#enemies to lovers vibes

[sweetpeaaquarius]

Burned into Memory - Part 2

Request for: @booksstarryskies

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Best Friend f!reader

POV: Eris and the reader

Summary: Eris Vanserra got the girl. But in the Autumn Court, nothing comes without a price. In the fragile quiet that follows a night that has changed everything, quiet moments of intimacy give way to rising tension and hard truths. As old power stirs and expectations close in, Eris and his mate are forced to reckon with what their bond truly means, not just to them but to a court that sees love as leverage.

Warnings: emotional repression, suggestive intimacy (not explicit), mating bond, trauma, parental abuse (physical and emotional), descriptions of violence and injury, jealousy, possessiveness in a romantic context, angst, fluff

Word count: 4,054

Series: Burned into Memory - Part 1, Part 2

That was the night Eris Vanserra let go of the armour, the fury, the fear. He let himself be soft. Be touched, held, and loved. 

She wasn’t just his best friend. She was everything, the breath he’d never dared to take, and when he kissed her, it wasn’t with calculation or with control. It was with need. As if his body had known her before, his mind let him admit it.

God, he let her take.

Take every part of him. His soul, his grief, the anger coiled tight inside his chest and turned it into something gentler. Scarlet and sacred. She wove warmth into places no one had touched before, and he began to understand why people surrendered everything for love.

His boot nudged the door to his suite open, his mouth still devouring hers like a prayer. His hands, elegant, calloused, traced the map of her skin as if searching for something he’d lost lifetimes ago.

She gasped when they tumbled into his bed, but he caught her easily, gently, as if she were something made of starlight. The hearth roared to life, flame licking high in response to her every moan, his magic singing wild and feral, unbound for once.

That night, Eris worshipped her.

Tasted her. Loved her.

Not with reckless hunger but with a reverence that bordered on awe. His fingers trembled, not from desire but from fear. She was the one thing he couldn’t afford to ruin, and when she broke apart in his arms, her cries echoing off the stone walls like sacred music, he followed, shattered, undone, only by her.

They collapsed into the bed, breathless, bare in every way two people could be. 

His fingers traced slow, reverent patterns down her spine, her skin still aglow with lingering magic, the aftermath of them, of this.

For a moment, there was only silence. Only the soft rise and fall of their chests, their breaths still uneven, still full of each other.

It snapped.

A thread drawn so tight for so long it sang when it snapped. Something ancient and unyielding crashed into him, tearing open the carefully locked places of his soul. 

It wasn’t just magic. It was her. In his bones. In his breath. In the marrow of his being.

His hand froze on her back, his breath caught in his throat, and for the first time in his life, Eris Vanserra was speechless.

She lifted her head, concern softening her features despite the haze of exhaustion.

His eyes met hers, wide, golden and stunned.

One word slipped from him. A whisper, barely real.

 “Mate.”

Her lips parted. Shock bloomed across her face. 

“Eris,” she breathed like she was waking him from a dream.

He blinked, still stunned. Fear tangled with awe in his gaze.

“You’re my mate,” he said again, voice hoarse, cracked with wonder and terror.

He hadn’t expected this and hadn’t dared to hope.

Love, in the House of Autumn, wasn’t sacred. It was a liability. A weakness. A weapon.

Beron would use her. He would break her, just to break him.

Yet, he didn’t pull away.

He held her tighter. One arm beneath her head, as she used him like a pillow, the other resting over her waist as if she could vanish if he let go.

Her cheek pressed to his chest, lips just grazing the skin. She stayed silent as if taking in the word he had just shared. The bond pulsed softly between them, like the echo of a vow neither had spoken, but it was clear. Genuine. Inevitable. Fate. 

Her fingers twitched gently at his side. His thumb traced slow, gentle circles along her spine, calmer now, as if the edge of panic had faded, leaving only a strange, peaceful quiet. Neither of them spoke. There was too much to say and not enough time to make sense of it.

She blinked slower against his skin. He felt the soft weight of her body ease, her muscles giving way to exhaustion, not with a crash, but a sigh. He closed his eyes, pressing a kiss into her hair, and let himself follow her down. Sleep came, and for the first time, he slept deeply in the arms of another. The bond hummed in them, utterly pleased. 

Morning came slowly.

The golden light spilled through the high arches of the bedroom, warming the edges of his red hair where it lay tangled on the pillow. His chest rose in steady rhythm beneath her cheek, warm, alive, his.

She didn’t want to move, not wanting to disturb the fragile, perfect stillness. He was still asleep, but his arm stayed tight around her waist as if his soul hadn’t yet learned to let go. His face, a mask of detachment and disdain, was now soft, peaceful, young, and beautiful.

Her fingers brushed lazy, featherlight shapes across the skin of his ribs. He stirred beneath her.

“That tickles.” He murmured, low and deep.

She smiled, lips brushing his chest. “You’re awake.”

“Have been,” he mumbled, his voice low and grainy with sleep. “Didn’t want to open my eyes. Wasn’t sure if you were real.”

She shifted, lifting her head to look at him. She brushed a strand of hair from his brow. “I’m real.”

He opened his eyes slowly. Golden. Unguarded.

“Good,” he whispered, pulling her even closer and burying his face in her shoulder. “Then I can keep you.” 

She laughed softly, melting into him. “I’m not going anywhere, Eris.”

Still, she felt it, that flicker of fear behind his warmth. The bond had snapped into place, yes, but so had the danger.

Yet, as sunlight curled into the room, tangled in limbs, magic, and the quiet aftermath of something sacred, Eris pressed a kiss to her temple and whispered the only truth that mattered.

“We’ll protect it,” he said. “This. You. Us. No matter what it takes.”

The warmth between them was genuine, and as the sun rose higher and light poured across his bed like honey, so did the burden of truth.

A mating bond.

Sacred. Undeniable. Rare, even among the High Fae, and terrifying.

She lay there in silence, her hand resting on his chest, feeling the slow thrum of his heart beneath her fingers. He hadn’t said the word again, not since last night. Neither had she.

Mate. 

The word was heavy and binding, forever.

Eris must have felt the shift in her breath. He was quiet for a long moment, then spoke without lifting his head.

“Say it.”

Her brows knit. “Say what?”

“Whatever’s clawing at your thoughts,” he said softly. “You don’t have to protect me from it.”

She took a breath, trying to form the words that had been slowly taking root in her chest since the moment that bond snapped.

“I don’t know what this means for us,” she admitted. “For me.”

She felt the breath he exhaled. Not surprised. Just bracing.

“I’ve read about it,” she continued. “About what the bond does. What it demands, and it’s not just a feeling. It’s instinct. It’s…” Her voice caught. “It’s fate, and that scares me, Eris.”

He was silent for a heartbeat. Then another.

Finally, he said, “Because it means you didn’t get to choose.”

Tears pricked her eyes. “I wanted to choose you.”

“Now you’re afraid that choice has been stolen.”

She nodded barely, eyes fixed on a spot on the sheets. “What if the bond forced this? What if all of this last night, what we felt, wasn’t ours?”

He shifted then, slowly, gently, turning onto his side to face her. One hand reached out to cup her cheek. 

“I’ve loved you long before the bond snapped,” he said, voice steady but raw. “Before I even knew what this was. I would’ve chosen you a hundred times over.”

Her lashes fluttered. “But you didn’t tell me.”

“I was a coward,” he admitted. “I couldn’t risk it. Not with him watching every move I made. Not when love is the thing Beron crushes first.”

His voice darkened at the mention of his father, but he didn’t look away.

“Do you want to know what scared me most?” Eris whispered. “It wasn’t the bond. It was you. You’re the only thing that ever made me believe I could be more than what he made me.”

Her throat tightened. “Eris…”

“I didn’t think I deserved you, and now?” He took her hand, his magic kissing over her skin. “Now I’m terrified I’ll ruin this. Ruin you. Just like he ruined everything good that ever came near him.”

The crack in his voice, god, it broke something in her.

She leaned forward, pressing her forehead to his. “You won’t ruin me. You couldn’t.”

Her thumb lightly traced the scar on his cheek, the one he never mentioned, the one she knew Beron had given him during one of his rare bursts of public fury. He opened his eyes, golden, molten and gentle, so heartbreakingly gentle.

“We’ll figure it out,” he said. “We don’t have to rush it. Just stay here. With me. For now.”

Her heart cracked wide open, and when she nodded, she leaned into his touch and let him pull her in again.

They didn’t leave the bed that morning.

Not when the sun climbed higher. Not when the fire in the hearth crumbled into golden coals. They stayed tangled in silken sheets, and each other’s warmth, like the world outside had slipped away entirely.

Her fingers traced lazy patterns along his collarbone, slow and thoughtful. Every so often, he caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles, the inside of her wrist, or simply holding it over the steady rhythm of his heart.

“Do you feel it?” she whispered eventually.

Eris didn’t ask what she meant. He just nodded.

“I feel you everywhere,” he murmured. “Like you’ve been stitched into my skin.”

She blinked up at him, her voice soft. “It’s strange. I didn’t think it would be so quiet. So gentle.”

“I thought it would hurt,” he confessed. “The bond. I thought it would feel like a shackle.”

“And?” she breathed.

His thumb brushed her cheek, a tender touch. “It doesn’t. It feels like… belonging. Like I’ve been searching for something I didn’t know I lost.”

She tucked her face into the crook of his neck and breathed him in, fire and pine, home.

They lay like that for a long time, just shared breaths and soft touches. Every glance was a conversation, every brush of skin, a vow.

“I hated watching you pretend it didn’t hurt,” she whispered. “When I was with someone else. When you’d look away like you didn’t care.”

His laugh was quiet and bitter. “It killed me.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything?”

“I thought if I told you,” Eris said slowly, “you’d run, and I couldn’t risk losing you completely. Not even for the truth.”

Her fingers curled tighter against his chest. “You wouldn’t have lost me.”

“I know that now,” he murmured. “But back then… I didn’t know how to be honest and survive him.”

They both knew who he meant.

Beron’s name didn’t need to be spoken. His shadow lingered always, thick, choking, ever-present, like smoke that refused to clear.

She kissed him, soft and trembling. As if she were trying to reach the places he kept locked away behind fire and fear. She was light, and Eris, God help him, was learning how to let her in.

His hands ran down her body as her fingers tangled in his hair. His mouth was on hers, kissing her with every ounce of passion he had. 

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Three sharp, impatient knocks at the suite door. Not hesitant. Not polite.

Eris stiffened instantly. His body went still, tense like a wire pulled taut. He reached for the blankets, pulling them over her instinctively before calling out, “Wait!”

The door creaked open anyway.

A familiar, clipped voice followed. “Eris, Father is looking—”

Ashton. The fourth eldest Vanserra son. Now second in line behind Eris, after their two brothers had fallen in Spring, cut down by Lucien and Tamlin.

Eris sat up in a flash, shielding her with his frame as she ducked instinctively behind him, one hand fisting the sheet against her chest.

“Ash, I swear—” Eris began.

Ashton had already pushed the door open farther and stopped dead.

His eyes locked on her, bare-shouldered, flushed, unmistakably naked, in Eris’s bed.

“Oh,” Ashton said flatly. A blink. A pause. “Well, that explains the scorching magic leaking into the hall.”

“Get out,” Eris growled, voice low and deadly. It held the command of a prince. Of a High Lord in waiting.

Ashton paled just slightly, his usual composure flickering. Without another word, he turned and shut the door firmly behind him.

Silence.

Then Eris moved sharply, swiftly, slipping from the bed with a curse under his breath.

“He’s going to tell Father,” he said, pacing toward the bathing chamber, already dragging a hand through his hair and trying to look less like someone who had just spent hours tangled in bed with his mate.

She followed after him, pulling the sheet around herself as she moved. “Maybe he won’t.”

Eris snorted. “You know my family; he will tell him just to watch me suffer.”

In the mirror above the basin, she caught sight of herself and stopped short.

A soft yelp escaped her throat.

“Eris,” she hissed, eyes wide, fingers flying to the marks blooming along her neck and collarbone like wild, red flowers. “Look at me.”

He glanced at her reflection and had the audacity to smirk before it slipped away under the weight of reality.

“I know,” he said gently, stepping closer. “I got carried away.”

“You bit me.”

“I claimed you,” he corrected, brushing a thumb over one of the fresh marks blooming along her throat. Her wide-eyed stare didn’t falter.

He turned then, striding to the deep, sunken tub nestled into the far side of the bathing chamber. With a flick of his fingers, steaming water poured in, rich oils swirling into it. The scent of cedar and clove bloomed through the air, earthy, warm, and distinctly him.

“You’re not going out there,” he said firmly, adjusting the taps. “Not like this. Not at all.”

She frowned. “Eris.”

“Stay here.” His gaze met hers, softer now, though his voice held a steel edge beneath it. “Take a bath. Breathe. I’ll bring you clothes. I’ll deal with him.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I do,” he said, cutting in gently. “He’s still my father, and he’s going to find out about us whether I want him to or not. I’d rather it be from me than from Ash.”

He crossed the space between them again and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there as though he could shield her from the weight of what was to come.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered. “And I will burn this whole court to the ground before I let him use you.”

Her throat tightened at the raw promise in his voice. “And you’re mine.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes this time, but the kiss he gave her was real. Fierce. Brief. Full of something ancient and newly blooming.

Then he was gone.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, and she was left alone, wrapped in golden steam and the weight of a bond that still buzzed like fire beneath her skin.

She stood for a long moment, letting silence settle. The bathing chamber was grand and quiet, carved from honeyed stone, its glow intensified by the soft afternoon light. The air, despite the open arches and towering windows, remained warm with a gentle heat that curled around her like a blanket, magic, Autumn Court magic, woven into the very bones of the palace.

The tub faced outward to the mountains. Beyond the arched windows, waterfalls spilled down pale cliffs, their steady rhythm a balm to the rising panic in her chest. She could see forests painted in crimson and gold below, the trees dancing in slow waves. The wind carried the scent of pine and smoke. Of him. She could hear birds singing from some unseen perch, the world deceptively calm.

Despite everything, it was beautiful.

She slid into the bath slowly, the water welcoming her like an embrace. Her muscles relaxed beneath the heat, but her mind didn’t quiet.

The bond pulsed steadily inside her. Not overwhelming, not crushing, it wasn’t what she’d expected. It was gentle, warm, like a string woven through her. Like something ancient that had always been there, waiting.

Yet her heart wouldn’t slow.

What would Beron do when he found out?

She had seen firsthand what happened to those Eris cared for. His cruelty wasn’t impulsive; it was surgical. Political. Calculated. The way he punished weakness. The way he twisted love into leverage.

What if Eris couldn’t protect her?

What if she only gave Beron another weapon to use against Eris?

What if this ruined him?

The thought made her stomach twist.

She had seen the fragility in his eyes, just beneath the flame, how he had trembled beneath her touch. Eris, for all his power and fury, had given her a piece of himself he didn’t show anyone. She couldn’t, wouldn’t, be the reason he was hurt.

She sank deeper into the bath until the water kissed her chin, arms wrapped around her knees. Her mind kept replaying the moment he’d said mate, the way his voice had broken, soft, awed and afraid. The way her soul had answered.

She didn’t regret it, not for a heartbeat, but that didn’t stop the fear from rising.

Eventually, she stood, water trailing from her skin in shimmering rivulets. A towel, warm from a nearby rack, wrapped around her as she padded barefoot into the bedroom.

It was just as breathtaking as the bathing chamber.

The room was carved from gold-veined stone, the floors draped in thick, embroidered rugs the colour of turning leaves. Rich tapestries of deep reds, burnt orange, and creams lined the walls, fluttering slightly with the mountain breeze. The bed was enormous, the sheets still tangled and warm from where they’d laid. The air was scented faintly with firewood, pine, and something rich and spiced that clung to her skin.

The view. An entire wall was open to the mountainside, framed by towering columns and gauzy curtains that floated like ghosts. The wind slipped through in soft sighs, curling around her like a whisper.

She stood at the threshold, towel clutched to her chest, watching the sky shift from golden to a softer, paler blue.

Waiting.

Waiting for Eris to come back.

The afternoon dragged in aching stillness.

She tried reading. Resting. Even slipped back into the bath when the nerves clawed too deep, but nothing dulled the edge of not knowing.

Eris had been gone for hours.

Now, the sun was beginning its descent. Evening spilled through the open arches of the bedroom, casting long shadows across the polished stone. The rich reds and creams of the room darkened, deepened. The silk curtains whispered in the rising breeze, and the scent of Autumn’s magic lingered, a heavy blend of spice, cedar, and distant smoke.

Still, he hadn’t returned.

She lay curled atop the massive bed, wrapped in one of his spare tunics. The hem brushed her the tops of her thighs, sleeves loose, but it smelled like him.

She buried her face in his pillow, still shaped to the weight of his head, but the ache in her chest only worsened.

The bond pulsed softly. Distant. Faint. Like a heartbeat through the stone. He was alive, but that was all she could feel.

What had Beron said? What had he done?

Had Eris defended her? Had it come to fire and fury? Had his father punished him for loving her?

She wanted to believe he was safe, but safety didn’t exist with Beron.

The air shifted. Cooler now. She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for the blanket. Just watched as dusk crept into the room.

Finally, a sound.

Footsteps. Heavy. Measured.

She sat up sharply, heart leaping into her throat.

The door creaked open.

Eris stood in the doorway.

His shoulders were rigid. His tunic half-untucked. Sleeves wrinkled. Ash clung to the fabric in faint smears. His red hair was wind-tossed, his eyes shadowed, his mouth drawn into a grim line.

No blood. No visible wounds, but something in him had shattered.

She crossed the floor in an instant, launching into his arms before he could say a word. He caught her, arms banding around her, crushing her against him, as though afraid she might vanish if he let go.

His breath shuddered against her hair.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice rough. “I shouldn’t have left you that long.”

She didn’t pull back. “What happened?”

He didn’t answer. Just held her tighter. Then, with careful steps, he moved them toward the bed and placed her down gently on the rumpled sheets. He braced himself above her, hands on either side of her hips, her fingers threading into his hair and tugging until his eyes met hers.

“Are you going to tell me?” she whispered. Fear laced every word. “Please, Eris.”

He pulled away, and her hands fell useless in her lap.

“He knows,” he said, voice like a dead wind. “Beron knows. I slipped. He pressed, why you were here, the nature of our friendship, and I couldn’t lie. I told him. I let the bond slip.”

Her stomach twisted. “Eris…”

“I told him you’re my mate,” he said, pacing. “Like a damn fool. Now...”

His voice cracked. Rage and guilt burned in every syllable.

“He wants a public mating ceremony,” Eris forced out. “Sworn vows. In three days. In the great hall. Before the court. He wants to parade us as a symbol of unity.”

A silence followed that seemed to drag the breath from the room.

“So soon?” she managed to say.

Eris’s eyes were wild with panic. “He wants to make you his. A symbol. Leverage. You’re not just mine, no, you’re a crown he can polish and hold over the rest of Prythian like a damn prize. Proof that I’m obedient. That I’ve been tamed.”

She stared, unblinking. “And you agreed?”

“I didn’t say yes,” he growled. “But I didn’t say no. I bought us time. Three days. That’s all I got.”

“And after that?” Her voice trembled. “What happens when I stand beside you? When the whole court sees?”

“They’ll use you to control me,” he said bluntly. “You’ll be named the future Lady of Autumn, whether we want it or not. You’ll be dragged into court politics. Into his grasp.”

Her chest tightened, and the walls felt too close now. The open-air, once so free, now felt like a trap.

Her grip tightened on the coverlet. “Do you regret it?” she asked. “Us. This bond.”

He stopped pacing. Then, slowly, as if something fragile had shattered, he dropped to his knees in front of her, resting his forehead against her thigh.

“Never,” he whispered. “I’m terrified. Not of you, of what he’ll do to you. He’ll twist this into a strategy, and I don’t know how to stop it.”

Her hands sank into his hair, gently.

“I’m not helpless,” she whispered.

“I know,” he said, voice raw. “But I would burn the whole damn court before I let him hurt you.”

The hearth behind them glowed with dying embers. The sky through the arches had turned indigo and star-dusted. A strange, heavy stillness settled between them.

Her voice was soft. “Eris.”

He looked up.

“Please,” she said. “Just rest. For a moment. Forget the court. Forget your father. Just be here with me.”

He hesitated.

Until she reached forward, cupping his jaw with one hand, thumb brushing the sharp edge of his cheek.

“Let me help you forget.”

Something in him cracked then. The defiance. The panic. The weight of duty.

He nodded, like a man undone.

She reached for the buttons of his shirt, the other hand still on his face as she pulled him into a kiss.

Eris... broke.

[whoswitchybabyanyway]

control issues

pairing: dom!aaron hotchner x bau!reader

word count: ~2k

summary: hotch prides himself on discipline. you’ve been testing his for months and today, he breaks.

includes: no use of y/n, smut (MDNI), dom!hotch, rough sex, a lil spanking, light restraint (tie), office sex, authority kink, power imbalance, mutual pining, enemies to lovers lowk, reader is kinda a brat - she asks for it (literally), emotionally repressed men my beloved💕

The case is over.

Three girls are alive, the unsub is being cuffed, and everyone’s ready to head home.

But Hotch is furious.

You can feel it before you see it–the heat of his gaze tracking you from across the crime scene like a laser sight. His body is still, his expression unreadable, but his eyes are sharp.

He waits until the others are distracted–until Morgan is dragging the unsub away and JJ is giving the girls space to breathe–and then:

“A word.” Not a suggestion. Not an option. Just your name, clipped and low.

He barely looks at you as he leads you away from the others, jaw clenched, pace tight with fury.

He turns to face you. Arms crossed. Shoulders stiff. “What the hell was that?"

You cross your arms to match his stance, refusing to be rattled. “I saw an opening. I took it.”

“You disobeyed a direct order. You approached the unsub without a vest, without backup–”

“He was targeting a specific victim type. I matched the profile. I knew he’d follow me.”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t blink. “You got lucky.”

“I got results.”

He takes one sharp step forward. You don’t flinch–not even when his voice drops lower. “He had a knife. He could’ve killed you, he could've killed them.”

“But he didn’t.”

That silence that follows feels like a warning. You hold it–hold his stare–until he speaks again.

“You’re off rotation until further notice.”

“Are you serious?”

“Effective immediately.”

Your stomach flips–not from the punishment, but from the why behind it.

He’s not angry because you broke protocol. He’s angry because you forced his hand.

“Why does it piss you off more that I was right?”

That lands.

He doesn’t answer–just exhales through his nose and walks away, fast and rigid and fuming.

You’re halfway to the elevator when you hear it: “Agent. My office.”

You stop, turn. Hotch is at the top of the stairs. His voice is calm again. Controlled. But you recognize the tension in his shoulders. That little twitch in his jaw. That telltale grip on the railing.

You follow him without a word.

He holds the door for you. Doesn’t meet your eyes.

He closes it behind you with a quiet, deliberate click.

You stay standing. He doesn’t offer you a seat.

He stays standing, arms crossed tight over his chest like a barrier he can’t lower.

“Your decision today was reckless.”

You lean against the edge of the chair across from his desk. Don’t sit.

“I got the unsub in custody. The victims are safe.”

“You disobeyed orders. You endangered yourself, the team, and those girls.”

“And I was right,” you snap. “Why does that bother you so much?”

“It bothers me because it’s not the first time you’ve taken liberties in the field. You make impulsive decisions and expect them to pay off. That’s not judgment–it’s immaturity.”

“Wow.”

He presses forward. “You think this job is about instincts? About gut feelings? It's about patterns. Discipline. Control.”

That last word lands sharp–like he didn’t mean to say it.

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Right. Because you’ve never followed a gut instinct in your life.”

He looks at you like he wants to bite something. “This isn’t about me.”

“No,” you say, voice rising. “It’s about the fact that you’re stubborn, and you can’t stand being wrong. Especially not by someone you didn’t hand-pick for this team.”

He says nothing.

You keep going.

“You’re hard on me because it’s easier to act like I’m reckless than admit I get under your skin.”

He opens his mouth–but you don’t let him.

“I see it, Hotch. I’ve seen it for months. The way you won’t look at me. The way you keep your distance, like being near me is going to burn. The way you grit your teeth every time I smile.”

You take a step forward, hands on his desk. His expression darkens, but he doesn’t move. “Tell me I'm wrong, Hotch.”

He clenches his jaw. His silence only angers you more.

“What is it? Do you not like me, or do you just not trust yourself around me?”

His jaw tightens.

Then–like something snaps–he turns away from you. Rough, fast, like he’s trying to outrun the pull.

But he doesn’t leave.

He closes the blinds. One by one.

You don’t move. You don’t speak.

When he locks the door, your pulse jumps.

He turns around–and you know. You know what’s about to happen.

“You have no idea what you’re playing with,” he says, voice low and shaking with restraint.

You lift your chin. “Then show me.”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t have to.

The look in his eyes is answer enough–molten heat beneath a thin layer of self-control that’s rapidly disintegrating.

Then, without a word, he reaches up and yanks his tie loose.

The motion is sharp. Precise. Like it’s been a long time coming.

He slides the silk from his collar and tosses it onto the desk.

You swallow.

“You want to talk about discipline,” he says, stepping toward you slowly. “You’ve been testing mine since the day you joined this team.”

Another step.

“Showing off. Pushing limits. Smart mouth. Smarter eyes.”

You take a step back–not from fear, but because the desk is behind you and the way he’s walking feels like a hunt.

“You think I haven’t noticed you?” he says. “You think I didn’t see what you were doing today?”

He’s in front of you now, hands braced on the desk on either side of your hips, caging you in against the desk.

You can feel his breath. Feel his heat.

“You put yourself in danger because you knew it would get my attention.”

You smirk, despite your heart pounding in your chest. “I’d say it worked pretty fucking well.”

That does it.

He growls and spins you around, pressing your front to the desk with a force that sends papers scattering.

“You want attention?” he murmurs against your ear. “You’re about to get it.”

His body is flush against your back. One hand slides to your hip. The other presses to the small of your back, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

“You broke protocol,” he says, fingers skimming under your waistband. “You disobeyed a direct order.”

He leans in closer, mouth brushing your ear.

“You’re getting punished for that.”

You gasp–not from fear. From how badly you want it.

He groans when he hears it.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, voice rough, even as he hooks his fingers into your waistband.

You don’t. You reach to your left, grab his tie off the desk, and press it into his hand.

“Make me behave, Agent Hotchner.”

Hotch takes the tie from your hand like it’s a weapon. His knuckles graze your spine as he steps back just enough to look at you bent over his desk.

“Stay still.”

His voice is low. Dangerous.

You brace your elbows against the desk as he pulls your pants and underwear down in one motion, exposing you to the cool air of the office, to him.

There’s a beat of silence behind you.

Then a rough exhale.

“Christ,” he mutters, almost to himself.

You smile. Just a little. You know exactly what you’re doing.

Then snap–the tie tightens around your wrists before you can process it. He loops it expertly, binds your hands in front of you against the desk. His fingers graze yours once before they leave again, and something about that ghost of a touch makes your breath hitch harder than the restraint itself.

“You don’t follow rules,” he murmurs, now behind you again. “Let’s see if you follow this one: don’t make a sound.”

You don’t get the chance to respond.

His hand comes down–sharp and clean–across the curve of your ass.

You gasp, bite your lip, but don’t speak.

Then, a second smack. And another.

The sting isn’t brutal. Not really. Not when his hand smooths over the spot right after, soothing, teasing.

But your skin is buzzing, and you’re wet–achingly, embarrassingly wet.

Then his fingers graze the back of your thigh, trail upward, pause at your slick center.

“Of course you’re wet.”

He sounds almost amused. Almost angry.

“All that backtalk,” he mutters, “and this is how you respond to punishment?”

He drags two fingers through your folds, slow and filthy, before pushing them inside–not gently. Not cruelly, either. Just hungry.

He curls his fingers just right–that firm pressure against your front wall–and your knees nearly buckle.

“Stay up,” he warns. “You don’t get to fall apart yet.”

You brace your forearms on the desk. Your hands are still bound–pinned between you and the wood. You bite your lip, trying not to make a sound.

Hotch straightens behind you. You hear the sound of his belt unbuckling, slow and deliberate, followed by the metallic click of it hitting the floor.

Then he leans down over your back, mouth at your ear.

“You put yourself at risk today,” he growls, his tip now sliding against your entrance. “So I’m going to remind you what it feels like… when someone else takes control.”

He slams into you in one sharp, brutal thrust.

You cry out, hands straining in the silk tie. The stretch is sudden–perfect–and you’re so full you swear you stop breathing.

“That’s it,” he grits out. “Take it.”

He sets a punishing rhythm–hips snapping against yours, fingers digging into your waist to keep you from squirming. The sound of skin meeting skin is obscene in the quiet office, echoing off the walls like something forbidden.

You moan. You can’t help it. Your body is beyond you now.

“What did I say about noise?” he growls, slowing just enough to grind his hips into you. The pressure makes your thighs shake.

“Do I need to gag you with my tie too?”

The words make you clench hard around him, and he groans–loud and low.

“Fuck. You like that, don’t you?”

You nod, trembling.

“Of course you do.”

He pulls out–and for a terrifying second you think he’s going to leave you like this–but then he grabs a fistful of your hair and yanks you upright, body flush against yours.

You feel the warmth of his breath on your shoulder.

“You think I haven’t thought about this?” he rasps. “Pictured you like this? Bent over my desk, begging for me to fuck the attitude out of you?”

He thrusts back in, deeper this time, making you cry out into the air. His other hand snakes around your waist, then between your legs. He starts rubbing tight circles over your clit, fingers slick with your arousal.

Your whole body arches. Your tied hands scrabble uselessly against the desk.

“Come for me,” he commands. “I want to feel how bad you need it.”

You don’t even get a full breath in before your orgasm crashes into you–fast and blinding. You moan his name like a prayer and he groans in response, holding you tight as your walls spasm around him.

You barely come down before he starts moving again–faster, harder–chasing his own release.

He presses you back down over the desk, his chest against your back, lips at your ear.

“You were right,” he pants. “I don’t trust myself around you.”

Another thrust. Your eyes roll back.

“And I don’t care anymore.”

With a low, guttural sound, he finally comes deep inside you, pulsing hard, fingers tightening on your waist.

The office goes quiet.

His breathing is ragged in your ear. Your body is shaking, boneless against the desk, his weight still warm behind you.

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he eases out of you, his touch soft now as he fixes your clothes, unties your wrists, smooths your hair back from your face.

And finally, he turns you around and kisses you.

Not like before.

This kiss is slow, careful, almost gentle.

His thumb brushes your jaw. His forehead rests against yours.

“This doesn’t leave this room.”

Your lips quirk. “Then we might need to start spending a lot more time in your office.”

He huffs–not quite a laugh, but close. There’s a softness in his eyes now, threaded with something darker.

Possessiveness. Want.

“Next time you disobey me,” he says, “you won’t be able to walk after.”

You grin.

You’re already planning on it.

[marvelwitchergilmore]

One Night

Summary: Joaquin Torres x fe!Reader -> One Night is never just one night.

Disclaimer: 16+ with sexual themes, FwB/enemies to lovers, swearing, platonic!Kate Bishop. Not Proof Read.

One Night. 

They say it just takes One Night for everything to change. You just didn’t expect it to be that night. 

When Kate walked into the compound kitchen and living area that morning, she had been expecting no-one. Not a single person. 

Clint was at home with Laura and the kids, Natasha had wrangled Steve and Sam to help her plan Yelena’s birthday party, Bucky had been sent to talk to the cake shop since the owner seemed to always take a shine to him and practically melted any time he walked through the door. She was in her late eighties, but was quite possibly the most terrifying woman Natasha had ever met. So, Bucky it was. 

Kate figured Joaquin would still be in bed since he’d finished up his work pretty late last night. He was still in his office when Kate walked by, having worked two hours of overtime herself. 

As for Tony and everyone else, they were taking their long awaited vacations. 

And as for you. Well, Kate had never woken up before you. In fact, nobody had. Not even Steve who’d wake up at four-thirty every morning to go for a run. Everyone was pretty sure you didn’t even own pajamas. They’d never seen you in them, for starters. And Kate was 97.6% sure you were a vampire, or some kind of supernatural creature that never seemed to sleep. 

But that morning…

That morning she walked into the kitchen and living space to see you, stood by the kitchen island, stirring some creamer into your coffee, dressed in pajamas. 

Kate had to take a mental image. Maybe more than one. You were human?!

Your hair was down from the usual braid-into-bun. You were wearing a short length, earthy green robe. With, from what Kate could gather, was a matching set underneath. 

You hadn’t spotted her yet, which was also unusual. You’d usually say the person’s name before they even walked into the room, already knowing who they were. It made trying to get the jump on you all that more frustrating. 

But Kate couldn’t even take any satisfaction out of scaring you when you jumped after spotting her, because you were in pajamas. 

“Jesus, Kate. You nearly gave me a heart attack.”

Why were you in pajamas? 

Was it your birthday? 

No. Natasha had found out your birthday after hacking Shield’s computer system. It wasn’t your birthday. 

Had you finally taken time off?

Were they a present? Maybe a Secret Santa gift for last year?

“Kate?”

“You’re in pajamas.” 

Those were the only words she could form as she tried to figure out why. 

You chuckled and looked down. “Yeah. Because it’s the morning and I just woke up.”

Kate’s eyes almost bugged out of her head. “You slept in?”

You looked at her, a little dumbfounded. “Yeah. I had a late night last night.”

“Doing what? You usually clock off at six like the rest of us.”

You shrugged. “I had some paperwork to catch up on. Are you okay?”

Kate had to physically shake her head in order to restart her entire body. Once she had done that, she moved closer into the kitchen like a normal person. 

“Yeah. Yeah. Just surprised to find out you own pajamas. I thought you just kinda woke up ready for the day.”

“I wish, but no.” You smiled before lifting your coffee mug to your lips. And you were glad you had something to cover your face with because what happened next was not a situation you had fully prepared for. 

“So, now that I know you own more than just tactical gear. I was thinking we could-”

“Morning.”

Kate looked behind her after hearing Joaquin’s voice as he walked inside, also in his pajamas. 

“Morning,” you replied. 

Kate’s head whipped around to look at you as Joaquin passed her. “Coffee?”

“In the pot,” you told him. 

Kate was starting to give herself whiplash as she looked between yourself and Joaquin. The cogs started turning and the longer she watched both of you, the faster they started turning until they all finally clicked into place. 

“What were you saying, Kate?”

Kate’s mind was screaming. 

“Kate?”

The chair she had been sitting on practically fell over. “I need to speak to you. Now. Right now.” Kate rounded the kitchen island before taking you by your elbow. 

“Hey, watch my coffee.”

Keeping a hold of your mug, you tried your hardest not to spill any as Kate dragged you from the room, down the hallway and around the corner and through the double doors that led out to a different section of the balcony. 

“Kate, that the hell is wrong-”

“You slept with Joaquin?!” 

Your shoulders somehow both relaxed and tensed. “Oh. That.”

“That?!” Kate spat in shock. “That?! Y/n!”

“It’s not as bad as it seems.”

“It’s not as bad as it seems? It’s not as bad as it seems?”

You looked at her, “Are you just gonna keep repeating what I say?”

“Y/n! It’s not like you two are known for frollacing on a beach together. Quite the opposite.”

Kate had you there. It wasn’t exactly a secret to people that you and Joaquin weren’t the best of friends. Or even co-workers. You didn’t know what it was, you just never got along. You spent more time fighting with each other that it would be more believable to be known for doing as much on a beach together, rather than frollocking. 

“Kate-”

“How-How did this even happen? How long has this been going on? Oh, my god. Was it an act? Just to throw us off the scent?”

“No, no, no. Kate.” You put your coffee down on a table before taking her by the shoulders. “It’s nothing like that. It was just one night.”

Kate just sighed, “It’s never just one night.”

“Yes, it is.”

Kate became a little calmer, or rather, was starting to internalise her freak out. But it didn’t last long because the minute you let go of her, she threw her arms in the air. “God, I can’t believe this. God, what are the others gonna think?”

“They’re not gonna think anything because they’re not gonna find out. It was a one night thing. It didn’t mean anything.”

“You’re in pajamas. How long ago did-” Then Kate shook her head. “Nevermind, I don’t wanna know. Actually, yes I do. Hm, no. No, I don’t. Hm. Yes. No. Yes. Okay. No wait. Don’t tell me. Tell me.”

“Kate?”

She just nodded. “Tell me.”

“Are you sure?” You asked, suppressing the smile on your face. 

“Yes.”

You waited for her to stop you again, but when she didn’t, you finally told her. 

“It was late last night, and yes, he’s good. Whoever he ends up with will be a lucky woman.”

Kate looked up at you, a little shocked. She was pretty sure that was the very first compliment you’d ever given Joaquin. Like, ever. 

“Wow.”

Kate finally sat down. After a morning training session and finding out about you and Joaquin…she was exhausted. 

You sat opposite to her at the coffee table. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

You raised an eyebrow with a chuckle escaping you. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Kate looked at you. She did. She was more curious than scared. “How about I go and get dressed and we can head into the city? Go and check out that new boutique?”

“How do you do that?” That was what Kate had been planning to ask you before Joaquin walked inside. 

“Give me twenty minutes.”

Over the next five hours, Kate asked you every question she could think of twice. 

What the hell happened?

Did he kiss you first? Or was it you? 

Did you enjoy it?

Did he enjoy it?

What the hell happened?

And you’d explained everything. At the makeup counter, at the deli, inside the curtain set up for two dressing rooms in the new boutique, at the coffee shop and on the drive both in and out of the city. 

“I just…I can’t even imagine you two having a conversation. I mean, that’s what gave it away this morning. You never tell him where the coffee is, even when he asks. And you never say good morning to him.”

You chuckled. “Kate, it’s not a big deal. It was just one night.”

“That’s what they all say. And before you know it…it’s not just one night anymore.”

You had just rolled your eyes and brushed it off. You and Joaquin had both agreed before and after that it would be a one time thing. 

You’d kissed him by accident. And after pulling away, he’d pulled you back. It had only gotten more heated from there until eventually you collapsed beside him in his bed. You’d both fallen asleep shortly afterwards and as much as part of you wanted to stay laying beside him when you woke up, you knew you couldn’t. 

Though, maybe you should have. It would have saved you watching Kate have an aneurysm at realising exactly why you were in your pyjamas, why you had slept in, and why you were talking to Joaquin like you actually considered him a friend of some kind. 

And you were both adamant it was to be a One Night thing. But apparently neither of you had factored into the conversation how good it truly was. Not just the sex, but not fighting each other all the time. 

“I need you.”

You’d been walking down the hallway, minding your own business, when Bucky suddenly nearly pulled your arms out of its socket as he dragged you inside the training room. “Sam’s stuck me with the elementary kids.”

“What do you want me to do about it?” You asked, sounding a little mad. 

“Just demonstrate something to the kids.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. You and Joaquin figure something out.”

“Joaquin?” You practically threw up his name before Bucky answered, “Yes,” and threw you towards the training mat where you were met with Joaquin. 

“Okay, kids, these two very helpful volunteers are gonna show you what sparring is.”

“We are?” You and Joaquin asked. 

Apparently you were. 

Which was how you found yourself and Joaquin explaining small moves that the kids could copy, safely. However, Joaquin had been enjoying himself far too much, so taking the opportunity to explain a small self-defence method, you sent him flying to the floor. 

All the kids took in a breath, some laughed, some gasped. 

But once Joaquin laughed, letting the kids know he was okay, they all relaxed. 

“Okay, rugrats. You’ve got fifteen minutes to use the climbing frame!” Bucky announced before letting the kids run free. Meanwhile, you remained on top of Joaquin. 

“That was fun.”

“Really got the drop on me, didn’t you?”

“Those kids were boosting your ego far too much.”

“My god,” Joaquin breathed. “Are you jealous?”

“Hell no,” you laughed. “Just don’t think your ego needs inflating anymore than it already has.”

“Well,” Joaquin suddenly flipped you and had you pinned under him. “I could say the same about you. You forget I know what I’m doing, Angel.” 

For that last part, he leaned down and whispered it low so only you could hear. A slight whimper threatened to escape you but when you were met with Joaquin’s eyes once again, one of the kids had dropped an end of a bench, reminding both of you where you were and who you were around. 

Carefully, Joaquin climbed off you before lowering his hand down to you to help you up. Without thinking, you accepted. You were greeted with the same kind of electricity you’d experienced that night when he’d intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning them above your head before tantalisingly moving down your body…

“If you don’t need me?” You called out to Bucky. He brought his forgotten attention back to you both. 

“Yeah. Thanks!”

You just nodded, before nodding at Joaquin. His hand waited as long as it could to let you go as you walked away, his gaze trailing after you and you left the training room and hurried back the way you came before Bucky had pulled you inside. 

Later that night, long after the training room and a short while after dinner where you and Joaquin had tried to avoid contact; seemingly making more than either of you had done in three years. He knocked on your door. 

All he wanted to do was check in on you. Maybe apologise for what happened in the training room. Maybe ask why you hadn’t scoffed at his choice of food combos at dinner like you usually did. But instead, once he opened the door, the wind was knocked from him completely. 

“I just wanted to-” Joaquin was trying to find his words again after seeing you, but he was struggling. 

But that didn’t matter. Because your lips were on his almost instantly. Pulling him inside, his hands pulled you closer to him. You shut the door and he pushed you against it. 

Hours later, sweating and gasping for breath yet again, you both told each other it was just a One Time thing. Well, a two-time thing. 

Yet, just as Kate had predicted, it wasn’t. 

“It happened again.”

Those were the first words out of your mouth as she opened her apartment door. “I told you.”

“What happened?” Yelena yelled from the living room, a pint of ice cream in her lap. 

“It’s Y/n!”

That was all Kate had to say as she invited you inside for Yelena to reply, “Did she and the Bird Boy sleep together again?”

“Did you tell her?”

Kate shook her head as she locked the door. “She already knew. Don’t ask me how.”

“Did she bring drinks? This conversation is gonna need drinks!” Yelena called out. 

Over the next three hours, you sat on Kate and Yelena’s couch, mortified at what had happened. 

“I told you it wouldn’t be a one time thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be a one time thing. If you both enjoy it, and I can tell you do-”

“Yelena!”

“What?” Yelena asked. “You’ve been less pissy since the first time. I’m just saying…if you both enjoy it, enjoy it.”

“But it’s more than that.”

“What is?”

When you didn’t answer, both Yelena and Kate looked at each other, already knowing. 

“Y/n…”

Kate pushed your hands from your face. “Do you like Joaquin?”

“No! No, of course not!”

Yelena dug her spoon into her pint of ice cream. “Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

You just groaned. “I can’t. What? Why are you smiling?”

“No reason.” Kate said, shaking her head. 

“She thinks you and Joaquin are gonna get married.” 

“Yelena!” It was Kate’s turn to yell at her roommate. 

“What?”

You looked at Kate. “You really think that? Really?”

Kate had been the one person to see everything. Every reason you gave as to why you didn’t like Joaquin. And clearly this marriage concept to her wasn’t new. 

“Look, I just think, sometimes, the lines between love and hate can be a little…fuzzy. Yelena?”

She just shrugged. “If you want to fuck him, fuck him. But if you love him…”

You barked out a laugh. “Whoa, hey, hey, okay. No. No. We’re not- no. I don’t love Joaquin.”

Yelena hummed to herself, holding up her spoon, “The lady-”

“Hey,” Kate raised her voice and Yelena kept hers silent, but still acted out what she was going to say. 

“Kate?”

“Look,” Kate took your hands in hers. “Maybe this was it. But, Yelena’s right. If you like Joaquin, maybe you should tell him. Before someone gets hurt.”

It was sound advice. And you gave yourself some time to figure it out. Maybe it was just the sex. Maybe he’d just muddled your brain. Time away would be good. 

But time didn’t fix feelings as you came to find out. 

After the third One Night, you’d accepted a three month placement from Hill. Maybe time away would do you good. And it worked, for the first six weeks. Joaquin didn’t cross your mind once. 

Until the day he walked inside your tent with some of his tech gear, “Where can I set up?”

“What are you doing here?”

“Don’t sound too happy to see me.”

You would come to learn Joaquin had been sent in place of Yelena. A woman you sent a very, very long text to: who only replied with a kissy face and a good luck symbol. 

“I’m gonna kill her.”

“What?”

You looked up at Joaquin, “Nothing.”

It took three weeks and thirty different fights, including mini spats, for something to break between both yourself and Joaquin. 

“Do you do this by accident, or do you just enjoy being a pain in my ass?” 

“Says the guy who can’t leave me alone to do the work I’ve been trained for!”

“Well excuse me for giving a crap about my team-mate?”

You barked a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you. I’m pretty sure you’d rather fly me to the top of the Empire State and drop me.”

“Believe me, that hasn’t not crossed my mind once or twice.”

You were just standing opposite each other, your chests heaving for breath when all of a sudden his hands were in your hair, your hands were pulling his overshirt from him and his lips were crashing against yours. 

With his tongue dipping inside your mouth, tasting you, he moaned. “I’ve missed this.”

Shaking your shirt from your arms, your hand slipped into his curls and pulled his kiss closer to you. As you ass bumped against the table set up, Joaquin moved his kisses from your lips to across your jaw and down your neck. 

It was the first time neither of you talked about it being a One Night thing. Because, between the kissing and the breathy moans, a silent agreement had been made. This could never have been a One Night thing. 

You couldn’t keep lying to yourself. You’d missed it, too. You’d missed him. 

And part of that conversation came to a head the next night when Joaquin found you in your tent since you’d been avoiding him all day. 

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Joaquin-”

“No, I don’t wanna fight. Not tonight. I just want an answer.”

“I haven’t been avoiding you.”

“Yes, you have. Despite our history, I know you, Y/n. You’ve been avoiding me. Why?”

You stopped folding your clothes and looked at him. For the first time in forever, you too didn’t want to fight him. Not with him standing there looking all…Joaquin-like. A kind, yet worried face. A comfortable presence. 

You moved closer, pulling him in to kiss you. This kiss was different. Rather than raw and needy for sex, it was a little more delicate. But there was still a force behind it. 

“Because I’ve missed this, too. I’ve missed you, Joaquin.”

Joaquin looked you in your eyes as you stood, inches from his face. You weren’t lying. Even when you’d been fighting him, and he’d been fighting you, one thing he’d known since the beginning was when you were lying. 

He was apparently the only person you knew with that skill, which just added another thing to the list of why you hated him so much.

You weren’t lying. 

Joaquin didn’t say anything. He just kissed you. And kissed you. And kissed you. 

And for the first time, you both took it slow. Well, slower. 

“I think this is gonna be more than a one time thing.”

You laughed as Joaquin broke the silence with his sentence, and his laughter joined yours until you kissed him, crawling to straddle him under your bed covers.

By the time you both got back, it was like nothing had ever happened. You and Joaquin seemed to fall right back into your old ways with each other. 

But none of it was real. 

The truth was in how he kissed you late at night, and in how he would brush his hand across your hip as he passed you in the kitchen. It was in the way you’d pull him around the corner in an empty hallway and kiss him. It was in the way he’d lean against your body and it was in the way a quiet moan, only he could hear, would leave you as his leg pushed between both of yours. 

The truth was in the way he’d watch you as you sat up in bed, reading over different mission material. It was in the way you’d look at him when he was training in the training room, early in the morning, the sun kissing the sheen of his skin as he ran his third mile on the treadmill. 

The truth was in the way he followed behind you, no matter who was around either of you. It was in the way you both fought less with your superiors about being placed together for different training exercises and missions. 

The truth was in the way you had both been slowly falling for each other, despite wishing for the opposite. 

“I’m gonna ask Y/n on a date.” 

That had been the statement Joaquin had blurted out to Kate one afternoon when everyone else was at training. 

“W-w-what? Oh, yeah. No, that’s cool.”

Joaquin just looked at her, “You’re a terrible actor.”

“I am not!”

“I already know you know.”

Kate relaxed. “Oh, okay then. So, you’re gonna ask her out? Finally!” Kate smiled. 

“I just can’t decide where. I want this to be perfect. But I don’t want to set us up for failure.”

Kate watched as Joaquin sat beside her on the sofa and pulled out his phone, scrolling through the different options he had written down in his notes app. Any of the options he had would be good. 

But that wasn’t what made her smile. 

It was the fact that Joaquin was putting so much thought into it. He always put a lot of thought into things, but knowing it was for you. For both of you. It made her want to say “HA!” to Yelena. 

But if Joaquin was being completely honest with himself, from knocking on your door and hearing you walking to open it, he’d never been so nervous in his entire life. 

“Joaquin,” you seemed surprised. Probably because he had knocked in a way that might throw you off in thinking it wasn’t him, giving him a few more seconds to psych himself up. 

“I want to take you on a date.” Well, there went the speech he’d prepared. “And I’m hoping you’ll say yes because this isn’t just-”

“Yes.”

“What?”

“Yes,” you repeated. “I’ll go on a date with you.”

“You will?”

You smiled and nodded. “Yeah, of course.”

Joaquin smiled before stepping inside and kissing you before you closed the door. 

You didn’t quite know when or why, but you and Joaquin had gone from being at each other’s throats aggressively to it being affectionate. And for some reason - one that Kate would probably explain to you one day - you wouldn’t trade it for the world. 

And neither would Joaquin.

[tojihavoc]

He Sleeps Here Now

synopsis -> Toji has just escaped the Zenin clan—bloody, bitter, and ready to die. But when you see him outside your home, you make the mistake of saving him. You wonder what a broken, hurt, trauma-ridden man like him would be like. After arguments and cold distances, he finally opens up to you, and you help him heal. The romance blooms from there, and suddenly he's broken in your arms, still thinking he's unworthy of you.

Slow-burn, and angst-heavy with silent intimacy and emotional healing; SFW

NOT PROOFREAD

The rain poured softly from the sky. The leaves brushed past the soaked, muddied floor. The air smelt of leaves, air, and dirt and also something sweet. You couldn't pinpoint what exactly. Toji's body was bruised and battered, his breathing coming out in small gasps, aching like broken glass. His blade covered in blood just a few feet away, his body twitching lightly. He was covered in scars, some healed some fresh. Blood pooling on his head and his small coughs filling the air. He didn’t even remember who he killed. Just that they were wearing Zenin colors. He fell down with a thud, rustling the trees nearby. "Damn clan. Damn life.... damn everything" he uttered as his face brushed against the wet grass, leaves pressing to his clothes.

You were going out to buy some bread when you saw his body twitch a few feet away. At first it looked like he was dead. Until he uttered those words. Those broken, horrid words you only hear from people who didn't wanna live, it felt like he was barely there. You walked over to him, your eyes narrowing slightly as you looked him over. He was huge, muscular and filled with scars. He was bloodied and soaked to the bone. His chest rose and fell like it was the last time. Like it hurt to breathe. He looked bruised and battered and hurt everywhere. "Should’ve never seen this," you muttered, but you leaned down and gently patted his arm, making sure he was real.

You somehow dragged his unresponsive body back. Your house only being a couple feet away helped. He was heavy and half-conscious letting out gruffs and muttering curses the entire time. A few names. None which you recognized. You dragged him to your living room, taking off his shoes and jacket and anything that was wet or damped with blood or dirt to throw in the washer. You gently lifted up his shirt to take care of his bruises and left him in his sweats. You ran a hot wet cloth over his face relieving it of the dirt and water from outside. His face was cut and bruised but still quite handsome. If he was awake he'd look very intimidating and scary. You decided to take off his shirt for easier access and gasped when you saw how ripped and muscular he was underneath. He was still covered in blood and you quickly wiped it off, also ridding dirt from open wounds that were riding across his entire body. You stitched where you could and ran your fingers through his bruises making sure you weren't too hard and didn't press too firmly. He winced in pain even unconsciously but the warmth of your living room fireplace helped his body and you could see he wasn't shivering anymore. And yet, even unconscious, he looked angry. Haunted.

You were in the kitchen brewing some tea for you and the stranger and when you were done you decided to go check up on him. You walked into the living room where suddenly he opened his eyes with a start, his hand flying for the weapon which wasn't beside him. "Easy there. Your'e still sore" you watched him with a steaming mug in your hands. Toji’s eyes scanned the room wildly. He looked down realizing he was shirtless and you were the only person in sight. His voice was hoarse: “What the hell is this place? Who are you?” You could tell he wanted to ask more but his tired and bruised body was torture.

"You're safe. For now at least" you responded smoothly.

"You didn't answer my question. Who are you?" His eyes narrowed as he gazed at you from head to toe.

You let out a sigh, setting down your mug. "You're in my house. I saw you lying outside like a dead person and I took you in. Don't worry, your clothes and stuff are in the washing machine, however you should change out of those sweats. They're wet and you'll catch a cold." You watched him curiously wondering what he would do next.

He sat up with a grunt, wincing in pain “I never asked for your help.” He muttered as he palmed his hand against the sharp bruise on his arm, letting out a pained whimper.

You watched him horrified. "You didn't have a choice and don't touch your bruise you'll just make it worse!" You darted to your freezer and got out an ice pack and rushed over to him, putting it on his arm gently. "I stitched you up. You're bruised and scarred so just rest okay? I'm not gonna hurt you." You rolled your eyes glancing at his muscular arms. You couldn't help but feel attracted to his mysterious persona as your breath caught in your throat, but you quickly tried to ignore it.

His jaw clenched. He hated needing anyone. He hated feeling helpless and weak. As you pressed the ice pack to his arm he looked at you sharply, "what do you want from me?" He asked. You looked at him, amused. You raised a thin sharp eyebrow. “Seriously? You think I dragged your half-dead ass through the grass just because I wanted something? You looked like you were about to die out there.”

Silence wrapped around like a candle in silicone. He gazed at you, harshly muttering, "Should've just left me."

You glanced at his solemn and desperately harsh face which was equally as beautiful. "Maybe but I didn't" you responded, icing over his bruises. He looked empty and in need of some comfort. You wondered where the bruises came from but you kept quiet, not wanting to pry into his personal life. You had just met the man.

"You should rest here. I have a spare bedroom and you look like you're about to die." You got up, looking down at him wondering what he'd say. For some sick reason you wanted him to say yes. Wanted him to stay. For your own sick pleasure or to keep patching him up? You don't know.

He let out a gruff. "I don't need your help and I sure as hell don't need your charity" he replied as he winced in pain.

"Yeah? What other option do you have? It's either this or go out there and down in the rain or die of hypothermia. You can't even move by yourself I'm giving you an option so just take it." You looked over at him, walking so you could help him up.

He seethed, looking at you with dead, cold eyes as you helped him up. He didn't push him off you this time. Not like he could. You helped him to the spare bedroom, covered in light blue and white sheets. The bedroom was ocean themed and framed artworks of turtles and sailboats and waves framed the walls. The decoration was so cute and soft looking as you helped Toji onto the bed. He didn't bother protesting further, too tired to argue. You put him under the sheets and brought a heater close to him to help him feel warmer and also a steaming mug of tea. He looked cold, not his body but his face. He also looked hurt, not just physically but there was deep sadness behind his eyes. Like the weight of a man that was carrying the entire sadness of the world on his shoulders. He was tired and too burnt up to argue. You brought him a change of your brother's clothes that you had from back home and decided to put his sweats in the dryer. When you came back a few minutes later to check on him he was passed out asleep, snoring like there was no tomorrow,

You hadn't registered the sheer foolishness of letting a stranger inside your house. Letting a random person you saw covered in blood, enter your room and sleep there was now a terrifying thought. But somehow he looked....safe? Like he couldn't hurt you. Not in this bruised fucked up state anyway. You gave his handsome face a delicate once-over in the pale moonlight that was rocking in through the window wondering how he got here. What was his story? Who was he? Questions filling your mind but you were too tired to ponder over them. You closed the door to the guest bedroom and decided it was time to go to bed for you also. You would deal with the stranger in the morning. You didn't know a single thing about him and questions whirred around in your mind as you slept just a few doors away.

The next morning you wake up to the light streaming out the window and birds chirping happily right outside. You get up and change and brush your teeth. After all that you decide to go check up on the handsome, bloodied man you let inside your house last night. You walked toward the guest bedroom and found the door half way open. He was shirtless and on a chair looking out the window rubbing his palm gently over his arm which was still red in places. The bruises looked like they ached and you wondered how he could even stand up straight. This was obviously not normal and you wondered if he could be superhuman? You cleared your throat, handing him a water bottle and putting it on his nightstand. You half expected him to have escaped during the night so you were kinda shocked he was still here.

He whipped his head around meeting your gaze full on, nodding at the water bottle you handed to him. "Didn't know if you'd stay the night" you murmured looking at him.

"Wasn't planning on it but I didn't feel like dying in the dirt" he muttered gruffly. You let out a deep breath wanting to know more about him. Your thoughts were racing and he looked too good shirtless, even if he was bruised. "Didn't think you'd be dumb enough to let a strange man into your house and let him spend the night?" he raised his eyebrows.

You chuckled. "Oh please. In that condition I'm surprised if you could even limp." You walked towards the bed and sat down on it. Your head was still reeling with all the unanswered questions you had. You let out a sigh looking at his beautifully sculpted face and those scars. "So, what's your story? What's your name?"

He didn't reply for a minute and just looked out the window holding his bruised arms and his bruised torso. "Toji Zenin" he whispered suddenly. You weren't even expecting a response.

"What's your story?" you whispered weakly, wanting to know more.

He looked back out the window. "I kill people" he said, jaw clenched. "Is that a good enough answer for you?" You knew that wasn't the entire story but you didn't push Because he barely trusts you. You were just a stranger to him. You knew him for what? A day? And that's being generous. He didn't look like the type of person to open up or talk about his feelings. He looked broken. Physically and mentally. Beyond repair. You couldn't save him. But you wanted to try anyway. You tried not asking more personal questions to avoid prying into his life but there was a magnetic pull to him. Something you just couldn't quite put your fingers on. "I was a part of something once. Left. Should’ve done it sooner." He added under his breath disdainfully. You nodded your head and bit your lip to keep from talking and slipping up.

"I'll get you some ice. You should rest up okay?" you got up and ran to the freezer and came back to find him finally laying on the big, fluffy mattress. You walked towards him and iced his bruises and ran your fingers lightly through the soaked bandages. You could see him wince and pull away slightly so you said in a soothing voice, "It's gonna be okay i'll be gentle. I need to re-bandage them in new cloth, these ones are soaked to the brim." And that's exactly what you did.

"I've had worse" he muttered under his breath.

"That's no fun. These wounds are pretty deep." His eyes were dark and sharper than a blade, as they locked on you. He wasn't annoyed he just looked tired. Like he was waiting for you to be afraid of him. Waiting for you to give him a reason to run. But you didn't.

"Why are you doing all this? I didn't ask for your help you're just making it harder on yourself" he let out coldly. "Why did you let me sleep here? Do you feel pity?"

"I can't just leave someone like this. You were on the brink of death and I just brought you back" you replied simply after re-bandaging his wounds and icing them. This time he lets you gently wrap his arms. Because for the first time in a long time, someone's hands aren't hurting him.

After you were almost finished bandaging up his ribs, you could feel his steady breathing and how it started to slow. "Toji" you said out of thin air testing it on your tongue making sure it flowed. "I'm Y/n."

He let out a huff and muttered under his breath, "Never asked."

"Well now you know" you wrapped up the gauze and put it on the nightstand. He looked at you, amused. Looking down at you with those sparkling, broken and tired eyes. "You've got a lot of attitude for someone who looks like they just got a beating from ten guys and a bruised lip" you uttered underneath your breath. He let out a huff ignoring you. "What happened anyway?"

"Clan business. Wrong place at the wrong time. Y'know how it goes" he shrugged.

You raised a brow? "Clan? As in family? The Zenins?"

"Not anymore" he replied coldly with a blank look in his eyes. There was something there. Something broken. You wondered if maybe it was just his family giving him a hard time. The room went silent for a beat. You didn't push. You looked up at his freshly wrapped body, the result of your quick handiwork.

"You planning on leaving anytime soon?" you asked.

"I would've left by now but i'm still here" he bit back.

You nodded, keeping your voice even "Guess so." He looks at you like he's surprised you haven't kicked him out yet. Suddenly, his voice drops to a low whisper, "Don't get used to me."

"Wasn't planning to" but a part of you already had. There was just something about him and you knew if he slipped out of your grasp you would never forgive yourself. "You should rest. I'll make breakfast" you said walking out of the guest room, closing the door behind you. You cook up some eggs and leave them in his room. You don't know if he'll eat it, but if not he can just starve. You go away just before seeing him take a small bite.

Two days go by with Toji still cooped up in the guest bedroom. He hasn't been eating much and you get worried. His wounds are somewhat healing but still not there. He's emotionally closed off and the quiet tension between you two is eating you alive. Inside the room and away from your sight, he messes with the bandages and paces around the room trying to get his thoughts in order. He's used to being on high alert and comfort and safety is new to him and strange. You realize he hasn't been half as much as what his body should consume so you cook up some rice and steak and take it to his room for him to eat. You knock on the door before coming in, watching him sit on the bed, still bruised to no ends. You put it on his nightstand this time and stand over him, waiting. "You should eat before your ribs cave in. You've been here for three days and barely eat the food I bring you" you mutter as you cross your arms.

He looks up at you tastelessly annoyed, "I didn't ask to be fed. I'm no charity case."

"I'm not letting you die under my care. Suck it up and swallow" you respond, annoyed.

He just glares at you and spoons the food before finally taking a bite. He doesn't say anything and you don't push him. Maybe it's his injuries. Maybe he's just too tired to argue and you turn to walk away. When you reach the door frame you suddenly turn around to face him and whisper, "I don't want anything from you. You're here and that's enough. It's nice having some company around even if they're a pain in the ass. I don't know who you pissed off to end up like this but I'm not here to hurt you." You turned around without a glance and closed his door.

After a couple of days you both get sorta used to each other. You like having someone around. In the afternoon, you walk in on him awkwardly trying to change his own bandages in the mirror. You watch trying not to laugh as he gives you a sharp glare and grumbles. You walk over to help him as he winces slightly. He's clenching his teeth, shirtless and broody with dried blood on his gauze. You quickly wrap them up and discard the old ones. You scan your eyes through the healed bruises on his torso and arms and wonder where they're from. He catches you looking. "Where are those from?" you nodded to the healed bruises on his body that looked old. They were faded, and uneven and looked like it was a repeated offense. Like someone wanted to beat his body in the shittiest way possible.

Silence spreads between you both like poison.

"This one's older" you point to a deep wound on his arm. "It's healing quickly too." You gently run your fingertips across his scar very gently, touching it like glass. He hisses but notices your gentleness. He looks at the mirror blankly not wanting to remember. You think he's not gonna reply but he does.

Suddenly he whispers. "The Zen'ins. They break you if you're different." His voice comes out low and you just stare at the wounds that are old and cluttered. Your heart broke. Someone hurt him?

"Toji. You didn't deserve that. I c-can't believe they would..." you whisper, delicately running your hands through his arm. "Did they h-hurt you that day too?" you asked not wanting to hear the answer. But he nodded.

"You don't know me. Maybe I did" he just shrugged.

"Toji no. How could you even say that?" tears began to swell up in your eyes as you ran your fingertip lightly across the scar on his mouth. "You didn't. Did they do this too?" you asked gently.

"Threw me into a pit of cursed spirits when I was a kid. Scar stayed." He said this like it was normal. Like family was supposed to hurt you and cause you pain to this degree.

"I'm so sorry" you whispered to him as he finally looked down at you and you could see the hurt in his eyes. He didn't wanna admit it but it affected him. Suddenly something came over you and you wrapped your arms around his torso and hugged him. He didn't pull back. He just let you.

"It's okay. Don't feel bad" he muttered as you just stood there like that.

"Screw those bastards. I'm here for you now. You didn't deserve any of that. Not even for a second." you gently pulled back. He let out a half-smile for the first time and you knew that maybe, just maybe something would change. maybe he wouldn't be so cold with you anymore. He gives you a half-nod as you just gather the bloody gauze and leave the room.

That night you're in the kitchen making tea when you hear heavy footsteps behind you. You just finish pouring it into mugs when you turn around and see Toji behind you, shirtless and patched up. You hand him a mug and he takes it. "Didn't hear you get up" you voice as you take a sip. He just nods in reply and drinks across from you. A heavy quiet wraps over you both like velvet. Not impatient or awkward. Comfortable.

" You make it better than most" he mumbles.

"What? Tea?"

"Silence."

You take a long sip. "Are you not used to quiet?"

"Not really."

And you understand him. Maybe in some weird twisted way. But it's as if you both understood each other at that moment. And for the first time, he lets the silence stretch without running from it.

A few nights later you just come home after grocery shopping as you notice a weird presence behind you. Unsettling and strong. You turn around and run face-to-face into a cursed spirit twice the size of you. You let out a scream because of how unprepared you are and how much of a nuisance this is. You take a step back bumping into something. Or someone. Toji's hard abs graze your back as he utters sharply, "get inside right now." Your'e unable to move and stay rooted in the same spot, not knowing what to do. You let out a whimper as the curse pounces but Toji quickly slices through it, hard, with a slice of his sharp katana. It echoes all throughout as the curse stays there still twitching. You shout his name as he's still not healed properly and could bleed out any second. It doesn't register with him. "Get inside!" he screams at you to listen but your'e too worried about him to give a shit.

The curse gets back up as you throw something heavy against it and Toji delivers a quick, heavy and brutal blow and it finally dissolves into midair. "TOJI!" you scream his name worriedly, running to his side just in time and heaving him inside quickly and shutting the door. Once inside you make him go to the couch as his wounds burst open and you're on your feet, playing nurse in an instance. His body twitches in pain as he contorts his face in agony. "You idiot! Why do you never rest? You tore it up again" you shake your head as you wrap him up and get rid of his old gauze. His breathing heavies as he looks up at you, smirking faintly.

"I'm still alive aren't I?"

"Just barely. You'd be dead if I wasn't helping you. That's twice I've saved your ass" you mumble angrily, unaware of the way his gaze looks over your delicate features. You're too busy wrapping him up to notice. He watches you clean his wounds. You make sure to touch him delicately, like glass that could break at any second. Your hands are shaky from worry and fear. He notices. He always does. "You're not invincible, Toji" you say, softly this time. He doesn't respond. He just looks tired.

"You should hate me. You should’ve kicked me out the second you saw what I am. Why are you doing all this?" he points to his freshly wrapped cuts you cleaned.

"Because I want to. I saw a broken person. Why won't you just let me?" your voice wavers.

"You saw a Zenin! A useless piece of shit that gets abused by his family and doesn't even have a cursed technique! Seriously what am I to you? I'm horrible. You deserve better. Someone who can give you everything. Not me...I can't give you shit." He snaps, jaw clenched, staring daggers with those beautiful mystic green eyes. The ones that you loved so much.

"Don't....don't say that." Your eyes swelled with unshed tears as you took his face in your hands. This was the first time you had touched him like this....intimately. He didn't pull away. He was finally comfortable. "I know what I want. Even if you might not want me to...I was meant to save you" you said broken between tears. He raised up a finger and discarded away a loose tear, watching you. You leaned in and kissed him. Something you've been dying to do. And got it felt good. Like ecstasy and heaven all at once. He pulled you in close and you just stayed like that for awhile.

That night you walk into the balcony. The stars overhead as beautiful as always. Footsteps ached in beside you and someone stands next to you. "Couldn't sleep?" you ask into the chilly air.

"No. You'll catch a cold." He lets out a sigh and looks up at the sky.

"You should be resting, you know?"

A beat passes by.

"It's too quiet."

"I thought you liked the quiet?" You raise your brows, turning to look at his face lightened up in the moonlight.

"Not used to it." He glances at you and catches you looking. "but you make it bearable."

You laugh a little. The chilly air sweeps around you both as you notice Toji wrap a big, muscular and warm arm around you and run his fingers along your shoulders to help you warm up a little. And you can't help but ask.

"Where are you going after this?"

"Somewhere where they can't find me."

You turn to him and look into his eyes. "Why don't you just stay?"

He lets out a grunt as he looks down at you. "I'm scared i'll ruin you" he whispers. "You're too sweet for me."

You step closer. "M-maybe I want that. I decide what makes me happy. And it's you. I'll burn your family to the core for touching you."

His lip quivers as he wraps his arm around you, sinking his face into your hair. "I wreck everything I touch. You don't want me." You can hear his voice break. "I'm not good for people. Please just let me go. I don't wanna hurt you." He shakes violently as you hold his bruised body in your arms. This man is tragic. You know loving him won't be easy. But your'e willing to give it your best shot and heal him of the pain and suffering his family caused. As he shakes in your arms, his wet tears stinging to your face as he desperately holds you like you're his last lifeline. You rock his broken body back and forth kissing his face all over and in this moment you know one thing in your heart for sure. You love him. And you will be with him no matter what it takes. No one is taking you from him.

please consider liking or following if you enjoyed! tysm

[theywereafairy]

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.

[immaqulate]

crowned in chaos | c.s

— royal! chris x rebel! fem reader | ever after high oneshot

— warnings: mild legacy pressure (family expectations), emotional angst (resolved), implied rebellion, disownment themes, kissing (soft, not explicit), mild romantic tension, ever after high au (non-canon worldbuilding)

At Ever After High, legacy is everything—but you’ve never been one to follow the script. As the chaotic daughter of the Mad Hatter, you’re all mismatched laces, upside-down tea parties, and rebellion. Prince Christopher Charming? He’s everything you shouldn’t want—golden boy, rule-follower, crown prince of perfection. But when stolen moments turn into something softer, deeper, and far too real, you’re both faced with the ultimate question: Do you follow the life written for you… or rewrite the story for love?

requested by moot! | word count: 1.1k | divider by @bernardsbendystraws

There’s something wrong with the world when your teacup spins faster than the sun—but that’s Wonderland logic. And Wonderland logic? That’s exactly what you were born into.

You’re the daughter of the Mad Hatter. Which means your whole existence is stitched together with riddles, rebellion, and just enough glitter to make your head hurt. You don’t walk the halls of Ever After High so much as waltz through them backward in mismatched boots, humming lullabies no one else understands.

You refused to sign your Legacy Day contract last year, tossed your scripted fate into the Spell Lake like it was yesterday’s tea. Everyone called it reckless. You called it liberation.

Which is why it makes absolutely no sense that he keeps looking at you. Prince Christopher Charming.

Son of King and Queen Charming. A golden-boy legacy with a jaw carved from prophecy and a smile straight off the “Best Hair” yearbook page. He’s everything you’re not—dutiful, royal, destined. He walks like the whole world is watching, and maybe it is.

And yet there he is. Standing at the edge of your clearing, blinking into the chaos of your makeshift tea party with a look that’s half amusement, half wonder.

“That’s… a very intense kettle,” he says.

You glance over your shoulder, unbothered, spinning a chipped teacup on your fingertip. “And you’re a very lost prince.”

He doesn’t leave. Which is mistake number one.

Mistake number two? He sits.

Right there. On the edge of your mushroom-shaped table, looking entirely out of place in his royal blues and perfect posture. He’s got no idea what to do with his hands, and his crown looks like it’s afraid of dirt.

“I was just walking,” he says. “Didn’t know anyone else came out this far.”

“That’s the point,” you reply, sipping tea upside-down. “Most people don’t like spending time with girls who speak in riddles and break heirlooms for fun.”

His lips quirk. Just barely. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

You laugh, short and bright. “Careful, Charming. Talk like that and someone might mistake you for interesting.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t leave either.

And that’s how it begins. He keeps coming back.

At first, you think it’s curiosity. Boredom. Some princely dare. But over time, it becomes a pattern—tea in the forest, late-night library chats, laughter tucked into corners of the school like secrets only you two are in on. You find him behind the greenhouse, beneath the bleachers, once in the Headmaster’s office (which is still a mystery, because why was he even there?).

Each time, he’s a little less polished. A little less poised.

And each time, you find yourself watching him a little longer than you should.

You ask him, once, in the corner of the spell library where the dust smells like history and rebellion, “Don’t you have a destiny to rehearse?”

He shrugs, flipping through a book that’s definitely upside-down. “Maybe I’m looking for a better ending.”

You try not to let your heart show. Try to keep your voice as casual as always. “And what would that look like, Your Highness?”

He glances over, slow and soft. “You tell me. You’re the expert in rewriting stories.”

You don’t answer. You just turn the page and hope he can’t hear the way your pulse stutters.

Rumors start, of course. They always do.

The Rebel and the Royal. Chaos and Crown. Some people laugh. Others whisper. A few look at you with disdain, like your madness might be contagious. Duchess Swan says, with the flattest voice imaginable, “You do know he’s not going to pick you, right?”

You smile, sip your tea, and say, “He already has.”

Because even if he hasn’t said it out loud yet—even if you haven’t dared ask—his eyes speak louder than any fairytale prophecy ever could.

But Legacy Day is coming. Fast. And you’re not stupid.

You know what that means. The night before the ceremony, it rains.

Of course it does. Fate has always had a flair for the dramatic.

You’re sitting beneath the Storybook Fountain, coat pulled tight around your shoulders, watching droplets ripple in the water. You don’t expect him to show.

But he does.

Soaked through, breathless, his cloak hanging limp from his frame like a ghost of the future he’s supposed to want. His hair’s a mess. His crown is gone.

He looks human.

“I can’t do it,” he says, voice thick with rain and something else—fear, maybe. “I can’t stand up there tomorrow and pretend like I don’t—”

He stops himself.

You stand, slow, water dripping from your sleeves, and ask the question you’ve been too scared to say out loud.

“Like you don’t what?”

His eyes lock on yours. And this time, he doesn’t hesitate.

“Like I don’t love you.”

You forget how to breathe.

The world tilts, spins like a teacup on a runaway coaster, and all you can do is laugh—wet and wrecked and full of disbelief.

“Chris—”

“I know it’s insane,” he rushes on. “I know it breaks every rule. My parents will lose it. I’ll probably be disinherited. But gods, I don’t care. I don’t want a perfect princess or a rehearsed life. I want you. I want chaos and tea parties and glitter in my sheets and—”

You kiss him. You don’t wait for another word. You just grab him by the lapels and pull him down into you, and he tastes like rain and rebellion and every damn dream you swore you’d never admit.

It’s messy. Too much teeth. Not enough time.

But it’s real.. yet also like a dream.

Legacy Day dawns.

The hall is packed. Gold and velvet everywhere. The Book of Legends sits heavy on its pedestal. One by one, students step forward. One by one, they sign.

When your name is called, you don’t move. Not until he does.

Chris walks down the aisle. Alone. Crownless. Hand in his pocket, eyes only on you. And then he offers his hand.

Gasps ripple through the crowd. Headmaster Grimm blanches. Queen Charming rises from her seat. But you take his hand anyway and together, you step to the front.

“I won’t sign,” he says clearly, proudly. Neither do you. The book snaps shut. The world shatters around you in murmurs and mayhem.

But his fingers are laced in yours.

And suddenly, everything makes sense.

Later, much later, when the chaos fades and the crowd clears, you sit with him beneath the clocktower.

His jacket’s around your shoulders. Your boots are muddy. You’ve never felt more alive.

“So what now?” he asks, glancing sideways at you.

You lean your head on his shoulder. “Now we spill the tea.”

He laughs. “And after that?”

You grin. “We live madly ever after, obviously.”

He turns toward you, nose brushing yours, eyes soft and stormy.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I could get used to that.”

a/n: obsessed with this and i hope you did too <33 something about world building au's omggg

taglist ✎ @colorthecosmos444 @y3sterdaysproblem @chrisissobabygirl @sturnzwrld @maliabakerscurlss @strnilolover @sweetshuga @mattslilies @sirensdollesque @slxtarchive @heartsonlyforchris @sturns-mermaid @sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @bluessturniolo @pasteldreams @endereies @solarsturniolo @drewswife @conspiracy-ash @courta13 @ivytthew @pinkmattrr @blushsturns @surprisecurlyfriess @mazzystarrysky @eclipsturns @riasturns @mattsgirl4ever @elisesturnz @ribbonlovergirl @chrisslut04 @pair-of-pantaloons @obxfansstuff @poppetbaby02 @bgfshai @kalel2005 @scorpio1205 @stxrsniolo @throatgoat4u @zenithsturniolo @backwardshatnick @maiaaalovesyou @sophsturns @michele-sturns @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @emely9274 @kayskreativeideas @idksturn @bbgirlmatt

[gotxpenny]

Too Chicken?

Tension simmers between two stubborn souls who speak fluent sarcasm and hide too much behind sharp words. One supply room. One poorly placed box. And maybe—finally—something they’ve both been avoiding.

Pairing: Floyd Talbert x Reader

Prompt: “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me.”

Word Count: ~2,700

Genre: Enemies to Lovers (ish), fluff and A LOT of sexual tension

Setting: Carentan post-liberation, supply quarters

Warning: Contains unresolved sexual tension that finally gets resolved, Floyd Talbert being dangerously hot, sarcastic flirt wars, a Joe Liebgott jump scare, and 1 shelf that almost caused a war. Proceed with caution and a fan.

Note || Look, I tried to write slow burn. I swear I did. But Floyd Talbert opened his mouth, started smirking, and suddenly there was unresolved sexual tension flying through the air like shrapnel in Normandy. Shoutout to Lieb for playing Cupid and third wheel. He’s thriving.

gotxpenny's masterlist band of brothers masterlist

The mud was ankle-deep and the sky hung low like it hadn’t breathed in days.

Floyd Talbert trudged along the patrol line, boots soaked, rifle slung, eyes scanning the fields like something might actually happen today. It wouldn’t. Nothing ever did lately. But he supposed going through the motions gave everyone a sense of purpose, of control. Some version of normal.

Joe Liebgott walked beside him, chewing his gum like he was trying to kill it. They hadn't said much. Didn’t need to. Not until Joe side-eyed Floyd for the third time that morning so Talbert decided to break the ice, “Don’t look at me like that,” Floyd had muttered that morning, trudging through half-frozen mud on patrol.

Joe had just grinned, “I’m not the one mooning over the company’s flirt.”

“I’m not mooning,” Floyd snapped, “She’s just—she’s just mouthy. That’s all.”

“You always get real quiet after she talks to you.”

Floyd didn’t look at him, “No I don’t," Joe gave him a look. Floyd sighed, “She talks to everyone, Joe. That’s what she does.”

“Not like she talks to you.”

Floyd Talbert would never admit he had a thing for her. Absolutely not. Not to himself. Not to the guys. And especially not to Joe Liebgott, who was entirely too smug for his own good and had already sniffed him out.

“She gives me shit.”

“She gives you attention,” Joe corrected, “And you eat it up like a starved dog.”

Floyd stopped, turned toward him, “Jesus, you’re annoying.”

Joe grinned, “You’re smitten for the woman. Admit it.”

“Go to hell.”

The truth? Joe wasn’t wrong. She was mouthy. And sharp. And too damn good at pushing every single button he had.

She flirted, sure. But it wasn’t sweet or soft. It was like sparring—fast, mean, and meant to draw blood. She’d throw a wink like it was a knife and leave him wondering if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth out.

And Floyd? He kept throwing it right back. Because if he didn’t, he might just show her how much he actually gave a damn.

Floyd scoffed and kept walking, “I’m not smitten. She just likes to play games, that’s all.”

“You sure you’re not the one playing pretend?” Joe called after him, “She’s got you wrapped around her finger and you don’t even know it,” Floyd didn’t answer, but the way his jaw clenched said enough.

He hated that Joe had a point.

She was the only woman in Easy, and somehow, the least delicate person in the entire damn company. No softness. No apologies. She’d earned her spot ten times over, through blood, bruises, and the kind of sharp-tongued defiance that made seasoned soldiers take a step back.

Floyd had seen guys from other units try her—testing, pushing, underestimating. They didn’t make that mistake twice.

But with him?

She flirted. In that mean, sparring way that made it hard to tell if she wanted to kiss him or knock his teeth in. And Floyd—God help him—he flirted back. Not because he knew what he was doing. Not because he thought he could win. But because it was the only way he knew how to keep her close.

She was trouble.

That’s what Floyd Talbert decided the first time he laid eyes on her—half-covered in grease, barking orders at some poor replacement who’d crossed a line she hadn’t even drawn. She didn’t take shit. Not from the men, not from the officers, not from the war. Hell, Floyd wasn’t even sure if she could take a compliment without twisting it into something sharp and biting.

And that? That was the first hook in his chest.

Because she flirted the way soldiers fought—reckless, defensive, all fire and teeth.

Especially with him.

“You’re staring, Talbert,” she’d muttered once while patching a cracked helmet in the corner of a barn.

 “You’re just easy to look at, Y/L/N,” he’d shot back, not missing a beat.

She snorted, “Easy isn’t a word I’d use for me.”

 “I didn’t say easy to get,” he added with a smirk, “Just easy on the eyes,” she tossed a rag at his face. And smiled.

That was their rhythm. Banter like bullets, sarcasm like armour. If either of them ever meant anything deeper, neither would admit it out loud. Not in front of the others. Not when things were this uncertain.

Not when people were dying.

Later that afternoon, they were assigned to supply duty.

Crates, inventory, packing—mindless shit, perfect for staying out of trouble. Which was probably why Winters paired them together. Keep your enemies close, right?

The storage tent was cramped, half-dark, and smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. She was already there when Floyd ducked inside, lifting a box of ampoules above her head, trying to shove it onto the top shelf.

Her shirt tugged up slightly as she stretched—bare skin peeking just above her belt.

Floyd watched for a minute.

The line of her waist caught his eye first—lean, all tension and quiet strength, like she was built for surviving rather than softening. The kind of body shaped by war and stubborn will, not delicacy. He could see the muscle in her arms flex as she tried to lift the box, the taut pull of her back through the thin fabric. She wasn’t soft like the girls he used to chase before the war—she was solid. Grit and edge and fire wrapped in skin.

And Christ, it did something to him.

The stretch of her shirt. The way her jaw clenched. The soft little grunt of frustration—and Floyd had to look away before his brain short-circuited.

The box slipped. She cursed, “You just gonna watch or are you gonna help?” she snapped.

Floyd smirked, stepping in, “You looked like you had it.”

“And you looked like a goddamn scarecrow standing there,” she glared at him over her shoulder.

But truthfully? He didn’t look like a scarecrow. He looked good. Always did, damn him.

All swagger and trouble, leaning in with that lazy grin like he had every right to take up space next to her. Floyd Talbert had that stupid kind of charm that worked even when it shouldn’t. Rough around the edges, cocky without trying, and he knew exactly how to get under her skin.

And the worst part? She let him.

Because even when he pissed her off, she noticed the way his eyes softened around the edges when he was tired. The way his voice lowered when he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. The way he looked at her like he saw through every wall she put up and wasn’t afraid of what lived behind them.

Floyd Talbert was dangerous.

Not because he flirted back like it was second nature, but because some stupid part of her wanted it to mean something.

And that scared the hell out of her.

He just chuckled, stepping in and grabbing the box with ease, sliding it onto the shelf like it weighed nothing.

And then—they turned at the same time.

Close. Too close. The space between them? Gone.

She hadn’t backed up. And he wasn’t about to.

His chest nearly brushed hers. Her hand still half-lifted. His eyes catching on her mouth before he could stop himself. Neither of them moved.

Her gaze locked on his—slow, dangerous, and deliberate. She tilted her head, slow, eyes glinting with something unreadable, “That’s a dangerous look you’re giving me, Talbert.”

Floyd didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

His gaze just deepened—smoldering, unblinking, the kind of look that felt like it was peeling her apart layer by layer. It wasn’t just heat—it was intention. Like he was already thinking about what it would feel like to close the distance, to press his mouth to hers, to push her up against the shelves until she forgot whatever smart-ass thing she was about to say next.

Y/N’s breath caught—damn him—because that look was worse than anything he could’ve said.

And then came the smirk. Slow. Crooked. Dangerous in its own right.

Like he knew exactly what he was doing to her.  And wasn’t sorry in the slightest. Floyd swallowed, “You’re the one giving it first, Y/L/N.”

“You were staring.”

“You let me,” the silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was charged. Like something was hanging in the air between them, trembling, waiting to snap.

She didn't step back. And he didn’t move away.

It hit him then—not just the tension, not just the flirtation—but the way she looked at him like she was waiting. Like she had been for a while. For him to stop playing. For one of them to do something about the fire constantly crackling between them.

“You always flirt like this?” he asked, voice low now, rougher, “Or am I just the lucky one?”

She shrugged a shoulder, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, “You haven’t died of flirting yet, so maybe you are.”

He leaned in—just an inch. Just enough, “You want me to kiss you?”

She raised a brow, “You always ask first?”

Floyd grinned, “Only when I give a damn.”

And that—that softened something in her eyes. She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, looking at him like she was daring him to cross the line. The one they’d been dancing around since Normandy.

But beneath his grin, his heart was pounding. Because this wasn’t just some throwaway flirtation. Not anymore. Maybe it never had been.

He hadn’t meant to fall for her. Not the woman who met every insult with one of her own. Who pushed and shoved and snarled when the world tried to tame her. She was chaos in boots and a uniform, and Floyd—Floyd who was always the first to laugh, the first to charm—had no idea what to do with someone who didn’t melt under that grin.

Except he did.

Because over time, it wasn’t just the fire in her that caught him. It was the quiet things.

The way she sat up at night, eyes scanning the treeline long after everyone else had crashed. The way she knew when to speak and when silence would do more. The way she carried herself like she’d learned not to expect anything soft from this world—but still, she gave it. In rare glances. In fierce loyalty. In little things she probably didn’t think he noticed.

He noticed all of it.

She wasn’t easy to love—but Floyd never wanted easy. He wanted her.

And now, standing this close, that truth felt heavy in his chest. Terrifying, maybe. But also the most certain thing in a world where everything else felt like it could be blown to hell in a second.

He looked at her like she might disappear if he blinked.

And she looked back like she just might let him kiss her after all.

But this wasn’t the first time they’d stood toe-to-toe like this.

He remembered Holland—early morning fog, boots soaked through, and her leaning against a crate of rations like she didn’t have a care in the world.

“You ever stop running your mouth, Talbert?” she’d asked, flicking her cigarette ash without looking at him.

“Only when you walk into the room,” he fired back, smirking, “Figure I oughta let you take over. Keep the attention where it belongs.”

She snorted, “Bold talk for a man who got knocked into a ditch last week.”

“I let Malarkey hit me. Needed a nap.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“You’re gorgeous.”

That made her blink. Just once. A flash of something in her eyes. And then, smoothly, she leaned closer, her voice low.

“Flirt with me again, Talbert, and I’ll knock your teeth down your throat.”

Floyd had just grinned, unbothered, “Worth it.”

He still swore she smiled a little as she walked off.

“Are you too chicken?”

Floyd’s jaw flexed. She was pushing. And he loved it. And hated it.

Because if he kissed her now, it wouldn’t be a game. It wouldn’t be playful, or casual, or anything he could brush off the next day.

It’d be real.

And real? Real mattered.

He leaned in slowly, letting the moment stretch, waiting for her to pull away.

She didn’t.

Her breath hitched, just once, and that was enough. His voice dropped, “You keep looking at me like that, sweetheart, and I’m gonna do something stupid.”

She exhaled slowly, “Then don’t stop.”

But he didn’t kiss her. Not yet. Because if he did, it wouldn’t be a quick, heat-of-the-moment thing. It’d be everything.

And Floyd Talbert knew one thing with absolute certainty: He wasn’t just smitten.

He was gone.

His hand moved before he could stop it.

Slow. Sure. Almost reverent.

Floyd’s fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt—calloused and warm against the bare skin of her waist. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop him. Her breath just hitched, subtle and sharp, like she’d been holding it in for far too long. She just stood there, breathing in tandem with him, eyes flicking between his and his mouth—like she was daring him to stop pretending this wasn’t everything they’d both been trying to ignore. 

He lifted the fabric gently, the backs of his fingers grazing upward until his hand settled just beneath her bra. His palm was flat over her ribs—feeling the way her heart stuttered under his touch. His other hand ghosted up, brushing the line of her jaw with the back of his fingers.

And then he pulled her in. Not rough. Not desperate. Just…close. Until their chests brushed. Until their noses touched. Until there was no air left between them but the breath they shared.

He stared at her like she was the first thing he’d ever wanted and the last thing he’d ever deserve. And she looked back like she’d been bracing for this moment the entire war.

This wasn’t just lust.

This was what came after months of pushing and pulling. Of bruised banter and sidelong glances. Of pretending not to feel something so goddamn obvious it hurt.

And now?

Now they were here.

“I thought,” she whispered, eyes locked to his, “If you ever touched me like this…it’d be because you were trying to win.”

His brow furrowed slightly, confused, “Win what?”

Her mouth twitched into the faintest, saddest smile.

“Me.”

And that—that—made Floyd fumble.

His lips parted like he might answer, but no words came. Just a sound. A quiet, broken sound in the back of his throat. He hadn’t expected her to say it—hadn’t expected her to be honest. Not when both of them were better at hiding behind sarcasm and smartass comments.

But now it was real.

And he couldn’t hold back anymore.

He leaned in, eyes fluttering shut, nose brushing hers, and kissed her—slow and certain—like he’d been waiting for permission his whole damn life.

And this time?

She kissed him back like she was just as tired of pretending.

Their mouths met like a match striking tinder—hot, fast, inevitable. Floyd kissed her like he’d been holding his breath since Normandy and finally let it all go. Her hands gripped his shirt, pulling him closer, grounding herself as the tension that had stretched between them for months finally snapped.

It wasn’t gentle. It was fireworks behind the eyelids. A dizzy, breathless kind of want that tasted like gunpowder and unsaid things. Like every quip and flirtation had led them here—and now, finally, the weight of waiting was gone.

Her fingers threaded into the hair at the nape of his neck, and Floyd made a low sound in his throat—like he couldn’t believe she was real. Like touching her wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. It felt like stepping off a ledge and realising you wanted to fall.

And then—

A cough.

A loud, pointed cough.

They broke apart, flushed, lips kiss-bitten, breath still shallow.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed and smug as hell, was Joe Liebgott.

With the biggest goddamn smile on his face.

“Well, well, well,” Joe drawled, absolutely beaming, “Took you long enough, Tab. I was starting to think you’d chicken out for real.”

Floyd let out a breath, dragging a hand down his face, “Jesus, Joe.”

Y/N didn’t say a word—just narrowed her eyes and muttered, “You ever hear of privacy, Liebgott?”

“Not in the airborne, Y/N/N,” Joe said cheerfully, “But hey—at least now I know I was right.”

Floyd groaned. Y/N just smirked.

And despite the embarrassment creeping up his neck, Floyd couldn’t stop the stupid grin tugging at his lips.

Because even with Liebgott’s interruption—especially with it—it all felt real now.

Undeniably, gloriously real.

[supernaturalfreewill]

Sam tried to think of a way to backpedal, tried to figure out exactly what he'd said or done that had that inferno raging in your eyes and your chest heaving in those furious breaths.

"What, did you think I chose this life because I lost something? That we've all got the same, sad, tragic back story? Did you think you'd just come along and do your heroic Sam Winchester act and fix everything and I'd suddenly realize life without hunting would be so much better? I didn't ask to be saved, Sam. Not by you, not by your brother, and not by whatever god or gods keep this universe revolving and expanding. I'm perfectly fine with my choices. Thanks. I've been hunting my entire life and I don't need you or anyone else to inform me of the stakes or costs. I've got plenty of goddamn scars to prove it."

Sam's mouth was hanging open. He wished his brain would work faster, work better. "I—I didn't mean—"

"Save it. I'm done with this conversation. If you deflate your ego overnight, you know where to find me."

"Y/N! I'm—I'm sorry! Wait!" he called after you, but the apology was punctuated by the slamming of your car door.

Dean suddenly stepped around the corner of the motel and let out a low whistle. Sam closed his eyes and his jaw tensed as he ground his teeth together. "Damn... That did not go well." "Thanks, Dean..."

"Can you keep me posted on the deflating ego? I'd like an update on that too." Sam shot him a glare and Dean shrugged and gave him a half-smile. "Sammy, you win some, you lose some. Let them cool off and we'll—we'll try again tomorrow... It's gonna be okay."

Prompt: "What, did you think I chose this life because I lost something? That we've all got the same, sad, tragic back story? Did you think you'd just come along and fix everything?"

[sweetpeaaquarius]

The Healer - Part 2

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Healer f!reader

POV: Eris and the reader

Summary: Eris found his mate, a healer from the Night Court. She is all he was raised to distrust: soft-spoken, loyal, and a Night Court fae. He isn’t the monster she expected. There is silence where she braced for rage, gentleness where she feared cruelty. She doesn’t understand what it means to be his mate, only that the bond aches, her thoughts drift to him, and her soul craves him.

Warnings: mentions of blood and battlefield aftermath, hypervigilance, insomnia, emotional detachment, references to physical injuries and past violence, mating bond dynamics, emotional intensity, internalised resistance, power imbalance.

Strong emotional themes: trauma, vulnerability and reluctant intimacy (not sexual)

Word count: 2,264

Series: The Healer - Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

Eris woke to movement, deliberate, quiet, not meant to wake him, but the warmth beside him faded, and the mattress rose as weight left it.

His eyes snapped open.

She was dressing. The Night Court healer, his mate, stood a few paces away, sliding into freshly laundered robes. Her hands trembled slightly as she tied the sash at her waist. She ran shaking fingers through her hair, and her breath caught when she noticed him watching from the bed.

Eris sat up, the blanket pooling at his hips, heat rolling off his bare skin. Sometime in the night, he had shed his shirt, burning too hot beside her. 

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not quite meeting his gaze.

His brow furrowed. “Why are you sorry?”

“I woke you.”

“You could stab me and I wouldn’t expect an apology,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep and irony. He rose, pulling a shirt over his head.

“Are you leaving?” he asked, moving toward his desk. Three fresh pages of the dead waited for him there, names inked in blood and duty.

“I need to assess the wounded for transport,” she said, her voice quiet, clipped. Her eyes tracked him, then lingered too long on the long, angry wound stretching from his cheek to his collarbone.

“Your wound is irritated.”

Her tone shifted, clinical, but laced with something else. Concern, maybe.

She approached slowly, as if he were something dangerous. Eris stayed still, watching her through narrowed eyes as she reached for him. He bent slightly, letting her examine the wound. Her fingers trembled against his jaw.

When her magic touched him, cool and silver, so unlike the fire-forged spells of Autumn, it stole the breath from his lungs. It slid through his skin like silk. Like moonlight. It bloomed beneath the surface, coiling gently around torn tissue, quieting the pain.

The mating bond responded—sang. Pulled taut.

He hated it. He wanted it. Her hands. Her magic. Her.

When she stepped back, too soon, something inside him ached. Wanted her to stay. Wanted more.

“You should apply a cooling balm, something with honey, chamomile or lavender,” she said, eyes averted. “Your court’s healers will have something suitable.”

He straightened. “I will.”

“I should go.”

The words struck him like an arrow. Something inside him recoiled. The chain of the bond wrapped tightly around his ribs.

“Your name?” he asked. Not a command—a plea.

She hesitated. “Y/N.”

He repeated it, quietly. The syllables curled on his tongue like smoke. It tasted like fate.

“I need to go,” she said again, more gently this time.

Eris hesitated. “You could come back to Autumn with me.”

She tilted her head, blinking as if confused by the offer.

“No. My home is the Night Court,” she said, like it was a fact, and it was. The Night Court was her home, no matter his feelings about it.

“But you’re my mate.”

“I’m a fae with a job—a home. A family,” she said sharply. “I’m not only your mate.”

It stung, but more than that, her words acknowledged the bond. She had accepted it, at least on some level. That alone was enough to make something in him stir, something dangerously close to hope.

He swallowed the grin threatening his face and simply nodded. “Of course. You have work to tend to.”

She looked briefly startled by his calm. Like she’d expected a fight, but she only nodded once and turned to leave.

At the tent’s entrance, she paused.

She glanced back at him, still slightly dishevelled, his hair mussed, skin littered with bruises, new and old scars and cuts.

“I’ll be safe leaving your camp?” she asked. 

The question stung more than it should have.

What did she think he’d do? What did she think his people would do? What stories had she been told?

Aloud, he said, “No one will touch you. You know the way back to the healer’s tents?”

“I think so.”

She reached for the canvas flap, peeking through. The morning light filtered in warm orange, dawn was just breaking, and the camp was beginning to stir.

“Okay,” she said softly. Hesitation lingered in her voice. She didn’t look back again. Just mumbled a quiet goodbye and slipped out.

The flap closed behind her, slow and silent.

Just like that, it was as if she’d never been there.

No—only memories, and the dead remained. That’s all that was left in his tent now:

Tangled sheets.

The scent of a Night Court fae.

His mate.

Reader POV – 

The canvas flaps closed behind her with a whisper, but she heard it like a door slamming shut. For a moment, she just stood there, eyes scanning the waking camp, as though someone might emerge from the shadows to drag her back.

She wasn’t truly afraid of him, but she was scared of his name. Of what it carried. Power. Politics. History. Eris Vanserra was not a male she should have touched, let alone allowed to touch her soul.

The dawn was sharp and quiet, the air cool against the heat she carried from his tent. Being near him was like standing too close to a flame, dangerous, intimate, consuming. Even now, her skin hummed faintly from his warmth, from the memory of his body beside hers.

Autumn’s camp was quieter than expected. Still. Tense. She caught the glance of a soldier near the fire, but they barely acknowledged her. No one stopped her, just as he’d promised.

Still, her fingers trembled as she pulled her robes tighter around herself. Her sleeves smelled like smoke. Like him.

It felt absurd, how easily she had left that tent, how little resistance he had given. He hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t demanded anything and hadn’t pressed. Just asked for her name and let her go.

God, she shouldn’t have given it.

He had said it like it meant something.

Her pace quickened.

She shouldn’t have gone with him. Shouldn’t have healed him. Shouldn’t have felt guilty when watching him sleep with his head bowed over a list of the dead. There had been something devastating about the way he clutched that quill, like the weight of it was too much.

Yet, she had felt safe in that tent. That part, she hated most of all.

Even now, the bond lingered at the edge of her awareness, tight, quiet, waiting. It was like a string wound around her chest, not pulling but present.

She glanced back once. The tent had vanished behind rows of canvas, swallowed by the mist.

Her chest ached.

He hadn’t asked her to stay. He hadn’t told her to go.

He’d just let her.

She should have been relieved.

Instead, she felt haunted.

Inside the healer’s tents, the scent of blood was thick, metallic, and sour. It turned her stomach.

The night-shift healer passed her a quick report, half-asleep, fingers shaking, their skin waxy from too little rest. She offered a soft word of thanks, hoping they’d manage food and sleep before they crumpled under the weight of it all.

She had also planned to collapse the night before. Instead, she found herself in his tent, washed, fed, and warm.

Her job was simple, on paper: triage, assess, stabilise, prepare for transport.

It demanded focus, accuracy, and mercifully, no time to think.

Her magic moved quietly, with instinctive precision.

A bandage tightened. A pulse steadied. A bone was set. Bleeding slowed.

Her fingers didn’t falter, not even as her body screamed from lack of rest.

Not even after a night spent wrapped around a male born of fire, fury, and unbearable gentleness.

She didn’t let herself remember the way his breath had ghosted across her skin. The warmth of his palm against her ribs. The steady press of his brow into the hollow of her neck, as if she were a sanctuary.

She didn’t allow herself to feel the bond as it stirred beneath her magic, tightening and alive. She couldn’t afford to dwell on it. There were too many in pain, too many dying, and too few left to help.

A male with a shattered femur. A female pierced by ash arrows. A child, barely past their first century, gasping for breath through blood and fever.

One by one, she moved between them, did what she could, and assigned the rest.

She told herself she was fine.

Even when her hands began to tremble.

Even when her magic began to flicker, it was dim and uneven.

Even when the ghost of him echoed low in her bones, like a war drum beating in the distance.

Time passed slowly and in a haze.

Three more died before she stepped outside the tents. One Illyrian soldier had begged her to stop trying, his wings severed at the root, his mind already gone.

The sky had shifted. Grey clouds, heavy and low, rolled overhead. The trees stood still.

She sensed it—the tug, gentle and low. The bond was awake and aware. 

She turned before he could call her name. 

Eris stood a few steps away, dressed in Autumn Court reds and golds. He looked every inch the heir—handsome, powerful, untouchable.

“I didn’t expect you here,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to find you elbow-deep in triage,” he replied.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I told you. I have work to do.”

“I can see that.”

A wide, stretching pause.

“Why did you come?” she asked, exhaustion creeping in.

“Because I needed to know you were all right,” he said quietly.

“I’m not yours to worry over.”

“You’re my mate,” he said softly, like the words hurt to speak.

She flinched.

“Do you need anything?” he asked. “Food? Clean clothes?”

She noticed the tension in his shoulders and the twitch of his fingers—the faint glaze in his eyes. The bond throbbed between them. Slow. Steady. Unwavering.

“Eris…” she whispered.

He looked at her as if it pained him to hear his name from her mouth.

“I’m okay,” she lied. “You should go. You have duties.”

He nodded slowly, gathering himself. “I do.”

But then his voice shifted, lower, rougher, cracking just slightly.

“But knowing you’re here, worn thin, buried in blood and grief... it makes it hard to think of anything else.”

She opened her mouth, but he held up a hand before she could remind him of who she was or what she had to be.

“I know what you are. A healer. Night Court.” He swallowed. “But you’re also mine. And I can’t pretend that means nothing.”

She felt the tears burning behind her eyes.

“What if I want it to mean nothing?” she asked, voice splintering.

He hesitated. A beat. Another.

He spoke softly, “Then I’ll walk away. I won’t force it. I won’t become someone you fear.”

Something inside her shattered.

She looked toward the tents, toward the wounded. Toward anything that wasn’t him.

“I have to get the wounded home.”

“I know.”

She didn’t answer; she only turned and walked away. He didn’t follow, but she felt his warmth against her spine, a tether she hadn’t severed. She returned inside.

By dusk, she was unravelling.

Her magic thinned with every life she tried to save. Her hands had been cleaned over a dozen times, yet she still felt the blood caught in the beds of her nails, soaked into her skin, staining something deeper. Her limbs were heavy, her breath too shallow. Every sound, the clang of steel, the murmurs of pain, the wind brushing through canvas, felt too sharp.

She moved toward the healers’ bathing tents on instinct more than will. One more step. One more hour. Then, maybe, she could rest, finalise everything here and head home to Velaris.

“Y/N—” His voice caught her like a hook behind the ribs. “I just came to say goodbye.”

She turned before she even processed the words.

Eris stood a few steps away, his long coat swaying softly in the breeze, hair tousled as if he’d been dragging his hands through it all day. His expression, too calm, too silent, veiled something deeper. Something breaking.

The edges of her vision dimmed.

Her knees gave out.

Eris moved before she hit the ground.

“You’re burnt out,” he said firmly, catching her as she collapsed into him.

“I’m fine,” she spat, though her voice cracked on the lie.

Still, she raised a shaking hand to wipe her face before the tears could fall, but she didn’t pull away. Her head rested against his chest, as if she just needed… something. A breath of stillness. A place to fall apart.

Eris didn’t speak. Didn’t press. He simply held her.

She folded inward, the weight of grief and exhaustion hollowing her out. Too many lives lost. Too many wounds she couldn’t close. Her body had given all it could.

His coat darkened beneath her—damp with tears, blood and sweat. Her fingers curled weakly into the fabric of his chest. Not to hold him. Just to remind herself, he was real.

He was warm. Steady. A quiet flame in the chaos.

And he said nothing. Didn’t tell her to rest. Didn’t ask her to let go. He just stood with her, unmoving. A wall of strength against the storm, she hadn’t realised she’d become.

Her magic sparked once, dimly, against his skin, like a fading ember. The bond, soft and subtle, stirred within her. Not urgent. Not demanding. Just… present. A steady hum in the hollow of her chest.

She wasn’t sure how long they stood there like that.

Only that she could, and Eris would take whatever she would give him.

[thesodapopsys]

Last week was for love, this week is for HATE

[cyrygher]

The Third Eye Aesthetic

S E L E N A S E R P E

L U K A C O U F F A I N E

[fallingstarinspace]

Swordfighting when done correctly in an enemies to lovers romance is actually foreplay.

[romantacysblog]

Velvet and Ash

She was a vision carved from defiance and dusk. Even across the ballroom—draped in velvet shadows and golden candlelight—he could feel her. Like a storm just beyond the horizon. A presence that made the air thinner. He didn’t breathe when she entered. He watched.

She wore red tonight. Blood-red, like temptation wrapped in silk. Her eyes never sought him, but he knew she felt him. She always did. Just as he felt her. Like the way a predator senses its prey—and wonders which one of them will end up bleeding first.

Gods, he wanted her.

Not gently. Not with whispered promises or moonlit confessions.

He wanted to ruin her.

To press his mouth to her throat and taste the secrets she kept hidden behind that proud, untouchable gaze. He wanted to strip away the careful armor she wore—peel it back with teeth and tongue and unspoken truths. He wanted to see her break. And he wanted to be the one to rebuild her with his hands.

He didn’t move toward her. Not yet. There was too much satisfaction in the waiting. In watching her smile at another man and knowing it meant nothing. That it was his name she said when she was alone. That her silence was stitched with thoughts of him.

But when her eyes flicked to him—just for a second—it was fire.

His jaw tightened. The wineglass in his hand cracked.

Soon, he would have her.

And when he did, there would be no going back. Not for her. Not for him.

Not for the world.

[residences-of-the-darkforest]

if she doesn’t fall in love with the woman cop I’m gonna be so upset

[maximumreecesintake00]

SO I KEEP HAVING THIS DREAM

I KEEP HAVING THIS DREAM ABOUT 2 GIRLS HAVING THIS SORT OF FEUD WITH NOT SO NICE PEOPLE DRIVING THIS BALLOON AIRSHIP THINGY.

We were against (I SAY WE BECAUSE I HAVE POV AS ONE OF THE CHARACTERS) this gentleman with an entire crew of IDEK

IT'S SET IN SOME SORT OF STEAMPUNK SETTING

And THE LAST THING I DREAMT ABOUT WAS

The two girls were able to recruit two more girlies. Together they formed a band against these men to go against them.

Ironically, the enemy's ships were closeby and empty even (except for one specific restroom but we'll get to that later). Just right next to where they all met even.

So, all four decided to infiltrate it. They had already readied several things except they still needed to pack up. However, being someone who doesn't need to pack up, apparently, one of them (POV character) decides to infiltrate/enter the ship first as a "lookout" and to keep people away from the ship just yet.

However, however, one other specific recruit from the enemy's side. I remember me/POV character calling him "Turnip boy" (💀) cause her other founding member called him that.

He was a farmer who wanted in on being recruited for a better life for himself. His name is Eugene and he became one of those maintenance keepers of the ship.

THEY LIKE FOUGHT ON THE DOOR OF EUGENE'S PRIVATE QUARTERS HELPPPP

POV Character pushing him out and Eugene pushing himself in there. Apparently that's just where POV Character hid while they waited on the whole stake out thing.

POV CHARACTER WAS LOUD AND THERE WAS A RESTROOM RIGHT DOWN THE HALL WHERE THE MAIN CAPTAIN OF THE SHIP WAS BATHING.

POV Character knocked Eugene out and pretended to make it look as if they were fucking just to deter that captain to make it look as though the ship was being infiltrated.

THE CAPTAIN WAS AMUSED ENOUGH THAT THIS GOOF FOR A MAINTENANCE WORKER KIDNAPPED (cause there were struggle marks on the door.) A REBEL TO FUCK AND DECIDED TO LET IT SLIDE.

I think my inspos for this were Rebel Moon mostly (since IT DID START OCCURING IN MY HEAD AFTER WATCHING THAT.), and a bit of Suzaku from Code Geass for Eugene or like maybe even Wave or Tatsumi from Akame ga Kill.

Might make him a brown haired, green eyed twerp all because of that 💀

Should I make a story out of this??? There ARE still many plotholes because it's just a dream but it keeps popping into my head, so what y'all think!?!?!? 😭😭😭

I'm not sure who's the good side between the rebels or the airship crew but if I were to side with anybody, I side with POV Character since I viewed things from their eyes.

It's giving enemies to lovers on Eugene and POV Char's part cause I mean imagine explaining WTF the main captain saw 💀

+points if whoever writes about it actually adds sexual tension vibes between all three characters like.... one is all like "I'm a virgin and uhh.... I don't even know whatwhywhenwheresexhuh!?"

[reinbouxsworld]

twisted wonderland × kimetsu no yaiba (au!)

based on this post here.

I this this on a a japanese song only playlist and a wave of hiperfixation. So heres the context: Yuno (Yuu) and Leona were newly married and lived on his family’s land. On the night after the Town Below festival, Yuno returned home to find not only her husband’s family dead but also her younger brother, Grimm. Leona was the only one still alive, but as she tried to lead him down the mountain, she discovered that he was no longer human.

Silver, a demon slayer, confronted Leona. However, after witnessing him protect Yuno, he chose to spare the newly turned demon’s life, and send the couple to his master, Lilia.

Vil and Rook are the Tamayo and Yuuchiro of this universe. Vil lived more than 300 years only on serving face and hate, nonetheless showed kindness by helping Yuno and Leona after their encounter with the Demon King.

Ace and deuce are both slayers, one ranking above yuu. The three met during a mission, and the two decided to stick by her side from that point on.