kiswolffy

[kiswolffy]

The Fire Between Us

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x Salvatore!Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers | Forbidden Romance | Emotional | Romantic Tension

Word Count: ~2,800

Setting: Post-Season 3 of The Vampire Diaries, after Elena becomes a vampire.

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“You can’t trust him, Y/N.”

Stefan’s voice was firm, but not unkind.

“I'm not trusting him,” you lied.

“I’m just… tolerating him.”

Damon scoffed. “Tolerating? Is that what we’re calling it now? Because ‘tolerating’ looks a lot like letting the hybrid devil himself sneak into our house at 2 a.m. and pour you scotch.”

You turned, arms crossed. “It’s my house too.”

“Doesn’t mean you should flirt with a nuclear bomb.”

You bit your tongue. Because Damon was right.

About the danger. About Klaus.

But the problem wasn’t Klaus breaking in.

It was you letting him.

It started as bickering.

You were Stefan’s baby sister. Immortal, clever, loyal to a fault. And to Klaus, that made you a liability.

But you never flinched in front of him. You challenged him. You insulted his art. You threw a dagger at his chest once (you missed).

He should’ve killed you for that.

Instead, he laughed.

“You’re braver than your brothers,” he told you, voice a low murmur against your neck one night. “Or stupider. It’s hard to tell.”

“And you’re lonelier than you pretend to be,” you shot back.

His eyes darkened, smile fading.

That was the first time he kissed you.

Hard. Angry. Like it was a punishment or rather a surrender.

You didn’t stop him.

The war between the Salvatores and Klaus never really ended. It just quieted. But every time he disappeared, it left a hole in your chest you pretended wasn’t there.

He was cruel. He was violent.

But he looked at you like you were the only softness left in his rotten, eternal world.

And you hated him for that.

Almost as much as you loved him.

One night, he found you in the woods. Crying. Alone.

Elena had nearly died. Again. Stefan was spiraling. Damon was halfway drunk on guilt. And no one saw you cracking beneath it all.

Except him.

Klaus.

He didn’t speak. He just took off his jacket and draped it around your shoulders.

You should’ve pushed him away.

But instead, you said,

“Why are you here?”

His answer was immediate.

“You needed someone.”

Your heart clenched. “You’re the enemy.”

“I never wanted to be yours.”

Silence.

Then,

“I should hate you.”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

And still, he took your hand.

Warm. Solid. Real.

Weeks passed. Stolen nights. Whispered truths.

He never told you he loved you. He didn’t have to.

It was in how he looked at you after fights with your brothers.

In how he let you see the pain behind the monster.

In how he touched you like the world might end the second he let go.

The truth didn’t stay hidden.

Damon caught him leaving your room.

Stefan found your bracelet on Klaus’ wrist.

Hell broke loose.

“You love him?” Stefan asked, voice shaking more from heartbreak than rage.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no.

“Then he’s already won,” Damon said bitterly. “He found the one thing that could break us.”

But Klaus never wanted to break you.

He just wanted to be seen.

And for the first time in a thousand years, he was.

By you.

You met him again, days later in the cemetery, under a bleeding twilight sky.

“I ruined everything,” you whispered.

He cupped your cheek gently, reverently. “No. You gave me something to lose.”

You looked at him then like truly looked.

The monster. The murderer. The man.

And the heart that still beat somewhere inside him.

You kissed him like it was the last honest thing in the world.

Because maybe it was.

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[kiswolffy]

The Line We Never Drew

Pairing: Tim Bradford x Rookie!Reader

Genre: Friends → Angst → Lovers | Forbidden Romance | Emotional Slow Burn

Word Count: ~3,000

Warnings: Emotional conflict, mentions of injury (non-graphic), tension, vulnerability

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You weren’t supposed to catch feelings for your T.O.

And Tim Bradford? He wasn’t supposed to catch them either.

But here you are.

Bleeding from a cut just above your eyebrow, adrenaline still pumping through your chest like thunder, and he's pacing like a caged animal in the back hallway of the precinct — like he’s trying to walk off the fact that he nearly lost you.

Again.

“I told you not to go in without backup,” he snaps, voice low and tight.

You sigh, wincing slightly as the antiseptic hits skin.

“You were two minutes out, Tim.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” you shoot back, a little louder than you should.

He stops. Looks at you like you just asked the wrong question. Like you just touched a nerve he’s spent months pretending doesn’t exist.

“The point is,” he says slowly, jaw clenched, “I thought I was going to find you dead in that house.”

Silence.

You don’t speak. Can’t.

Because under the anger is something else. Something bigger. Something dangerous.

It’s the way he looked at you when he found you; torn vest, bruised face, coughing through the dust, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

And that? That’s the problem.

You try to soften it. “Tim, I’m okay.”

But he shakes his head.

“That’s not good enough.”

You swallow, voice quieter. “Why?”

He meets your eyes. And you know it’s over.

No more pretending.

“Because this isn’t just a job anymore,” he says. “Because I’m supposed to train you — not care if you live or die. Not have my heart stop every time you’re in danger.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want this to get messy,” he continues, almost to himself. “I’ve kept it clean. Professional. That’s the line. That’s always been the line.”

You take a step toward him.

“And what if we already crossed it?”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just looks at you — with every emotion he’s buried since the day he first picked you up in that patrol car.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs.

“Tell me you don’t feel it,” you challenge. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He exhales, like your words knocked the wind out of him.

“You’re not.”

You take another step. Close enough to see the hurt in his eyes. The guilt. The want.

“I care about you, Tim,” you say, soft but certain. “Not just as a cop. Not just as my training officer. You.”

His hand twitches at his side. Like he wants to reach for you. But doesn’t.

“I thought I could keep my distance,” he says. “Push you hard. Keep it cold. Make sure you passed and moved on.”

You smile — sad and real.

“Too late for that, huh?”

He finally laughs, but it’s hollow. “Yeah.”

And then the walls drop.

He steps forward, slowly, like you might disappear if he moves too fast. Like he’s still giving you the chance to walk away.

You don’t.

When his hand brushes your cheek, it’s with more reverence than anything you’ve ever known. His thumb traces the cut above your eyebrow — the one that scared the hell out of him — and you see it:

The truth.

The fear.

The love.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he says, voice low and honest. “But I know I want to try.”

You smile.

“Then we figure it out. Together.”

His lips find yours before either of you can second-guess it.

And it’s everything you expected — rough around the edges, too intense, too much — but also right. Like you were always meant to burn like this.

When you finally pull apart, he rests his forehead against yours.

“I’m still going to ride your ass during shift,” he warns.

You grin. “Wouldn’t expect anything less, Bradford.”

“Good.”

Then quieter, just for you:

“Because if I ever lost you for real… I wouldn’t come back from it.”

And in the silence that follows, there’s a quiet promise:

No more pretending.

No more lines.

Just you and him, finally on the same side

[kiswolffy]

“Only the Foolish Touch Fire”

Pairing: Elijah Mikaelson x Reader

Genre: Enemies to Lovers | Overprotective | Slow Burn | Tension & Angst

Word Count: ~1,700

Setting: The French Quarter, post-season 2

Warnings: Violence mention, blood, emotional tension, possessive behavior (in the hot vampire way), swoony quotes from Elijah

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You hated Elijah Mikaelson.

And not the casual, ugh-he’s-so-annoying kind of hate.

No. This was principled, earned, bone-deep loathing.

He was everything you swore to never trust: immortal, manipulative, merciless in a suit. His words were daggers wrapped in velvet, and his eyes held centuries of judgment every time they met yours.

And still… there he stood.

Shirt bloodied. Jaw clenched. Hands twitching like they ached to tear the world apart.

All because someone else hurt you.

“Elijah,” you groaned, gripping your side as you leaned against the alley wall, dizzy. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I was nearby,” he lied too smoothly.

"You were spying,” you corrected. “As usual.”

He stepped forward. You tried to straighten, but pain dragged you down. A vampire had tossed you like a ragdoll during a solo ambush. Rookie mistake. You blamed the bourbon.

“Let me see,” Elijah said, already reaching for your shirt hem.

You slapped his hand away. “I said I’m fine.”

“And I say you’re not,” he snapped, a rare crack in that perfect composure. “I smell blood. And I can barely hear your heartbeat. Don’t be stubborn, Y/N.”

Your chest rose and fell with labored breaths. “You don’t get to care.”

His eyes darkened. “I care more than I should.”

That shut you up.

For a moment, silence fell over the alley. Somewhere behind you, music drifted from a jazz bar. The scent of blood and bourbon lingered in the air.

You finally broke the silence. “You hate me.”

“I never said that.”

“You treat me like I’m a nuisance.”

“You are infuriating,” he agreed tightly. “Reckless. Impulsive. You challenge me in ways no one else dares to.”

You laughed bitterly. “So I annoy you.”

He was in front of you in a blink. Too close.

“No,” Elijah said, voice low and intense. “You unravel me.”

Your heart stuttered.

He reached out, gently, this time and lifted your chin. His fingers were cold, but his gaze burned.

“From the moment we met,” he continued, “I have tried to remain composed. Civil. Detached. But every time you walk into a room, I feel like a man standing too close to fire.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

“I watch you throw yourself into danger without fear,” he said, “and I convince myself that your recklessness is foolish. That I can hate you for it.”

His thumb brushed your cheek, tracing blood or dirt or maybe just any excuse to touch you.

“But it’s not hate, Y/N,” he said softly. “It never has been.”

You swallowed hard. “Then what is it?”

His jaw clenched. “It’s the knowledge that I would rip out the throat of anyone who hurt you. That if anything ever happened to you, if I failed to protect you, I would not forgive myself.”

You stared at him. “I’m not yours to protect.”

“Maybe not,” he said. “But I will. Until my last breath. Whether you want me to or not.”

You tried to speak, but the world tilted again — pain flaring, vision blurring.

Elijah caught you effortlessly, one arm under your legs, the other steadying your shoulders.

“Let me take you home,” he said, already walking. “Don’t argue.”

“I’m still mad at you,” you murmured.

“I expect nothing less.”

“You’re… insufferable.”

He smiled faintly. “And you are impossible.”

But his voice was gentler now. Quieter. Like he was afraid if he spoke too loudly, you might disappear.

You hated how warm it felt, being in his arms.

You hated the way your traitorous heart fluttered.

And most of all, you hated the realization that no matter how much you fought it…

You didn’t hate Elijah Mikaelson.

Not even close.

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[kiswolffy]

Title: "You Still Look at Me Like That"

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (childhood best friends → romance)

Genre: Romance / Angst / Fluff

Word Count: ~2,000

Warnings: Emotional tension, one (1) forehead kiss, mild language, hurt/comfort, repressed feelings, classic Dean not knowing he deserves love.

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The drive had been quiet for too long.

That wasn’t like Dean.

You knew the rhythm of this car, the music, the road, and the man behind the wheel better than you knew your own heartbeat. Normally, he'd be humming along to Zeppelin, or making some sarcastic comment to pull a smile from you, but tonight? Nothing.

Just the soft hum of "Simple Man" playing in the background and the steady tap of his thumb on the steering wheel.

"Okay," you finally broke the silence. "You’re brooding."

"I'm not brooding," Dean muttered.

You raised an eyebrow. "Dean, you’ve had that same forehead wrinkle since Ohio."

"I'm thinking."

“About what?”

He didn’t answer.

You turned your head back toward the window. Outside, the Kansas fields stretched endlessly beneath a dusky sky, golden-orange light dipping just below the horizon. Somewhere in the distance was a childhood memory of two kids catching fireflies and sneaking beers from John’s cooler while Sam was asleep in the backseat.

Those summers felt a lifetime ago. In some ways, they were.

Dean pulled off the highway without warning, his jaw tight. No explanation, just turned down an old, cracked road surrounded by memories.

You sat up straighter. “Dean?”

“Just… wanna stop for a minute.”

And then you saw it.

The lake.

Your lake.

The one you and Dean used to bike to every summer when you were twelve and stupidly brave, where you swore the world couldn’t touch you if you were together. Where he carved your initials in the wood of the old dock and dared you to jump even though the water was freezing.

The Impala came to a slow stop. Dean killed the engine.

You stepped out without a word and walked toward the edge, letting the cool breeze tug at your sleeves. Everything smelled like cedar and the end of something.

Dean joined you silently, his shoulder brushing yours.

He cleared his throat. “Remember when I fell off the dock trying to impress you?”

You smiled. “You said you were doing a backflip. It looked more like a pancake.”

“You laughed for ten minutes.”

“Because you said, ‘Was it hot at least?’ while covered in algae.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. The sound warmed your chest.

Then… silence again.

But not the comfortable kind.

The air between you grew heavier. And you knew—God, you knew—he was holding something in. Dean Winchester didn’t just shut down for nothing. Not with you. Never with you.

You turned to him. "Dean. Talk to me. Please."

He didn’t look at you at first. Just kept staring out over the water.

Finally, he spoke. "I’ve been thinking a lot lately. About how many people we’ve lost. How many chances we don’t get back."

You stayed quiet.

Dean's voice was rough, but honest. “And I keep thinking about you. How you’re still here. After all these years. All the hunts. All the near-deaths. You stayed.”

“I’ll always stay,” you whispered.

He finally looked at you.

And that look? That look destroyed you.

Because it was the same look he gave you when you broke your arm at thirteen and he carried you two miles back to town. The same look when you hugged him after he came back from Hell. The same look that made you wonder, year after year, if maybe… just maybe, he felt it too.

"I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you, Y/N," he said, voice barely above a whisper.

You reached for his hand.

He let you.

“Dean…”

His fingers curled tightly around yours, knuckles white. “I’ve loved you a long time. I just didn’t know how to say it without screwing everything up.”

Your breath caught. Your heart did that thing where it felt too big for your ribs.

"You think loving me would screw things up?"

"I think... if I said it and you didn’t feel the same way—"

"Dean," you interrupted, stepping closer, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears. “I’ve always loved you. I was just waiting for you to see it.”

He stared at you, eyes wide with something like disbelief and wonder. Like maybe he'd heard wrong. Or maybe he couldn’t believe something that good could happen to him.

“Yeah?” he asked softly.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Dean looked down, a shaky breath leaving him as he smiled — not one of his fake, charming grins. A real one. A raw, broken, beautiful smile.

“I feel like a damn idiot.”

“You are,” you said, grinning. “But you’re my idiot.”

He let out a breathy laugh and pulled you into his arms.

The hug felt like every summer, every road trip, every nightmare, and every warm morning all wrapped in one. And then—gently, slowly—he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

When you leaned back, you didn’t have to say anything.

He kissed you like he’d been holding it in for a decade — slow, reverent, like you were the only real thing in a world full of ghosts and monsters.

When he finally pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours.

“You still look at me like that,” you whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the only thing that makes sense to you.”

He smiled.

“Because you are.”

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