll maybe be accepted to one of the other zones."

"She can pay," Joel says quietly. He's standing by the door, arms folded. The steel in his voice makes your stomach twist a little, even though you knew this wasn’t going to be easy.

You glance at him, but he doesn’t look your way.

"You're not listening," Lisa sighs. "The last immigrant family I snuck into area four was found out and they were all executed within a month. I'm lucky I walked away with only a warning and my rations halved."

She turns to look at you with a lazy rise of a brow. "You want that honey? You wanna be hung by your neck on Jordan Street? Cuz I sure don't."

Joel looks at you now and his eyes are sharp and darker than you remember from the other day.

You shake your head. No.

"Didn't think so."

Lisa plucks a key from the wall and drops it into your waiting palm.

“Building seven. Second floor, east end. Door sticks and the landlord is a fucker named Perry. Tell him I sent you."

“We’ll figure it out,” Joel mutters, already turning toward the stairs and following after Tess.

Lisa’s already moved on, rummaging through a drawer of folders, pulling out a weathered form and a pencil. Her world is paper and silence, for ghosts like you that come to haunt.

You nod, brows knitted. It's a lot to remember but you have a decent memory.

"I suggest you avoid your neighbours. Work hard, work long, wait it out until we can move you to Zone 3 or 4." She goes to turn before pausing.

"Oh, and welcome to the neighbourhood."

The air smells like damp concrete and smoke, tinged with something metallic.Your boots scrape against the cracked pavement as you walk further in, angry voices heard somewhere behind a boarded up window, a guard barking at a man to step back.

You keep your head down but alert, scanning faces, reading body language.

From what you've gleaned Zone 5 is not a desirable place to be. Less security, less scrutiny, but that means less safety.

Unlike the other zones that you have walked through today, this one contains very few soldiers. These ones don't even raise their heads when you walk by them.

The buildings are mostly intact, though sagging with age and rot. Barrels burn in alleys and you pass a stand selling what might be rat meat.

How can you bring Maggie here?

Someone bumps your shoulder and mutters a curse. You keep walking, not immune to the sharp look Joel sends over his shoulder in your direction. A warning not to start shit.

You adjust your pack and try to ignore the gnawing sense that everyone here is waiting for something to fall apart.

Tess and Joel head into one close to an old-looking wharf. Men shoot you ugly looks but you continue to keep your head down.

You follow Tess up the cracked stairs of the building, Joel close behind you. His boots echo and you’re sure he's watching you, watching you, assessing, like he’s still deciding what to make of you.

"Hey, Lisa sent us. Meet you new tenant."

Perry looks you over, a cigarette hanging out one corner of his mouth. Like he’s deciding if you past muster. You try to remain placid, unsure if he wants someone bubbly or restrained. You can’t give him for the former.

"I collect payment every Friday,” he says suddenly. “You don't pay, you're out on your ass, got it?"

You nod, eyes not moving from his pockmarked face. This is good enough for him. The door sticks when he tries to open it. He gives it a shove with his shoulder and steps aside.

“It’s yours.”

The space is smaller than you expected, even after the warnings. One room, four stained walls, one narrow window half-boarded over. What little sunlight seeps through shows off the dust motes in the air.

The smell hits and it's sour and beneath that, mildew or maybe it's mould. You can’t tell and you don’t really want to. If you think about it too long your skin feels itchy.

There’s a cot in the corner with a metal frame and a mattress thin enough you can see the sloppy grid work beneath.

A crate is overturned in the curry to act as a table without a chair of course. The sink in the corner drips steadily into a rusted basin, the faucet permanently crooked. Pipes groan in the walls somewhere behind.

You don’t step any further inside. You just stand there, taking it in, feeling like the walls are already pressing too close. This is torture. You wouldn't make an animal live here.

And yet as you stand in the hallway you hear the unmistakable sound of a baby crying. It turns your stomach.

Tess leans in the doorway behind you. She doesn’t bother to hide her reaction. Her gaze flicks from the sink to the cot to the blackened patch of wall near the vent. “Luxury suite,” she mutters.

Joel says nothing.

You glance at them both. Tess catches your look, lifts a brow like you’re the one who should explain yourself. Joel’s expression is unreadable, but his arms are crossed tight over his chest, shoulders set.

"Bathroom's across the hall. S'got bleach and maybe a rag if you want to use it." Terry scratches the back of his thick neck. “No key. Door locks from inside. If it jams, kick it.”

You nod. You’re not sure if he notices or even cares. Whatever it is he lumbers away, throwing over his shoulder that he collects on Friday until his lumpy form is gone around the corner.

Tess steps back first.

"I don’t know what smells worse. Him or this place.” Tess nose wrinkles as she looks around the space once more. “It's not much but it'll do for a few months, yeah?"

You shrug. At this point you'd rather sleep on her couch than spend one hour in this slum, but you don't have the privilege of choice in the matter.

"I'll come by to grab you tomorrow," Tess says, looking like she's annoyed at the thought. "We'll figure out your work detail and then you're on your own."

You nod, eyes scanning the small apartment again. You think you hear the pipes squealing from outside the door.

Joel watches your face, curious to see you looking so nonchalant. He can only assume that you came from a pretty nice place with Maggie. He wonders how you'll react when you learn the truth about her.

Then again he can't really anticipate you. You with your intense stares coming from such a sweet looking face. You look like you'd be at home in a school teaching children, and yet when he saw you punching that man earlier all visions of that woman disappeared.

You'd been crazed, teeth clenched, eyes dark with adrenaline. The blood on your knuckles glossy in the sunlight.

“You can keep your valuables at my place until you're settled here," Tess adds.

You nod, thankful.

Joel lingers a moment longer, eyes sweeping the room once more. You’re not sure if he’s checking for dangers or just confirming how bad it is. Finally he turns and you’re left standing in your new home, listening to their footsteps fade down the stairs. The door doesn’t close right behind them. You’ll have to fix that yourself.

Welcome to the neighbourhood, you think. Welcome home.

i know this is a little dark but i wanted something a little dark. i hope that you will stick with me as i try something new. i would like to know what you think so far pls.

77 notes · View notes

theywereafairy · 2 days ago

Text

Can you see right through me?

⋆˚࿔ Pairing: Javier Peña x F!Investigative Journalist!Reader Wordcount: 9.6k

⋆˚࿔ Summary: You were sent to Bogotá to write about the war on drugs, not to fall for the man in the middle of it. Javier Peña doesn’t want to be interviewed. Doesn’t want to be written about. And he definitely doesn’t want you digging beneath the surface. But the more time you spend together, across stakeouts, interviews, silences, the more you see through the armor he wears like second skin. You’re supposed to stay objective. He’s supposed to stay detached. But somewhere between your questions and his evasions, something shifts. And one night, off the record, it all comes undone.

⋆˚࿔ Warnings: journalist/DEA slow burn • guarded Javi, determined reader • interrogation-turned-flirting • enemies to lovers energy • smut (oral f receiving, PIV with condom, praise, body worship) • “do you like me?” turned devastating • yearning so tense it hurts • emotional intimacy • soft aftercare • scars, literal and emotional • one bed (kinda) • mutual unraveling • article excerpts at the end • you will feel things

⋆˚࿔ Author’s Note: This fic started as an idea about interviews and turned into one of the softest, slowest things I’ve ever written. It’s about two people who are too tired to admit how much they want to be known. It’s banter, burn, and tenderness in equal measure. Thank you for being here. Reblogs, tags, and screams all wildly appreciated 🫶🏼 Fae🧚‍♀️

BOGOTÁ, COLOMBIA — U.S. EMBASSY

The embassy smelled like paper and tiredness. Somewhere down the hall, a fan clattered uselessly, blowing humid air from one corner to the next. You adjusted the strap of your canvas satchel and waited, heels clicking softly against the linoleum as the secretary behind the desk leafed through a stack of files like she had all the time in the world.

“You’re the reporter?” she asked eventually, without looking up.

“I am,” you said, offering the laminated press badge she didn’t bother to examine. “Scheduled to meet with Agents Murphy and Peña. I believe they’re expecting me.”

She snorted lightly. “Yeah. About that.”

Before you could ask what that meant, the heavy double doors at the end of the hallway swung open, and the mood shifted. The man who stepped through looked like he belonged in a bar fight, not a federal office. Aviators perched in his hair. Tan dress shirt rolled at the sleeves, cigarette burn on the collar. A badge on his hip and a scowl on his face. Javier fucking Peña.

He clocked you immediately. Slowed his walk. Took the cigarette from behind his ear and lit it like this whole building wasn’t federal property. You knew that look. The look men gave when they’d already made up their minds about you.

He stopped five feet away. “No.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I said no. Turn around. Go home. Try Costa Rica. Pretty this time of year.”

You forced a smile. “You haven’t even asked my name.”

“I don’t need to.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette, exhaled toward the ceiling. “You’re the journalist the brass sent to babysit us. You’ll get someone killed.”

“And you’re the agent who thinks written down rules are a suggestion,” you shot back.

Behind him, another figure appeared, lighter hair, less bitterness. A little younger, cleaner, still a little shocked by the job. This must be Steve Murphy.

“Jesus, Peña,” Murphy muttered, tugging his tie loose as he stepped forward. “We talked about this.”

“She’s a liability.”

“She’s standing right here,” you said. “And she’s cleared by your own department. I’ve embedded with NATO in Kandahar. I’ve reported from Sarajevo during the siege. I’m not here to hold your hand.”

Peña looked at you like he was trying to see through you, trying to find the angle. “Then why are you here?”

You met his gaze head-on. “To find the truth. Not your version of it. Not theirs. Just the truth.”

A beat of silence stretched between the three of you.

Murphy cleared his throat. “She’s not going anywhere, man. Orders came down this morning. We’re stuck with each other.”

Peña muttered something in Spanish under his breath. You caught the word problema. Then he turned, smoke trailing behind him like a threat.

“You better keep up,” he said over his shoulder, already heading for the stairs.

You followed.

—

The stakeout location was a narrow side street in the outskirts of Bogotá, all rusted roofs and low voices behind barred windows. The sun had dipped below the smog line by the time you parked. Peña killed the engine but left the radio on, soft static humming like a warning no one could decipher.

They didn’t talk for a while. Neither did you. The silence settled, heavy as the vest pressing into your ribs. You adjusted it for the third time, then gave up. It didn’t fit. None of this did.

Out the window, nothing moved. Just laundry swaying on a wire, and a kid on a bike that was two sizes too big. Peña lit a cigarette. You inhaled through your mouth and stared ahead.

Nothing happened. Which was good. And somehow worse.

You didn’t like quiet operations. They gave your mind too much room to move. It drifted back to Kabul, to a blown checkpoint and the sound of your fixer’s body hitting the pavement. To Sarajevo. To the desert. Places that stayed under your skin like shrapnel, no matter how many airports or hotel rooms you put between yourself and the last assignment.

You hated that about yourself. The way the job followed you everywhere. Into phone calls. Into sleep. Into people you tried to love.

You glanced at Peña. His eyes didn’t leave the rearview mirror. He wasn’t watching you. He was watching everything else.

He looked like someone who carried his job too.

You wondered how long it had been since either of you had put it down.

The silence broke when Murphy spoke.

“My wife thinks I’m going to die in this car,” he said, not looking back.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, soft. “Connie. She’s a nurse. Said if the cartel doesn’t kill me, Peña’s driving will.”

“I’ve kept him alive so far,” Peña muttered, smoke curling past his lips.

“Barely,” Murphy shot back. “One more pothole and I’m gonna need a neck brace.”

You smiled despite yourself.

“Does she hate that you’re here?” you asked.

Murphy shifted in his seat. “She gets it. She knew who I was when she married me. But yeah. It’s hard.”

You looked at Peña. “Anyone back home for you?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and turned the radio off. The car felt smaller with the silence.

“No.”

A single syllable. Sharp and final. You let it sit for a beat.

“Did there use to be?”

His jaw ticked. “You writing a profile, or just bored?”

Murphy gave you a warning glance, but you didn’t back down.

“I just like to know the people I’m trusting with my life,” you said, evenly.

Peña scoffed. “Then you’re in the wrong damn business.”

And that was the end of it.

BOGOTÁ – DEA SAFEHOUSE, LATE EVENING

The safehouse was too quiet. Dim, with a broken ceiling fan that ticked every time it turned. You sat at the wobbly kitchen table, voice recorder between your elbows, notebook open, pen resting on the edge like a dare.

Across from you, Javier Peña looked like he’d rather be shot.

He didn’t sit. Just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes sharp. One foot propped behind him like he was half a second from walking away.

“Just so we’re clear,” he said, “this is a waste of time.”

“You said that before the stakeout,” you said, clicking the recorder on. “And yet here you are. Progress.”

He didn’t smile. But he didn’t leave either.

You glanced up at him. “One hour. Then you can go back to brooding in the corner like a noir film cliché.”

That got you an eye roll. . Peña sighed, shoved off the wall, and dropped into the chair across from you like gravity had finally won.

“You get thirty minutes,” he said. “After that, I’m drinking until I forget your name.”

“I’ll take it.”

You flipped to a clean page.

“Let’s start simple,” you said, clicking your pen. “Why the DEA?”

He snorted. “That’s simple?”

“For some people.”

Peña shrugged, eyes on the dark window across the room. “I grew up in Texas. Law enforcement runs deep. My dad was a sheriff. I guess I thought I could do better.”

You wrote that down, slow and deliberate.

“You think you have?”

He looked back at you, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to lie.

“I think I tried.”

Silence laced the edge of that sentence. You didn’t press.

You turned the page. “What’s the hardest part of your job?”

Peña leaned back, arms folded. “The paperwork.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Seriously. There’s a form for every goddamn thing. You shoot a tire, that’s three hours of justifying it to people who’ve never held a gun. But if I don’t shoot the tire, the guy in the car might kill ten people.”

You nodded slowly. “So the hardest part is knowing when to bend the rules?”

“No.” He looked at you again. “The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter. That some people die anyway. And that sometimes you’re the reason.”

The pen hovered mid-air. You didn’t write that one down.

“You ever think about quitting?” you asked, more gently.

“All the time.”

“Why don’t you?”

Peña didn’t answer right away. Just rubbed a hand over his mouth like the question tasted bitter.

“Because if I quit, someone worse takes my place.”

That silence returned. But it didn’t feel sharp now, just tired.

You gave it space before asking the next one.

“Do you think people misunderstand you?”

Peña’s eyes narrowed. “That a trick question?”

“No,” you said, meeting his gaze. “But it’s an interesting one.”

He looked at you a moment too long. Then, unexpectedly, smiled, dry and crooked.

“Probably. But I’ve never cared enough to correct them.”

“You don’t strike me as indifferent.”

“That’s because you’re not as good at looking away as the rest of them,” he said, almost amused. “You see things. That’s the problem with you.”

You smirked. “I’m a journalist. It’s literally my job.”

He laughed, just once, but it cracked the air like lightning. You didn’t realize how tense the room had been until it eased.

“Jesus,” he muttered. “You’re gonna write a whole book about me, aren’t you?”

You leaned forward, chin in your hand. “Only if you keep talking.”

That last question sat on the tip of your tongue. You’d saved it, tucked it behind your teeth since earlier in the car.

“Do you regret anything?”

Peña’s jaw clenched.

You didn’t look away. You didn’t soften it, just waited. And for a moment, just one, he let you see it, the fracture beneath all that control.

“Every day,” he said quietly.

The fan creaked overhead. The room was still. Then he stood up, quick and decisive, chair scraping against the floor. The wall went back up.

“That’s enough,” he said.

You didn’t argue and clicked the recorder off.

“Thank you.”

He paused in the doorway.

“For what?” he asked, without turning.

“For not walking out.”

Peña huffed a laugh, shook his head, and disappeared down the hall.

LATER THAT NIGHT – SAFEHOUSE LIVING ROOM

You found Murphy alone in the kitchen, half-sunk into a faded armchair with a sweating glass of whiskey in one hand and a manila folder resting on his knee. The lights were low, just the amber overhead glow from the stove, casting long shadows across the cracked tile floor.

He looked up when you stepped in, and smiled in that boyish, half-apologetic way he always did when Peña said something brutal and Murphy didn’t stop it.

“Surprised you’re still here,” he said, closing the folder.

You shrugged, slipping into the chair across from him. “I had to wait until the storm passed.”

“Yeah, well. Javi’s not so much a storm as a… controlled demolition. With a lighter.”

You laughed softly, then pulled out your notebook again.

“I figured I’d do your interview while I have you. Unless you’re about to pass out.”

Murphy tipped his glass toward you. “Fire away, reporter lady.”

You asked him the same kinds of questions. Why he joined. What made him stay. What kept him up at night.

He gave thoughtful answers, all with that quiet Midwestern sincerity, occasionally pausing to check if he was saying too much. You liked him. He was honest in a way that didn’t feel performative.

But somewhere between “I always wanted to help people” and “Connie’s the reason I haven’t lost my damn mind,” you caught yourself wondering about something else..

“Was Peña always like this?”

Murphy raised an eyebrow.

“Like what?” he asked, though his smile said he knew exactly what you meant.

You exhaled. “Guarded. Hard to read. Always on edge, like every question is a loaded gun.”

Murphy leaned back, swirling the amber in his glass.

“He wasn’t always like this,” he said eventually. “But I don’t think he’s been not like this for a long time.”

You watched him, pen frozen mid-note.

“He’s seen a lot more of this war than I have,” Murphy continued. “Been in it longer. Got burned more times than he’ll ever admit. You’d be closed off too if half the people you trusted ended up either dead or on someone’s payroll.”

He hesitated, then added: “Truth is, Javi’s one of the only people here who still gives a shit. He just can’t afford to look like it.”

You were quiet for a moment.

“You sound like you’ve had to defend him before.”

Murphy smiled into his drink. “Yeah. Usually to Connie. She calls him a ‘lost cause in tight jeans’.’”

You huffed a laugh. “She’s not wrong.”

He glanced at you, sharp but amused.

“You ask a lot of questions, but it’s funny, you circle back to him a lot.”

You opened your mouth to deny it, then closed it again.

“I’m just trying to understand the dynamics,” you said finally.

“Mhm.”

There was a pause. Murphy drained the rest of his glass and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

“Look,” he said. “Peña’s not an easy guy. He’s reckless. He drinks too much. He carries guilt like it’s stitched into his jacket. And yeah, he’s a dick most days.”

He met your eyes.

“But under all that? He’s loyal. He’s brave. And when he decides to give a damn about someone, he’ll walk through fire for them. He just—”

Murphy rubbed a hand over his face.

“He just doesn’t know how to be seen anymore. Not without feeling like it’ll cost him something.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

“And he’d absolutely punch me for saying that,” Murphy added. “But I’d risk it.”

You smiled. Soft and tired.

“Thanks, Steve.”

He shrugged. “Don’t thank me. Just… don’t write him into something he’s not.”

“I’m not trying to write a hero,” you said. “I’m just trying to write the truth.”

Murphy tilted his head. “Then you’re probably gonna write something closer to a tragedy than you think.”

And with that, he stood, nodded once, and left you there with your notebook and a heart you didn’t quite trust anymore.

BOGOTÁ – YOUR APARTMENT, MIDNIGHT

The wine was cheap and warm, poured into a mismatched mug because all your glasses were still in boxes. You sat on the floor of your apartment, back against the wall, knees pulled to your chest, the fan buzzing softly above like a lazy mosquito. Outside, the city murmured, low music, a dog barking, a motorcycle tearing down the street like it was being chased by something.

You’d tried to call your mother earlier.

Twice. No answer. Not unusual. But still. The voice message had been short, impersonal. Hey. I’m okay. Working late. It’s fine.

It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth either.

You stared at the phone for a long time after that, then hung up the receiver and poured more wine.

The recorder sat on the floor beside you. You hadn’t listened back to the interview with Peña yet. You couldn’t bring yourself to. The man drove you insane. He was infuriating. Arrogant. Difficult on purpose.

And yet.

There was something magnetic about the way he held himself, like he was constantly trying not to break. Like everything he did, every smirk, every refusal to answer, was a defense mechanism wrapped in pain and nicotine.

You should’ve been focusing on bigger things. The politics. The corruption. The civilians caught in the crossfire. The invisible network that kept Escobar in power.

Instead, your notes were full of him.

Peña said no again today.Didn’t look at me when he said it.Why does it feel like he sees everything but won’t let himself be seen?

You hated it.

Hated how he’d carved out space in your head without trying. Without wanting to.

He wasn’t the story. You told yourself that over and over.

But when he spoke, actually spoke, it felt like the air changed.

You couldn’t shake that last answer. “Every day.”

He hadn’t even looked at you when he said it. Like the truth didn’t belong in your direction.

You pressed your head back against the wall, eyes closed. What were you doing here?

You came to Colombia to write something real. To chase the rot at the core of American intervention. To tell the stories no one else could. And instead, you were sitting on the floor in a city that didn’t love you, thinking about a man who didn’t want to be known.

It was pathetic.

You laughed once, dry and mean, just for yourself.

Somewhere out there, Peña was probably still up, drinking too, maybe smoking on a balcony somewhere, watching the night like it might blink first. Maybe he wasn’t thinking about you at all.

Good. It was better that way.

You finished the wine. Reached for the recorder. And hit play. His voice crackled to life, quiet and worn.

“The hardest part is knowing that bending the rules might not matter.”

And you closed your eyes. Because you knew exactly what he meant.

DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #4

He was already there when you arrived. Same chair. Same shirt rolled at the sleeves. Same guarded eyes that tracked you across the room like you were a threat and not a woman holding a notebook and a half-dead ballpoint pen.

You set the recorder down between you.

“You don’t have to keep coming,” you said as you sat.

Javier Peña leaned back in his chair, the picture of indifference. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You never answer anything,” you said, tapping the pen against your thigh. “Half the recordings are silence and smoke breaks.”

“Maybe I just like wasting your time.”

You rolled your eyes and hit record anyway.

Ten minutes passed. Questions. Shrugs. A couple of monosyllables. A quiet no comment delivered with the kind of deadpan that made you want to throw something at him. You closed your notebook slowly.

“Why are you still doing this?” you asked. The words came out more honest than intended.

He didn’t look at you.

“I told you,” he said. “They make me.”

You felt the sting in your chest before you could reason your way out of it. It wasn’t that you thought he cared. Not really. But hearing it said, cold, clipped, like this whole thing was a chore, cut deeper than it should.

You nodded once. “Right ” and moved to turn off the recorder, but then he spoke again.

“Why did you start this?”

You looked up. “What?”

“The job,” he said. “Journalism. Writing. Asking questions that piss people off.”

You blinked at him. “No one’s asked me that in a long time.”

“I’m asking now.”

You hesitated.

“I wanted to know how things worked. How people worked. Why they do what they do. And I thought… maybe if I could understand it, I could explain it better than the people who just shrug and say, ‘that’s life.’”

Peña nodded slowly, almost like he respected that.

“You think it’s working?”

You smiled, tired. “Sometimes. Sometimes I think I’m just documenting the collapse.”

He huffed a dry laugh at that.

“You always this intense?” he asked, lighting another cigarette. If that man didn't die from a bullet, lung cancer was gonna get him sooner or later.

“You always this emotionally constipated?”

He grinned, and you felt it in your stomach.

“Do you ever sleep?” he asked next.

“Not well.”

“Drink?”

“Too much.”

“Family?”

“Complicated.”

He tilted his head. “That a journalist word for ‘won’t talk about it?’”

You shrugged. “Only when I’m off duty.”

“You’re always on duty.”

You didn’t respond. Instead, you reached forward and, without ceremony, turned off the recorder.

Then you closed the notebook, slid the pen into the spiral binding, and set it aside. Peña watched you do it. Said nothing.

“So,” you said softly. “Now what?”

He took a drag, exhaled slowly.

“Now you stop pretending you’re here just for the story.”

You swallowed.

You met his eyes. Neither of you flinched.

The air between you went still. Not tense, not warm. Still, like something had clicked into place and neither of you wanted to name it yet.

“You don’t scare me, Peña.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Then what do you want?”

He looked down. Then back at you.

“Something that doesn’t make me feel like I’m burning alive every time I give a shit.”

That silence returned. But this time, it wasn’t empty.

BOGOTÁ – SOMEONE ELSE’S BED, 1:42 AM

The ceiling was cracked. Thin lines running from one corner to the next, jagged and faint like scars. Javi stared at them in the dark, one arm folded behind his head, the other resting across the curve of a woman’s bare back.

She was warm. Soft. Smelled like something synthetic and expensive. She curled closer to him, her palm smoothing over his chest, slow and mindless. Comfort without context.

“You’re thinking too loud,” she murmured against his skin.

He didn’t answer. Didn’t look at her either.

She was a familiar face in an unfamiliar city. He didn’t know her real name. That was fine. That was easier.

“Is it your job?” she asked after a beat. “You look like it’s your job.”

He huffed, humorless. “You don’t even know what I really do.”

“I don’t need to,” she said, brushing her fingers along his ribs. “You’re tense like a man who can’t tell the truth even to himself.”

Javi sighed, rolled to his side and lit a cigarette just for something to do with his hands. She didn’t ask for one. Just watched him through heavy lashes, waiting.

“I’ve got this woman shadowing me,” he said eventually. Voice low and detached. “Reporter.”

“That why you’re here?” she asked. “To get her out of your system?”

He didn’t respond.

She smiled faintly. “Didn’t work, huh?”

He stared at the red glow of the cigarette for a moment, then exhaled.

“She’s annoying,” he said. “Pushy. Thinks every silence is a mystery to solve.”

“And what…she’s wrong?”

Javi dragged the cigarette again, slower this time.

“She keeps asking why I come to the interviews. Why I waste her time.”

The woman sat up a little, pulling the sheet with her. “Why do you?”

He didn’t answer.

He thought of the conversation he’d had with the embassy attaché days ago. The guy had looked at him, bored, and said, “If you’re not going to be helpful, you don’t have to go. Murphy can handle it.”

Javi had nodded like he understood. Then showed up the next day anyway.

He told her it was because they made him. That was the lie. The truth was stranger: he wanted to catch her off guard. Wanted to see her flinch. She never did.

“She’s smart,” he said now, quietly. “Smarter than most people in that damn building. Sharp and observant.”

The woman beside him raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like you like her.”

He frowned. “I don’t.”

“She make you feel seen?”

He snorted. “She makes me feel like a fucking lab rat.”

“Mm.” She leaned against the headboard. “Men always confuse affection for fascination.”

He looked at her for the first time all night.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She smiled. Not cruelly but knowingly.

“It means you’re not mad because she’s in your space, Javier. You’re mad because she looks at you and sees past the parts you work so hard to keep up.”

He let the silence fill the room. She reached for his cigarette. Took a drag without asking.

“You’re gonna ruin her,” she said eventually, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling. “Or she’s gonna ruin you.”

“Maybe both,” he muttered.

The woman nodded, passing the cigarette back. “Well. At least you’ll be even.”

DEA SAFEHOUSE – INTERVIEW #5

He was already there when you walked in. You were only seven minutes late, but he was sitting like he’d been waiting for hours, hands folded, jaw tight, leg bouncing just enough to suggest impatience.

You dropped your bag by the chair, your recorder clacking softly as you set it on the table. You didn’t press play yet. You were still watching him, and he was watching you back.

His eyes scanned you once, slowly. Not in a way that made your skin crawl. In a way that made your skin aware.

He didn’t hide it. You didn’t look away.

“Didn’t think you’d show up today,” he said eventually, voice low and just a little too casual.

You raised a brow. “I’m not the one who keeps dodging questions.”

“I don’t dodge,” he said. “I redirect.”

“Mm. Into a wall.”

He let out a soft huff of laughter and leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest. He was wearing a different shirt today. Navy, sleeves rolled, collar open. It looked like he’d gotten halfway to dressing for work and then stopped caring. You hated that you noticed.

“Something funny?” you asked.

“You,” he said, without missing a beat. “You sit there like you’ve got all the answers. But I don’t think you know what the hell to do with me.”

“I know enough.”

“Do you?” His voice dipped, just enough to change the temperature of the room and send shivers down your spine.

You held his gaze. Didn’t blink.

“I know you light a cigarette every time you’re uncomfortable,” you said, calm. “You deflect when the question gets too close. And you keep pretending I’m just a reporter when we both know you’d have stopped showing up by now if that were true.”

His smile was sharp.

“You think you’ve got me figured out?”

“I think you want me to.”

He laughed again, quieter now. But this time, it landed lower in your stomach.

You reached for your notepad, but your hand paused mid-air.

“Do you like me?” he asked.

You blinked. The question hit before you were ready for it, and for the first time in days, you felt yourself lose footing.

“…What?”

He was leaning forward now, elbows on the table, gaze fixed like he was waiting to watch you flinch.

“You heard me.”

You glanced at the recorder. Still off.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, voice quieter than intended.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

You hesitated.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, forcing your eyes to meet his. “I haven’t decided.”

“That’s not a no.”

“It’s not a yes.”

He leaned back again, the smile gone now. But something in his face had softened.

“You usually like the people you write about?”

You swallowed. “You usually flirt with people you don’t trust?”

His eyes dropped to your mouth for just a second. Then back up.

The thing you’d both been dancing around for days finally broke the surface like breath after water.

“I don’t trust anyone,” he said. “But I like watching you try to get me to trust you.”

You smiled, slow.

“I’m not trying anymore.”

You reached forward, grabbed the recorder you never started, and set your notebook aside.

Peña watched you. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But he didn’t look away either.

And for the first time, you felt it. Not just the tension, but the want beneath it. Not just attraction. Not just interest. But that terrible, beautiful sense of oh no.

BOGOTÁ – A STREET AT NIGHT

He couldn’t sit still.

He’d tried. Started with a drink, then a second. Lit a cigarette. Let it burn all the way down in the ashtray without touching it again. He turned on the radio in the safehouse, turned it off again a minute later. Too loud. Too empty.

The interview had been… nothing, really. Just a question. Just a moment. Just the first time she hadn’t looked at him like a puzzle to solve.

No recorder. No notebook. Just her. Raw and steady.

He hated it.

He hated how much he liked it.

Now he was out in the street with his jacket slung over one shoulder and his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what the fuck he was doing. The city buzzed around him, vendors closing up, headlights cutting through smog, dogs barking in distant alleys.

He walked like it would help. It didn’t.

All it did was stir her up again. Her voice, her goddamn smirk, the way she said “I’m not trying anymore” like it wasn’t a threat, but a confession. Like she’d been fighting something and finally gave up.

He wanted to touch her.

Yeah, he wanted to fuck her, sure, but that wasn’t what kept him up. Not really. It was the want behind it. He wanted to hold her. He wanted to ask about the things she never wrote down. About her family. Her regrets. Her voice when she wasn’t on the record. What scared her. What she dreamed about before the world taught her to be sharp.

He wanted to see her, and it pissed him off.

—

He didn’t remember deciding to walk to her apartment. He just looked up, and there it was.

A plain building. Quiet street. One dim light behind a window on the third floor.

He stood on the sidewalk like an idiot, jacket over his shoulder, cigarette tucked behind his ear, trying to think of a reason not to knock. There were plenty.

He’d fuck it up. He always did. He’d push too hard or say too little. He’d be cruel when she needed soft or too soft when she needed space. She’d look at him and see exactly what he was. Lonely, bitter, half-broken, and she’d leave. Maybe not tonight. But eventually.

And yet, he climbed the steps anyway. Each one heavier than the last. He reached her door and knocked.

Twice. Quietly. Like maybe he hoped she wouldn’t hear. But she would. She always heard more than she was supposed to.

YOUR APARTMENT – LATE NIGHT

Your mother didn’t pick up. Again.

You stared at the telephone like it owed you something, an explanation, maybe. A reason. Anything. But it just sat there, lifeless on the coffee table, still and silent, as if you hadn’t just whispered “Please pick up, just once.”

You wiped your face with the sleeve of your shirt, tried to tell yourself it didn’t matter. That she was busy. That you weren’t twelve years old anymore hoping for someone to show up for you.

You poured another inch of wine into the same chipped mug, the bottle barely sloshing. You didn’t even sit back down. You just stood there in the middle of the room, tired and buzzed and stretched thin.

That’s when you heard it. A knock.

Two of them. Sharp. Hesitant.

You froze. Then moved.

Your hand found the gun in the drawer near the door, and you wrapped your fingers around it like you knew what you were doing.

You didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask who is it like some girl in a horror movie.

You cracked the door open just an inch and peeked through.

And froze again.

It was him. Javier Peña.

Standing in your hallway, half-shadow, half-smirk, a cigarette tucked behind his ear and that leather jacket slung over his shoulder like he didn’t know where else to put it.

His eyes flicked down.

“Jesus,” he said, one brow lifting. “Is that how you always answer the door?”

You blinked. “Is that how you always show up at women’s apartments unannounced?”

“You first.”

You exhaled, heart thudding in your ears, and opened the door wider, gun still in hand, though lower now. You weren’t sure what was more confusing: the weapon in your grip or the fact that he was actually here.

“What the fuck are you doing here, Peña?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just pointed at the gun.

“You’re holding that wrong.”

You frowned. “I’m holding it like someone who didn’t expect company.”

“You’re holding it like someone who’s gonna shoot her own foot.”

You looked down. He wasn’t entirely wrong. Your grip was tense, off-balance. You clicked the safety on and set it on the console table like it had betrayed you.

For a long second, neither of you spoke. He didn’t come in. You didn’t invite him. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t about sleep. You felt raw in a way that wasn’t about wine.

“What,” you said again, quieter this time, “are you doing here?”

He looked past you, into the room behind. Then back at you.

“I don’t know.”

And god, that answer hit harder than it should have.

You didn’t remember deciding to let him in.

There was a part of you that knew it was a bad idea, that nothing good ever followed this kind of silence between two people who understood each other’s darkness a little too well. But when he stood there, framed in your doorway like a man who didn’t know where he belonged, you stepped back. Just far enough for him to walk through. And he did.

The door closed softly behind him. The air changed.

You poured him a drink without asking. Something familiar. He accepted it with a nod and didn’t sit, just lingered near the window like he wasn’t sure if he should stay. You took your usual spot on the couch and waited, your heart pacing inside your chest like it already knew something was coming.

When he spoke, it was low. Unassuming. Like he was trying not to scare whatever this was into running.

“Had you decided whether you liked me or not yet?”

The question landed quiet, but it didn’t feel small. It spread. It hummed in your ribs.

You looked up. There was a flicker of something on his face, nervous, almost. Like he’d asked it before he could stop himself.

You wanted to say something clever. Something that would keep the tension light, that would put the walls back where they belonged. But when you opened your mouth, all that came out was truth.

“…Yes.”

It was soft. Honest. It sat between you with all the weight of a confession neither of you asked for, but both of you needed.

He didn’t move right away. Just watched you in a way that made you feel seen, deeply and without warning. Then, slowly, he took a step toward you. And another. He stretched out his hand, helping you stand back up from the sofa

He stopped just in front of you, eyes never leaving yours, like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he was afraid this wasn’t real, that it might vanish if he breathed too hard. But you didn’t flinch. You didn’t run.

He lifted one hand, tentative, fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. That was all. No grand gesture. No kiss. Just the softest touch, tucked behind your ear, and it shattered something in you.

You closed your eyes, not because you were afraid, but because the ache was too much to look at.

It wasn’t the touch itself. It was what it meant. The care. The stillness. The kind of tenderness you’d only ever imagined being allowed to need.

And then, without even thinking, you leaned into his hand. Just a little. Just enough. Like your body had been waiting its whole life for someone who didn’t want to take, but to understand.

You felt his breath shift. Heard the faint hitch in his chest. Neither of you spoke. Because in that moment, words would have only gotten in the way.

His thumb lingered at your jaw, gentle as his voice when it finally broke the silence between you.

“Can I kiss you?” It was whispered like a secret. Like a promise he was afraid to make out loud. The words tickled against your skin, too close and not close enough.

You nodded before you could speak, then forced the word past the knot in your throat.

“Yes.”

And just like that, he was there.

He didn’t kiss you yet. Not immediately. Just leaned in, so close his breath grazed your lips, his forehead resting softly against yours, like he needed to feel your stillness before he could let go of his own. You were breathing the same air, caught in the same heat, and his hands trailed down the length of your arms like he was memorizing what it was like to touch someone without urgency.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t fast. It was human.

He hadn’t touched anyone like that in what felt like forever, like he’d forgotten how to reach for someone and not brace for pain.

Then his fingers slid up, one hand resting at your jaw, the other gripping the side of your neck with just enough pressure to make you tremble. And then, finally, he kissed you.

It was soft at first. Barely there. A question in the shape of a mouth.

You answered with your lips. With your breath. With the way your hands curled into his shirt like you were scared he might disappear if you let go.

His lips moved slowly at first, testing. Tasting. Like he couldn’t believe you were real. And when he pulled back a fraction, just to look at you, God, the look, you felt the world tilt under your feet.

The second kiss crashed into you like hunger. Like gravity finally snapping the tether. His mouth found yours again, hotter now, deeper, messier. His hands were in your hair, on your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as if he were trying to crawl inside you just to get warm.

You moaned into his mouth and it undid him. He lifted you in one smooth motion, groaning softly against your throat as you wrapped your legs around him. Your back hit the nearest wall and you both gasped like you’d been holding your breath for weeks.

It wasn’t delicate anymore.

Your fingers slipped under his shirt, greedy for skin, and he growled low in his throat when you raked your nails along the line of muscle just above his jeans. He was hard already, pressing into you, and it made your head spin, the sheer want radiating off of him like heat.

“Fuck—” he breathed, kissing along your jaw, your throat. “You don’t—know what you do to me.”

“Then show me,” you whispered.

His hands were large, warm, steady. So steady it made your heart stutter. They spanned your waist like they’d belonged there for years, fingers splayed over your skin like he was grounding himself in the reality of you. You were already bare from the waist up, flushed and breathless, his name like static just beneath your tongue.

You could feel the hunger in him, not rushed or frantic. But deep. Sharpened. Like he’d been waiting longer than he’d ever admit. And now that he had you, he wanted to make it last.

He kissed down your body with a kind of reverence that made you ache, his mouth brushing over the swell of your breasts, your sternum, your stomach. Every inch kissed, bitten, soothed again with his tongue. You gasped when his teeth grazed just below your navel, and he smiled against your skin.

Then his hands trailed down. Fingers curled under the waistband of your underwear, pausing just long enough for your eyes to meet.

You nodded. He didn’t speak. Just slid them down slowly, dragging the fabric over your hips, down your thighs, until you were bare before him.

And he looked at you like you were the first real thing he’d seen in years.

When he bent down, his mouth pressed one final kiss to your inner thigh, then another. Then higher. And higher. Until your hips shifted under him, breath catching, fingers already fisting into the sheets.

He settled between your legs with a sigh that sounded like home, hands gripping your thighs, firm but tender, thumbs stroking soft circles just below your hips.

He started with his mouth. One long, languid stroke of his tongue that made your whole body shudder. You cried out, soft and startled, and he groaned like the sound was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard.

He kept going.

His tongue moved in careful patterns, circling, flattening, teasing, then pressing just right, until you were gasping, your hips rolling into him on instinct.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. He just tightened his grip, moaned into you like you were something he couldn’t stop tasting.

And then his voice, low, rasped, wrecked, floated up between your thighs.

“Look at you,” he murmured between strokes. “Falling apart for me.”

You whimpered, his name half-shaped in your mouth.

“Javi—”

He groaned. His hand shifted, fingers brushing over your thigh, then slipping lower, lower, until he was there, two fingers pressing in slowly, carefully, in perfect rhythm with his tongue.

Your head fell back.

He cursed softly. “That’s it… you’re so fucking tight, baby—fuck.”

Your body clenched around him, overwhelmed. His tongue flicked faster, fingers curling just right, finding that devastating angle that made your legs start to tremble.

“Good girl,” he breathed. “You gonna come for me?”

You nodded, tried to say something, but your voice broke. And he loved it.

“Say it,” he whispered, tongue relentless now. “Say my name when you do.”

“Javi—” it spilled out, raw and pleading.

“Again.”

“Javier—fuck, please—don’t stop—”

“Never,” he rasped. “You hear me? I’m not stopping until I feel you lose it for me.”

You did. You came undone on his mouth, on his fingers, on the sound of his voice praising you like worship. Your thighs tightened around his shoulders, your back arched off the mattress as a wave of heat rolled through your entire body.

And still, he didn’t stop. He slowed, softened, his tongue coaxing you through the aftershocks, his hand gentling where he still held you open for him.

When you finally came down, shaking, breathless, half-dazed, he kissed your thigh, then again, just above your hip.

He lifted his head. And the look in his eyes made your chest crack open. Like he’d never seen anything more beautiful than you falling apart for him.

The room was quiet now, except for the sound of your breathing and the low hum of the city outside your window. His hands were still on your thighs, loose now, open, like he didn’t know how to let go of you yet.

You were still on your back, chest rising and falling as you blinked up at the ceiling. Your skin glowed, limbs trembled, your mouth parted like you’d forgotten how to close it.

And he just looked at you.

Javier’s head rested beside your hip, his hand smoothing slow circles over your knee like he was calming himself down more than you.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice rough and quiet.

You nodded.

You glanced down at him, your fingers drifting to his hair. You brushed it back, and he sighed into your touch like he hadn’t meant to.

“Didn’t think I’d ever be good at this again,” he said after a moment.

Your brow furrowed gently. “At what?”

He met your eyes. Shrugged.

“Touching someone like it matters.”

Your throat tightened. He hadn’t said it for pity. Didn’t need you to fix it. He just said it like it was a fact of who he’d been.

You sat up slowly, hand still in his hair, then trailed your fingers down the side of his face. You felt the stubble rough against your skin, the tension still coiled in his jaw.

“Let me touch you now,” you said.

It wasn’t a request. It wasn’t about taking turns. It was about him being seen, cared for..

He nodded once.

You reached for the hem of his shirt, eyes flicking to his. He lifted his arms without a word, let you pull it up over his head and toss it to the floor. And for a moment, you didn’t move. You just looked.

His chest was lean, muscles tense even in stillness, but your eyes were drawn to the lines that broke the surface. Scars. A few old. One newer. Pale against tan skin, carved into him like warnings from the past.

You lifted a hand and ran your fingers gently over one just beneath his ribs. He flinched, not from pain, but from the intimacy of being seen there.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice barely more than breath.

“Colombia,” he said simply. But then he added, “Shot. Not bad. Just looks like it.”

You kept your hand there, palm resting over it, like you could take something from him by holding it.And maybe you did.

You leaned forward and pressed a kiss right beside the scar. His eyes fluttered closed like you’d touched something no one else ever had.

“You don’t have to be so careful with me,” he whispered, like he didn’t know how to receive it. But you shook your head. “No,” you said, kissing another scar, this one just below his shoulder. “I want to be.” He exhaled like he was letting something go.

As you moved lower, your hands found the button of his jeans. He watched you, breath held, but he didn’t stop you. He just rested one hand against your cheek, thumb brushing over your skin like he was trying to memorize every second of it. “You’re dangerous,” he murmured. You looked up. “Why?” “Because I’d let you ruin me.” You smiled, slow. “We already ruined each other.” He leaned forward and kissed your temple, so soft it barely landed. You kissed him again, deeper this time, tasting the way he groaned into your mouth, the way his hands tightened on your hips like he didn’t know what to do with the heat rising between you. Then, slowly, you started to move down. He stilled.

Your mouth brushed his jaw, his throat. You kissed the scar near his collarbone, then traced it with your tongue. He swore under his breath, voice catching in his chest as you slid off his lap and sank to your knees in front of him. “Wait—fuck—what are you…” But he knew. You looked up at him, wide-eyed and deliberate, and smiled. “Just relax, Javi.”

His breath stuttered. His hands fisted at his sides like he didn’t know where to touch you. When you reached for his jeans, he lifted his hips without question, eyes never leaving yours. You freed him slowly, deliberately, your hands stroking over his hips, his thighs, brushing lightly over the hard length of him. He twitched at the contact, groaning low in his throat. “Fuck, you’re gonna ruin me…” You laughed softly, your breath warm against his skin. “That’s the idea.”

You started slow. Your lips wrapped around him at the tip, just enough to make him shudder. Your tongue swirled gently, teasing, testing, and the sound he made, it wasn’t loud, but it was wrecked. Half a gasp, half a moan, like he hadn’t been ready for this. For you. His hand found the back of your head, not pushing, just resting there. Anchoring. You took him deeper, slowly, letting him feel the heat of your mouth, the soft pressure of your tongue, the way you hummed low in your throat just to watch his stomach clench.

He looked down at you like he was about to fall apart. “Shit, baby—you’re so good. So fucking good…” You moaned in response, the vibration making him jerk in your mouth. His thighs tensed beneath your hands as you bobbed your head, slow and steady, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. “You’re gonna kill me,” he whispered, breathless. “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.” You pulled off for a second, your hand stroking him as you grinned up at him, breathless. “I think I do by now.”

He laughed, broken and grateful, and then you took him back in, deeper this time, your jaw loosening as you found your rhythm. His moans grew rougher, needier, and his hand tightened gently in your hair.

But even as you drove him closer to the edge, he was still watching you. Still whispering: “Fuck—yes, just like that.” “Taking me so good…” “Prettiest mouth I’ve ever—God, please…”

He was close. You could feel it, everywhere. In the way his hips twitched, in the heat of his voice, in the way his other hand clenched the sheets like he was trying not to lose control.

You pulled back just enough to let him breathe, lips trailing up his stomach as you rose again into his lap, straddling him slowly, body pressed flush to his now-bare chest.

His mouth found yours again, desperate, and he kissed you like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. “Come here,” he murmured, voice hoarse. “Come here, baby…”

You reached for the condom again, breath hitching, and this time, finally, you slid it over him with aching slowness, guided by his hands on your hips. “God,” he muttered, biting your lip between kisses. You were straddling him again now, one hand braced on his chest, the other guiding him between your legs, his body hot and heavy beneath you. His hands rested on your hips like he was holding something precious. Like he still couldn’t believe you were real. The condom was in place. You were both breathless. Your mouth hovered over his, close enough to feel him exhale.

Then you moved. You lowered yourself onto him slowly, so slowly, until he was fully inside you, buried to the hilt, and you swore the whole world held its breath.

You felt everything. Every inch of him stretching you open, filling you, grounding you.

Javi groaned, low and guttural, his head falling back as his fingers dug into your skin, not to control you, but to keep himself from falling apart. “Fuck—baby…”

You sat there for a moment, not moving. Just feeling. Letting your body adjust, letting his warmth flood through you, letting the weight of what this was, who he was, settle into your bones.

Then you started to move. Slow at first. Hips rocking gently, your hands finding his shoulders, his chest, your fingers brushing over his scars like you were learning a map of someone who had only ever shown people the edges.

He looked up at you like he’d never seen anything more beautiful. Like this, you, was more than he ever thought he’d be allowed to touch. “You feel so good,” he whispered. “So fucking good…”

You kissed him then. Deep. Sweet. Tongue sliding into his mouth as you rolled your hips harder, chasing the heat already curling low in your stomach. His hands roamed up your back, one slipping into your hair, the other tracing the line of your spine. He met your rhythm, pushing up into you, and you both moaned at the same time, needy, breathless, wrecked. “Don’t stop,” he murmured against your mouth. “Please don’t stop.” “I won’t,” you whispered. “I can’t.”

You kept moving, grinding, rising, sinking down again, deeper each time, and the friction, the pressure, the emotion between you built like a tidal wave. He watched you the whole time. Not your body. You.

Your eyes, your mouth, the little sounds you made when his name slipped out like a prayer “Javi—oh God—don’t stop—” “Say my name again,” he gasped, gripping your hips tighter. “Javier,” you breathed, riding him harder now, sweat slicking your skin. “Fuck—Javi—”

He sat up suddenly, arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into his chest. You kept moving in his lap, arms around his neck, his mouth on your throat, your shoulder, your jaw. “I’ve got you,” he groaned. “You’re doing so good—so fucking good—” “I’m close—” you gasped. “I know. I feel it. Come on, baby, give it to me—let go for me—”

And you did. You broke apart in his arms, mouth open against his neck, trembling, gasping, your body pulsing around him.

He followed. With a broken moan, he buried his face in your shoulder, hips stuttering beneath you, holding you so tight it was like he was afraid he’d lose you if he let go. His voice was wrecked when he spilled into the condom, your name tumbling from his lips like it meant something different now.

Like you did.

The night had softened around the two of you like cotton. The air was warm, your limbs sore in the most delicious way, your body humming with the echo of his hands and mouth and voice. But it wasn’t the sex that lingered, it was the way he held you after. Still was holding you, like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

You were still on top of him, legs tangled in his, your cheek resting over his heart. He ran his hand up and down your spine slowly, rhythmically, like he needed to keep touching you just to believe this wasn’t some dream he’d wake up from.

You didn’t speak. You just breathed. And stayed.

After a while, you shifted slightly, dragging your fingertips along the line of his collarbone, mapping every dip like a language. He watched you with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes, still a little dazed but completely there with you. His hand brushed over your hip, curling gently like he was reminding himself you weren’t going anywhere. “You okay?” he asked softly, like the answer mattered more than anything else. You smiled. “Better than okay.”

He leaned in and kissed your hair, then your temple, lips lingering longer than they needed to. “You’re so beautiful when you’re soft,” you whispered. He huffed out a quiet laugh. “You’re beautiful always.” “Guess that makes two of us.”

His hand stilled at your back, fingers splayed wide. “Don’t go,” he murmured, so quietly it almost didn’t reach your ears. You lifted your head, and your eyes met.

You kissed him once, slow and sure. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said. And you meant it.

You settled your chin on his chest and smiled up at him. “You gonna fall asleep like this?” you teased. He shrugged, brushing hair from your cheek. “If I do, it’s because you wore me out.” “You seemed fine ten minutes ago.” “Yeah, well. I was.”

He smirked, then let his eyes drift down to your mouth, then back up. “Should I be worried you’re gonna write about this in your article?” You blinked. Then laughed, bright and unexpected, your whole body shaking slightly as your forehead dropped against his chest. “Oh my God,” you gasped. “You’re such an ass.” He grinned, proud. “I’m just saying, if you quote anything I said tonight, I expect editorial approval.” “You mean like ‘don’t stop, baby, fuck’ and ‘you’re gonna ruin me’?” “Those were off the record.”

You laughed again, breathless, and his arms tightened around you. God, it felt so easy. So earned.

Eventually, you rolled onto your side, and he followed, pulling you into his chest like gravity. His chin rested on top of your head, his breath steady against your hair. You tangled your fingers with his, thumb brushing over the back of his knuckles. “I like this,” you said quietly. He hummed. “Me too.”

You were both silent for a long stretch, your heart finally beating slow and safe inside your chest.

Then he added, softer: “I didn’t think I’d ever get something like this again. Not with someone like you.”

You lifted your head, and your eyes met.

You kissed him again, just once. And in the safety of that soft, quiet room, for the first time in longer than either of you could remember, He believed you.

EXCERPT FROM: “CARTEL COUNTRY: REPORTING FROM THE OTHER SIDE OF THE WAR”

Published in The Atlantic, Print Edition

There’s a certain kind of silence in Bogotá that doesn’t feel like peace—it feels like waiting. Like breath held. Like something heavier just stepped out of frame. The war on drugs here is not clean. It is not winnable. It is a slow, choking thing that moves through alleyways and embassy halls, leaving both governments and ghosts in its wake.

The men on the front lines don’t speak like heroes. They don’t move like them either. They drink too much. Smoke too often. They come home bloodied from raids, short on patience, full of stories they’ll never tell. The badge on their chest is just that—a badge. Not a shield. Not salvation.

I shadowed two agents during my time here. One of them spoke often about his wife, about home, about the smell of his daughter’s shampoo. The other didn’t say much at all.

And still, somehow, I heard everything.

He had a way of keeping his hands in his pockets even when the room caught fire. A mouth set in quiet refusal. A laugh he kept buried like a secret. He told me once that trust was dangerous. That love was for people who had something left to lose.

I don’t know if he realized he’d already lost something. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he’d just given it.

In this line of work, we measure impact in kilos seized and names on lists. But there are quieter consequences, too. Ones no wiretap catches. The kind that show up in the way someone holds their coffee after a bad day, or in the bruise beneath someone’s eye that nobody mentions. The kind that settle into the back of your throat when someone touches you like they didn’t know they could anymore.

I came to Colombia looking for truth. I found it. In back alleys. In government lies. In files they let me read and names they told me to forget.

But I also found something else.

A softness where I didn’t expect it. A kind of knowing that felt like gravity. A hand on my back that stayed.

Maybe that’s not what I came here to write about.

But it’s what stayed with me.

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