#but the heart wants what it wants and what the heart wants is that doomed angel😔

[gothcsz]

final part of the neighbors series. well, everyone... we made it to the devastating end of our beloved neighbors! did i think we'd get here so fast? absolutely not, but alas we must face the truth that these two were doomed from the beginning 💔 thank you to everyone who has stuck around for this little series, i so appreciate it more than you know! please let ya girl know what you think hehe happy reading 🖤 thank you to @persephone-girl, @myownwholewildworld and @ovaryacted for helping me along the way 🥹

javier peña x f!reader. ~16k word count. the angst we've become familiar with, some new years vibes, canon typical violence (please proceed with caution), speaking of canon the timeline is way out of wack but we don't care okay (?), spanish heavy dialogue at times because i love writing in spanish (translations included), character death (bye bye mateo), reader has a mild case of agoraphobia, smut (hopefully it makes up for the heartbreak), unprotected p in v sex (this is fiction be smart irl), oral (f receiving), creampie kink!!!, hurt/no comfort?, guess what: javi is a piece of shit, no happy ending!!!, any typos/grammar mistakes are of my own doing and i apologize in advance, if i missed any other tags pls let me know okay thanks.

The days bleed into one another in a haze of pain, anxiety, and Javier’s unwavering presence.

His apartment has become your sanctuary as your body mends—slowly, achingly—but the weight of the world outside these walls makes every step toward recovery feel like a climb up a mountain.

He hovers without smothering, a balance that only someone as attuned as him could manage. He cooks poorly, though his effort is enough to warm your heart. 

And when dinner inevitably becomes charred beyond recognition, he humors you with a begrudging sigh before ordering takeout from a local spot.

Connie checks in as often as she can. Her competence is a balm in itself, bringing company in the form of the orphaned baby girl they’ve taken in, and gentle scolding when you try to do too much too soon.

You’re definitely going stir-crazy on top of all the other shit you’re still processing.

His bedroom is practically yours now, the space filled with your things from a hurried list you’d made after he went to clear your apartment, ensuring it was safe and untapped. 

You could go back, but you don’t want to. Not yet. Not when every shadow feels like it’s going to swallow you whole, and not when the thought of leaving Javi’s protection makes your stomach tighten with anxiety.

Tonight is no different, the silence of his apartment familiar. Javier is sprawled on the couch in the living room, his gun within arm’s reach on the coffee table, the TV playing some late-night soccer game at a low volume.

You’re in his bed, wrapped in the blankets that carry the scent of him.

The nightmare rips you from your sleep and into a cold sweat. Your screams shatter the quiet, piercing through the walls like a siren. Javier is on his feet in seconds, gun in hand, his instincts sharp as ever, heart pounding as he rushes into the bedroom.

He bursts through the door, his eyes scanning for threats before they land on you. You’re sitting up, clutching your head in your hands, your body shaking with sobs.

Javi approaches slowly, cautious yet reassuring as he sets the weapon down on the nightstand. “It’s me, cariño. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

The sound of his voice breaks through your panic, and you look up at him with tear-streaked cheeks, your breathing ragged. Without thinking, you throw yourself into his embrace, your face burying into his chest as his strong arms wrap around you.

“I can’t… I can’t do this,” you sob into his shirt, your fingers clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you from falling apart entirely.

Javier keeps you cradled in his lap, feeling helpless as he tries to console you, resting his chin on the top of your head, rubbing your back soothingly. He doesn’t know what to say, and he hopes you don’t take his wordless comfort the wrong way.

Your tears don’t stop, but the steady thumping of his heart and steadying breaths begin to calm the overpowering emotions that stab at you all over. “They k-keep finding me,” you whisper hoarsely. “In my dreams. Mateo, his men… They hurt you, Javi. They kill you, and I-I can’t stop them.”

His jaw tightens, the familiar strike of anger igniting deep in his chest. But he controls it, his focus entirely on you. “That’s not going to happen,” he says with quiet intensity. “I won’t let it. You’re safe here, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep it that way. They’ll never touch you again.”

Even though the fear still lingers, you nod against him, your tears finally slowing. “I’m scared,” you admit in a hush, as if the city can hear you.

“I know,” his lips replace his chin with a soft kiss placed at the crown of your head. “You’ve got every right to be, but not for much longer. Te lo prometo.” (I promise you)

He holds you close, his mind racing. He knows the nightmares won’t stop until Mateo is dealt with, and the thought of you living in fear makes his blood boil.

Tomorrow, he decides, he’s going to make a move. Berna’s contact information has been burning a hole in his wallet, reminding him of the quickest way to get his justice.

Whatever it takes, whoever he has to call in, Mateo will pay for what he’s done.

He stays with you, his arms a fortress around your trembling body as you finally begin to drift back into an uneasy sleep.

When your breathing finally evens out and sleep welcomes you again, Javier doesn’t move right away. He keeps you in his embrace just a little longer, as if afraid that letting go might wake the nightmares again.

Eventually, he carefully shifts, lowering you back onto the bed. He tucks the blanket snugly around your shoulders, his movements unhurried. For a long moment, he doesn’t leave, his gaze fixed on your face.

Your lashes rest against your cheeks, still damp from tears, and your lips curve downward in a soft, unconscious pout. There’s a faint crease between your brows, as if even in slumber, you’re holding onto the pain. His heart aches at the sight.

Even like this, fragile and hurting, you’re still so beautiful.

He leans in without thinking, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for just a moment longer than they should, as if willing his affection to seep into your dreams and chase away the darkness.

With gentle fingers, he smooths the furrow from your brow, hesitating as he straightens. His eyes trail over you one last time before forcing himself to turn away and leave, returning to his spot on the uncomfortable couch.

Every step he takes toward the usual meeting spot feels heavy, hindering, like the universe is daring him to find another way; a constant reminder of the ethical line he is about to cross yet again.

He’s not about to let what happened to you fall into the cracks of this crumbling country.

Does this really make him any better than Mateo? Than the rest of the assholes he’s spent his career hunting? The question whisks around in Javier’s mind, relentless and accusatory, every time he looks in the mirror or stares down the barrel of another wasted day.

He tells himself the same justification every time: You’ve got to do bad things to catch bad people. You have to stoop to their level to get the job done. Get your hands dirty alongside them. 

But the words taste bitter, even as they leave his mouth. It’s not a mantra—it’s an excuse. One he clings to, because if he doesn’t, he’d have to face the man he’s become.

It’s a betrayal. Of the ideals he once believed in. Of you.

You wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t dare accuse him outright of something so low, but he can see the questions in the way your eyes search his when he comes home in the middle of the night, reeking of sweat and moral compromise. 

He’s doing this for you. It’s about justice, about making things right. But deep down, he knows it’s not just that.

It’s about vengeance.

He steps into the shop, the smell of authentic Colombian food and coffee hitting him all at once.

Berna is already seated, a bulky figure crammed into a chair that seems too small for him, like a predator disguised as a civilian.

His beady eyes flick up as Javier approaches, a greasy grin spreading across his face. “¿Nos volvemos a reunir tan pronto? ¿Me extrañas o qué, Peña?” (Meeting again so soon? Do you miss me or what?) he asks, lifting the tiny cup with fingers that seemed more suited to take lives than hold porcelain.

Javier slides into the seat across from him, the legs scraping against the tile floor. “¿Obtuviste la información que te pedí sobre el banquero?” (Did you get the information I asked for about the banker?) His voice is clipped, wasting no time on pleasantries.

He reaches into the inner pocket of his leather jacket, pulling out the photograph of Mateo to remind the other man why he’s here. The paper is crumpled from how many times he’s clenched it in his fist, a physical manifestation of his frustration.

He unfolds it carefully and places it on the table, sliding it between them.

Berna doesn’t even blink, his gaze dropping to the photo with all the urgency of a man just leisuring about. He stirs his coffee lazily, adding another spoonful of sugar. “¿Y yo que gano?” (What’s in it for me?)

Javier’s jaw ticks, the muscle feathering beneath his stubbled skin. He knows this game, has played it too many fucking times—it grates on him. “Lo de siempre,” (What it always is) he replies gruffly. “Esto no es diferente a nuestros otros acuerdos.” (This isn’t any different than our other agreements)

Berna leans back in his chair, his bulk shifting the chair with a creak. “Seguro?” (You sure about that?) he asks, patronizingly, as he taps the edge of the photo with a stubby finger. “Javiercito, ¿sigues dejando que las mujeres dirijan tu vida?” (Javiercito, still letting women run your life?) He tuts, “Pero no te culpo. Una buena perra debilita hasta al hombre más fuerte.” (I don’t blame you. A good bitch debilitates even the toughest man)

He curls his fists under the table, blunt nails digging into the skin of his palms, willing himself to stay seated. His patience is running thin, making his leg bounce rapidly. 

“No se trata de eso,” (That’s not what this is about) Javier grinds out through clamped teeth.

Berna barks out a laugh, leaning forward slightly. “Esto no funciona si nos decimos mentiras.” (This won’t work if we tell each other lies) His voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper now, though his smug smile remains wide. “Lo estás buscando por la orden que envió.” (You’re after him for that call he sent out)

Javi’s irritation is momentarily replaced by intrigue. He straightens slightly. “¿Cual orden?” (What call?)

Berna’s grin grows wolfish, pure amusement bubbling into an obnoxious, rumbling laugh that fills the small space. “¿Ves? Lo sabía.” (See? I knew it) He wags a thick finger at Javier, like a teacher scolding a disobedient student. “Tu banquero hizo una llamada para deshacerse de su mujer. Una empleada de la embajada. Americana. Vos lo sabes mejor que nadie cómo se sienten estos tipos cuando matan a un Americano, especialmente a una tan insignificante… y muy bonita, por lo que he oído.” (Your banker made a call to get rid of his girl. An embassy employee. American. You know better than anyone how these guys feel about killing an American, especially one so insignificant… and very pretty, from what I hear)

Javier’s gut twists at the confirmation of something he practically already knew.

“Emputó a muchos con ese truco. Huyó como un cobarde. Supongo que por eso estás aquí. Por ella.” (He pissed a lot of people off with that trick. Ran away like a coward. I guess that’s why you’re here. Because of her)

Javier flicks his tongue across his teeth.“Eso no importa,” (That doesn’t matter) he retorts lowly. “Sólo necesito saber dónde está... el y esos hijos de puta que cumplieron la orden.” (I just need to know where he is... and those two motherfuckers who followed through with the order)

Berna hums as he strokes his chin like he’s considering it. “Cartagena,” he finally gives him a location, something to fucking work with, as simply as if he were giving directions to el mercado. “Ahí se esconde. Sin embargo, consiguió protección, pero no es nada que los gringos no puedan manejar.” (That’s where he’s hiding. Got himself some protection, but it’s nothing the Americans can’t handle) That last bit said mockingly to purposely annoy the agent.

“¿Y los otros?” (And the others?) Javier presses, not letting him ride his nerves so easily.

“Santos y Rico,” Berna supplies, shrugging nonchalantly. “Siguen en Bogotá. Frecuentan un club allí sobre los barrios. El Flamenco. Bebidas baratas, música de mierda... tu tipo de lugar, ¿eh?” (They’re still in Bogotá. They frequent a club near the barrios. The Flamingo. Cheap booze, shitty music—your kind of place)

He doesn’t rise to the bait again, simply nodding as he stands, swiping the photo of Mateo off the table and back into his pocket, switching it out for his trusty pack of cigarettes.

“Ten cuidado, Peña,” (Careful, Peña) Berna calls after him, his tone still mocking. “No dejes que te vuelva estúpido.” (Don’t let her make you stupid)

Javier doesn’t look back as he walks out into the crisp night, his mind already focused on the next steps. 

The capital for Santos and Rico. Cartagena for Mateo. But first, back to you.

He isn’t sure how he’d explain this to you… or if he even would. All he knows is that he has to see your face, remind himself why he’s doing this, using you as an excuse to help justify the violence that has tainted his soul.

Javier is gone. A lot. You try not to let it get to you, especially after he promised to not leave your side ever again. Though, you should have known better than to take that literally.

The rhythm of his comings and goings is erratic, like a broken metronome that keeps you off balance.

At first, it was just a couple of days here and there—late nights bleeding into early mornings, his tired eyes explaining everything and nothing all at once. Then the days stretched into weeks, his absence carving a yawning void in the already fragile sanctuary of his apartment.

Your ribs mend. The bruises fade, the cuts scab over, but none of it feels like progress. Healing should feel like a triumph, not this hollow ache of emptiness of what you’re left with.

You are in Javier’s apartment like a ghost confined in purgatory, aimless and haunted.

You’re supposed to be dead right now.

The thought comes at odd moments—while folding the laundry, when washing the coffee mug he used one morning before he was urgently called back to work, standing at the edge of his bed staring at the empty space where his body should be.

You can’t stop it. It circles you like a vulture, picking at what little resolve you have left.

Connie’s gone too. She had been your lifeline for a while, popping in and offering comfort when her own world was crumbling. But her absence was inevitable, torn between spontaneous parenthood and a marriage fraying at every seam because of the job.

Now it’s just you. Alone with your thoughts, the muffled chaos of the world outside seeping through the walls. It’s a torment you never imagined possible, let alone one you’d find yourself living through.

The country seems to be devouring itself. The news on the small TV mutters of violence that is neverending.

Sometimes, you’ll stand by the sliding glass door that leads to his balcony, fingers brushing the edge of the curtain. You tell yourself you’re just looking, but the nagging fear of being watched creeps up your spine.

The blinds never stay open for long, your courage retreating as quickly as it came. Javier has trusted agents dropping groceries and meals off for you at the doorstep, and even then you’re very cautious about opening the door to bring them inside. 

Loneliness, paranoia and insomnia have become your closest companions. The reflection in the mirror becomes a stranger with a melancholic expression and sleepless eyes.

You collapse onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is who you are now: a woman afraid to live.

The rare moments Javi manages to call leave you clinging to the landline, his rough voice over the static of the phone your only escape.

His words are rushed, heavy with exhaustion and tension. Sometimes it’s just an update—he’s okay, thinking of you. Other times, it’s the smallest sliver of intimacy:

“I miss you. I’ll be back soon.”

It’s selfish, you know, to want him here when you know the stakes of what he does for a living. The weight of what he deals with is an unwanted companion in his life.

But that doesn’t stop the longing, the ache to have him wrap his arms around you and make the world feel safe again.

The memory of his love confession that night in the bathroom is all that keeps you going. You cradle it like a fragile ember, feeding it with every shred of optimism you can muster. Which isn’t a lot as of late.

One day, you tell yourself. One day this will all be behind you. The darkness will lift, the scars on your heart will heal.

Until then, you have to endure. Love is a painful and ugly thing.

He gets all three of them in the end. It’s not clean, not quiet, but it’s done.

Berna’s information leads Javier straight to the first two—a pair of low-rent sicarios who’d been dumb enough to let their guard down in a hole-in-the-wall bar back in Bogotá.

The two were slouched over the counter, their laughter slurred and careless, oblivious to the shit storm about to hit.

He didn’t even have to lift a finger. The group moved swiftly, their boots loud against the grimy floor, and in seconds, the sicarios were on the ground, bloodied and begging.

Javier didn’t stay to watch them get dragged out into the alley, their pleas echoing in the narrow space before two distinct gunshots were heard.

He was already planning his next move: Cartagena. Mateo.

No time is wasted when he touches down in the coastal city, greeted by Berna and some of his men. 

Flanked by the grim crew, they make their way to the luxurious safe house perched in one of Cartagena’s wealthiest enclaves.

Criminals like Mateo always hide out in opulence after orchestrating such violence.

The assault begins the moment they breach the front gate. Chaos erupts. Gunfire cracks like thunder, tearing through the pristine silence of the night. 

Bullets shatter glass, ricocheting off marble columns and embedding themselves in the cream-colored walls. Screams echo as Mateo’s protective detail fights back hard, but they’re outnumbered, outmaneuvered, and out of luck. 

It’s ruthless yet efficient, and Javier moves through the pandemonium suavely, his focus singular, expression stern, as he searches for the asshole he is here for.

By the time he kicks in the door to Mateo’s hiding spot, the man is cornered. He’s standing by the balcony, sweat dripping down his face, his silk shirt clinging to his torso. A pistol is gripped tightly in his hand and pointed right at Javier.

“Suelta el arma,” (Drop the gun) Javier sneers, his lips curled, weapon steadily trained at the other’s chest. 

The temptation to end it all here—one clean shot—burns in his veins. He could do it, drive a bullet straight into the bastard’s heart and paint the wall behind him red.

But no. He won’t give him the ease of a quick death. Not after what he did to you.

Mateo scoffs as it dawns on him that he’s standing off against the DEA agent that’s been shadowing him since the moment he met you.

“Tú primero.” (You first)

“No estás en una posición para pedir ni mierda.” (You are not in a position to ask for shit)

Their eyes lock, and the room feels impossibly still despite the carnage wreaking outside.

Mateo’s hesitation is all the opening Javier needs. He lunges forward, disarming the man in one swift motion and landing a punch squarely across his face. The force sends Mateo sprawling, his pistol clattering uselessly to the floor.

It’s a struggle and Mateo fights back, dirty and desperate. They grapple, fists flying, grunts filling the air as they roll across the polished floor. Javier takes a few hits to his ribs and jaw, but his anger drives him forward. 

Every punch is laced with the memory of you—of what this fucker had done, of the fear in your eyes and the pain in your voice, how he broke you.

Finally, with a grunt of exertion, Javier manages to force Mateo onto his stomach, wrenching his arms behind his back. The cuffs click into place, metal biting into his skin.

“¿Crees que eres un héroe o qué?” (Do you think you’re some hero or what?) Mateo spits out, blood mixed in his saliva landing with a glop on the floor and Javier yanks him up. “¿Qué va a pensar tu preciado gobierno cuando les diga con quién lluegaste? Me estás arrestando sin ningún puto motivo factual.” (What is your precious government going to think when i tell them who you showed up here with. You’re arresting me with no real fucking cause)

Javier laughs, the sound bitter and hollow, devoid of humor. As he walks him towards the opulent front doors, he makes sure to twist Mateo’s wrists in the restraints until the jagged metal digs enough to make him bleed.

“¿Crees que esto es un arresto?” (You think this is an arrest) The rhetorical question is asked condescendingly, “No, Mateo, no voy a arrastrarte tras las rejas para que te pudras. Ese es un futuro demasiado misericordioso para malparidos como tú.” (I’m not going to drag you behind bars to rot. That’s too merciful of a future for bastards like you)

With a shove, he pushes Mateo forward. The armed men are waiting at the bottom of the marble steps, and they move quickly, forcing a black bag over his head. His muffled curses are cut short by a sharp blow to the gut.

They throw him into the waiting van like cargo, slamming the doors shut before the engine roars to life.

Javier exhales, his hands flexing at his sides as he watches the vehicle pull away into the darkness. He’s about to tail it, his mind already running through the long night ahead, but then his thoughts veer to you and the way you look at him like he’s more than the monster he feels he’s becoming.

Berna steps up beside him, his presence as calm and calculated as ever despite the massacre that has occurred. His hands are clasped neatly behind his back, but there’s a flicker of something—amusement, perhaps, or curiosity—dancing in his dark eyes.

“¿Y ahora qué?” (And now what?) he asks, his tone deceptively casual, like he doesn’t already know exactly what Javier’s next move is going to be.

Javi doesn’t even glance his way. “I’m going to kill that motherfucker.”

The basement reeks of damp concrete, sweat, and the metallic tang of blood. The single bulb overhead swings with a slow, almost hypnotic rhythm, casting broken shadows that dance across the cracked walls and the man tied to the chair.

Mateo’s head hangs low, chin resting against his chest, blood trailing from his broken nose, pooling on the stained floor beneath him. His chest rises and falls unevenly, each breath a wheeze as pain ripples through his bruised and battered figure.

Javier leans against the base of the stairs, his leather jacket discarded over a rusty chair nearby. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, revealing forearms taut with tension, veins bulging beneath his brown skin.

His knuckles are raw, split open from earlier blows, and they throb with a dull ache that he’s long since chosen to ignore. His dark eyes are devoid of their usual sly charm; instead, they smolder with a cold, relentless fury. 

Mateo coughs, spitting blood and phlegm onto the floor. “Todo esto... ¿por ella?” (All this… for her) His voice is weak, rasping, but the mockery in his tone is unmistakable. “I don’t believe it.”

Javier pushes off the wall, his boots echoing on the concrete as he takes measured steps toward the chair. He grabs a stool and pulls it up, straddling it directly in front of the other man. His face is inches away, close enough to make him flinch.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” Javier reaches out, gripping his jaw with one hand, forcing him to meet his gaze. Mateo winces as Javier’s thumb presses hard against a fresh bruise, the pain blooming anew. 

Still, he manages to huff out a wet and gurgling chuckle. “Realmente te tiene envuelto alrededor de su maldito dedo. Estás haciendo todo esto para qué, ¿vengarla? (She really had you wrapped tight around her fucking finger. You’re doing all this to what, avenge her?) Some gringa who barely gave it up. Podrías encontrar una puta mejor en la ciudad, eso sería más creíble que esto—” (You could find a better whore out in the city, that would be more believable than this)

The crack of Javier’s fist connecting with his cheekbone cuts him off mid-sentence. Mateo’s head snaps to the side, and more blood spatters the floor. Javier shakes out his hand, fidgeting his fingers.

“You tried to have her killed.” He spits, voice trembling with restrained rage. “And now you’re going to reap every second she’s had to live in fear because of you.”

Mateo lifts his head weakly, shooting daggers at the agent despite his beaten state. “And this rights the wrong? Makes you better than me? Us? Look at you. Torturing a man in the dark. Working with killers.” 

Javier steps closer, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt and yanking him forward, their faces inches apart. “You’re goddamn right it doesn’t make me better,” he growls. “But I don’t give a fuck anymore. My moral compass? That broke the day I realized just how low you motherfuckers get. The day I realized the only way to protect people like her is to become just like you.”

He shoves him away with enough force to send the chair rocking precariously, the screech of its legs grating against the hard floor.

Javier’s hand closes around a nearby crowbar, it’s cold metal chilling against the heat radiating from his palm. He grips it tightly, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he stalks forward.

He presses the tip of the bar against Mateo’s knee, letting it rest there just long enough for the man’s wide eyes to meet his. The anticipation thickens the air like smoke, and then Javier swings.

The impact is sickening, the crack of bone like a firework detonating in the basement, followed by Mateo’s shrill and desperate scream.

It’s a sound that would make most men hesitate, flinch even, but Javier doesn’t stop.

He brings the crowbar down again and again, obliterating both knees and then moving downward, snapping tibias and fibulas like kindling. Mateo’s pleas are incoherent now, sobbing gasps and wet, broken cries of “Stop!” and “Please!” that Javier doesn’t hear—or perhaps chooses not to.

The cool iron gleams under the dim, swaying light. Blood trickles down it, some of it spatters across Javi’s shirt, his arms, but it doesn’t faze him.

It all becomes a distant hum, drowned out by the roaring in his ears. He doesn’t see the man in front of him anymore; he sees your pain, the fear etched into your face, the scars you’ll carry forever because of this piece of shit.

When Mateo’s legs are little more than pulp, Javier tosses the crowbar aside, the clang of metal on concrete echoing like a death knell.

He doesn’t stop, though. He doesn’t even hesitate. His fists take over, slamming into the other’s face brutally.

Mateo’s head lolls to the side, his breaths coming in ragged, wet gasps. Javier pulls back only when he’s sure the man is teetering on the edge of unconsciousness, his face swollen and unrecognizable.

Breathing heavily, Javi staggers back and pulls his pistol from its spot tucked at his lower back. The deafening click of the safety switching off snaps Mateo out of his stupor, his swollen eyes flying open in panic. 

He tries to speak, but his words dissolve into choked sobs. His ravaged legs twitch uselessly, bones jutting through torn skin, his face an unrecognizable mask of swelling and gore.

Javier steps closer, raising the gun. The barrel points squarely at Mateo’s chest, unwavering.

There isn’t anything left to say.

The first shot rings out, deafening in the enclosed space. Mateo jerks in the chair, blood spraying from the wound. Another shot follows, then another. Every pull of the trigger is cathartic, each bullet an exclamation point to the anger and anguish he’s carried for too long. 

It feels like ripping a piece of his soul away, but he doesn’t stop. Not until the clip is empty and Mateo’s body slumps forward, lifeless.

Silence falls, heavy and oppressive. Javier’s chest heaves as he lowers the weapon, tasting the burnt sulfurous in the air, his fingers trembling slightly. Blood pools around the chair, a deep crimson stark against the dull gray of the concrete.

He stares at the heap for a moment, his body and soul untethered. There’s no satisfaction in his expression, only exhaustion and a shadow of something darker—loathing, maybe.

He tucks the gun at his lower back again and turns away, his boots crunching over spent shell casings as he heads for the stairs, grabbing his jacket on the way out.

He doesn’t look back as he ascends out of the basement, men trailing in to clean the mess up. Javier doesn’t let himself linger on what he’s done. 

You’ve been pacing the apartment for hours, too restless to sit still, too wired to even think about sleeping.

“I’m coming back tonight.”

He sounded different when he called. Blank, almost, but you told yourself not to get hung up on it. You haven’t been feeling like yourself lately, either. 

The only thing that mattered was that he was coming back to you.

By the time the doorknob rattles at one in the morning, you’re wide awake, perched on the edge of the couch with your legs tucked beneath you. Your heart leaps into your throat as the door creaks open, and there he is.

Javier’s silhouette fills the frame, outlined by the dim light spilling in from the hallway. His broad shoulders are hunched, the leather duffle dangling limply in one hand. His jean jacket hangs off him like it’s too heavy, his hair mussed, his face unshaven.

The grim line of his mouth and the absent look in his eyes tug at the emotions you harbor for him.

You don’t even realize you’ve moved until your feet are carrying you to him, the silver of the moonlight pours in from the glass doors that lead to the balcony, illuminating the room. “Javi…” you whisper, the name leaving your lips before you can think. 

You throw yourself into his arms without hesitation, wrapping yourself around him like if you hold him tight enough, it will make all this despair go away.

His duffle hits the floor with a dull thud as his arms come around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

He doesn’t deserve this, he thinks, as you cling to him. Your affection, your tenderness. Still, that doesn’t stop him from being selfish and bathing in the warmth of your body pressed against his.

His embrace is crushing, pulling you so close you can barely breathe, but you don’t care. If he could press you into his skin, you’d let him. If you could crawl inside his chest and be near his heart, you would.

“I missed you,” you murmur against him, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his jacket. His grip tightens in response, but he doesn’t say a word. His silence makes your throat tighten.

You pull back just enough to look at him, cupping his face in your hands. His skin is rough beneath your fingers, the scruff on his jaw rasping against your palms. His eyes meet yours, and for a moment, you see it all—the weariness, the anger, the shame, the pieces that make him who he is. 

He opens his mouth to respond, but whatever he’s about to say dies on his tongue when you lean in and kiss him.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate, like you’re trying to pour every word you haven’t said into the press of your lips on his.

They’re softer than you’d imagined in your countless daydreams, but the way he moves them against yours carries an unmistakable authority. Even as you take the lead, it feels like he’s in control.

Javi’s hands rise, cradling the back of your head as he holds you steady. His mouth moves like he’s been waiting for this, needing this, as much as you have.

You are his sanctuary and his torment, the single thread keeping him whole in a world that threatens to disentangle him. 

It’s vaster than love, more potent than lust. It’s the way his heart pinches every time you look at him, as if no matter how far he falls into the darkness, you’ll always be there to pull him back.

Your fingers curl into the denim of his jacket, tugging him closer while you take small, shuffling steps backward. He tastes so forbidden and intoxicating. You’ll never get enough.

As you guide him further into the apartment, he follows without question, mouth never leaving yours, until you stumble slightly over the sunken step into the living room.

His hands move to your waist to steady you, the brief break in the kiss filled with a shaky exhale against your lips, your name leaving him so softly, you almost miss it.

“What are we doing?” His question is rough around the edges, like gravel under silk. He swallows hard, the muscles in his neck moving. His touch remains on your hips, as if he’s caught between holding you close and pushing you away.

You don’t answer with words. Instead, you surge forward, capturing his lips again as your hands fumble with his jacket. He hesitates, just for a split second, before shrugging it off and letting it fall to the floor.

You’re already tugging at the hem of his shirt as you guide him toward the couch with a determined push, his legs folding beneath him as he sits.

You climb onto his lap, your thighs bracketing his hips.

“Wait,” he says your name, this time a little more sternly. “We can’t—” His fingers flex against your curves, tone strained with the conflict that’s written all over his face.

“Javier, please.” Your plea wavers with emotion, your hands balling into the fabric of his shirt. “I just… I need to feel something else. Make me feel something else.”

His brown eyes meet yours, and the anguish he finds there strikes deep within him. It’s a look he knows all too well, one he’s carried in his own reflection more times than he can count.

It hurts him to see it mirrored back at him, to know that you’ve reached the same depths he’s had to endure.

He should say no. He should tell you that fucking him won’t fix anything, that it won’t make the hurt disappear. If anything, it might make it worse.

But as he takes in the sight of you—your pleading eyes, your trembling hands, the way your lips are still swollen from his kisses—he knows he can’t resist. Not when he’s wanted this, wanted you, for so long.

“Are you sure?” Your noses brush and the heat between you is almost unbearable.

“Please fuck me, Javi,” you whisper, the raw need in your voice obliterating the last shred of his trepidation.

His lips find yours with renewed fervor, hands roaming your body with reckless abandon, no longer hesitant.

Your own are just as eager, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt as you rock your hips against his bulge. His sharp inhale tells you he feels it too—the spark, the friction. 

Clothes begin to fall away piece by piece, the space narrowing until there’s nothing but the press of your bodies and the sound of ragged breaths as you expose more to the other’s hungry gaze.

The moonlight filtering through the blinds casts Javier in a way that makes him look otherworldly. You’ve seen him shirtless more times than you can count, but tonight, under the spell of the lust simmering between you, his body appears almost unreal—every ridge of muscle, every faint scar, illuminated and tempting.

Your touch moves at its own accord, spreading over his firm chest, tracing the curve of his pectorals, feeling the rapid rhythm of his heartbeat. You move to cradle his face once more, his skin warm and taut under your palms as you guide him down to your neck.

Javier presses his lips to the delicate skin just below your ear, the scrape of his facial hair making you keen. His teeth nip at your pulse point, eliciting a gasp from you, and his tongue follows to soothe the sting.

His kisses blaze a trail lower, past the hollow of your throat and down to the swells of your tits, where he pauses, his breath fanning over your charged skin.

Your breath catches softly as his tongue flicks across the sensitive flesh, and then one of his hands slides up from your waist to cup the other. His thumb brushes over your nipple, teasing it until it peaks under his touch, and then his mouth is on you again—hot, wet, and maddeningly skillful.

He sucks the tender nub gently and you arch into him, whimpering from how good it feels.

“Javi…” you moan, your fingers burying themselves in his hair. His tongue circles your pebbled nipple, flicking it with just the right amount of pressure before he grazes it with his teeth, sending a shockwave of pleasure straight to your core, slickening your cunt with each lick.

He doesn’t neglect the other for long, moving over to give it the same attention, making you feel like you’re coming undone one nerve at a time.

His mouth feels delicious against your skin, and your skin tastes delicious on his tongue.

Even as his desire threatens to consume him, he’s cautious. He notices how you flinch slightly when his fingers press a bit too firmly into your soft skin and guilt prickles at the edges of his hunger; but it only makes him gentler, more intent on making you feel good without causing any more pain.

Javier kisses his way back up until his lips are at the corner of your mouth. Then, with a fluid motion, he shifts your position, guiding you onto your back. The worn cushions cradle you as he hovers over you, his broad frame shielding you from the world, one hand planted firmly beside your head as he kneels between your parted thighs. 

The sight of him above you, his polished amber eyes smoldering with want, makes your stomach flip.

Your hips tilt instinctively, seeking more, and the throbbing at your pussy grows insistent. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, the denim of his jeans rubbing tantalizingly against your inner thighs.

He doesn’t speak, but the tension in his jaw, the way his breath is ragged as his fingers find the waistband of your sleeping shorts, says everything.

You lift your hips to help him ease them off, the cool air brushing against your damp skin making you shiver. He undresses fully, and you watch in anticipation as he rids himself of his jeans.

The room is almost fully dark, shadows swallowing the details, but you feel the heat of his cock as it presses against your slick folds.

Your head falls back against the couch, a shaky moan escaping your lips. “Oh…” you whimper, thighs trembling as the blunt head of his length glides along your throbbing seam, gathering your arousal. 

The rough pads of his fingers slither down, brushing through the untamed curls at the apex of your thighs. Your upkeep has been the last thing on your mind, given the chaos of your life lately, but Javier doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. If anything, the unfiltered, raw intimacy of it seems to spur him on.

He strokes your pussy gently, his touch reverent, as if every part of you is something to be savored.

The pearl of precum that leaks from the slit on his cock smears against your thigh as he brings his hand up, licking the tips of his fingers, tasting you. 

Your heady taste is an aphrodisiac that almost has him pouncing on you like a rabid dog.

There’s a glistening sheen of his spit on the pads of his digits as his hand descends again, sliding between your folds.

His touch is confident, and when he circles your clit with the calloused texture of his fingertips, the sensation hits you like a jolt of electricity, bending your back off the couch as his name tumbles from your lips.

“You ready?”

You nod eagerly, your hands reaching for him, pulling him closer. “I need you.”

He tries not to let those three simple words affect them as much as he knows they can. Instead, he adjusts, making sure you’re both comfortable, bringing you up onto his lap, steadying you by cradling your lower back in his large hand as you loop your arms around his shoulders.

Your thighs tighten at his waist as he aligns his dick at the mouth of your pussy, slowly sinking in, which has you shivering and him hissing out. 

You cling to his wide frame as he fills you completely. The world narrows down to nothing but the feel of his cock.

Having you in his arms feels like a paradox—so right and yet so wrong. It’s a storm of conflicting emotions that Javier barely has the bandwidth to process, but all those doubts dissolve with every inch of his length that slides into your wet, tight heat.

The feel of you gripping him so snugly makes his head tilt back slightly, lips parting with a soft groan.

The stretch is both foreign and delicious as your body adjusts to the thickness and size of him.

Your nails bite into the taut muscles of his shoulders, your breath catching in your throat before spilling out in a desperate, trembling moan as he buries himself into your body.

The subtle burn gives way to an irrepressible wave of pleasure when he begins to move, slow at first, testing your limits, before he finds a rhythm that has your head spinning.

“Javi,” you gasp, his name falling from your lips repeatedly as you hold onto him.

Your hips begin to move with his, grinding down in a desperate attempt to take him deeper, to feel every inch of him claiming you.

He groans as he leans forward, his forehead pressing against yours. The hand at your lower back moves up to sprawl at the middle, keeping you steady, as the other cups your ass and guides your movements to match his thrusts.

His head nudges yours, his silent request clear, and you pull back just enough for your mouths to collide in a messy, hungry embrace. His tongue slips past your lips, tangling with yours, the kiss as consuming as the rest of him.

Every powerful stroke of his hips wipes away the hollow ache that had rooted itself in your chest. In its place is a blissful sensation that threatens to engulf you.

You can feel the intensity of his passion in every thrust, every growled exhalation of your name, every flick of his tongue against yours.

Javier has a way of making the world disappear, of pulling you so completely into him that there’s no room for pain, for doubt, for anything but how good he’s fucking you. 

In his arms, with his body wrapped around yours and his cock filling you to the brim, you feel more than safe. You feel wanted. Protected. Cherished. Taken care of.

“Did you really mean it?” you whimper as your hips grind steadily against him, taking him entirely with every downward roll of your body.

Your fingers tangle in the soft curls at the nape of his neck, tugging slightly. The wet, obscene sound of your arousal meeting his cock fills the air, a symphony of lust underscoring your whispered question. “Do you actually love me?”

Javier groans, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip as your walls flutter and squeeze around him. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, too lost in the sight of you—your furrowed brows, the sweat glistening on your skin, the way your lips part on every gasp and moan.

And you, despite being desperate for his assurance, can’t bring yourself to stop riding his dick.

I’ve killed for you, he thinks, but doesn’t dare say aloud. Instead, his rough voice finally breaks. “I do,” he rasps, his hands gripping your ass possessively, continuing to guide your pace as his strokes grow frantic. “So fuckin’ much. You’d never—shit— you’d never understand.” His mouth latches onto your collarbone, licking and biting with a feral need as if he could brand his love into your skin.

“Make me understand,” you demand in a breathy moan. Your pussy quivers as he adjusts his angle, his cock dragging against a spot inside you that evokes something new. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your head falling back, exposing the arch of your neck to his ravenous kisses.

The ecstasy isn’t just centered at your pussy anymore—it conquers your entire body, an all-encompassing euphoria.

Javier doesn’t waste time with more words. Where they fail him, his actions overcompensate.

In a blink, he shifts, pinning you beneath him on the couch. His hands slide under your thighs, hitching them high around his hips as he starts to thrust with unrelenting rhythm. The head of his cock feels like it’s brushing against your heart, making you cry out incoherently.

Each roll of his hips is a declaration, a confession. This is how much I love you. This is how much I need you.

“Oh my god,” you mewl when it starts feeling like too much. Your hands scramble for purchase, one landing on his cheek while the other claws at his back. Your eyes roll back, and sounds you didn’t even know you could make spill from your lips.

Javier’s face is tight with concentration, his brow pinched together, beads of sweat rolling down his temple. He leans in closer, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that’s as nasty and desperate as his love making.

You can taste the impending bliss on your tongue as your orgasm begins to crash over you. “I love you, Javier,” you moan, high pitched and sweetly.

Your declaration is his undoing. With a loud grunt, Javier pulls out swiftly, his fist wrapping around his cock as he pumps himself. His release comes in hot, thick spurts, painting your stomach as he shudders above you, hips jerking reflexively.

“God damn,” he mutters hoarsely as he collapses forward. His forehead rests against your chest, peppering kisses all over, as the two of you come down together, tangled and spent.

When he regains his composure, he moves off the couch, tugging his jeans on in a practiced, effortless motion before disappearing into the bathroom. You remain sprawled against the cushions, your body still humming from the pleasure he gave you.

A haze of contentment blankets you, leaving you feeling like a new woman. For the first time in weeks, the suffocating mass on your chest feels lighter—his touch, his presence, the way he fucked you—it all feels like a salve on your wounded spirit.

He returns swiftly, a damp, clean rag in hand. His movements are gentle as he crouches beside you, wiping away the sticky remnants of his release from your stomach.

The care in his actions is almost as endearing as the passion you just shared, and you find yourself watching him, entranced. The lines of exhaustion etched into his face don’t take away from how devastatingly handsome he looks in this moment.

It’s only when his hand brushes yours as he adjusts the rag that you notice the state of it—knuckles battered and scabbed over. You’d been too lost in the zeal of your coupling to notice, but now it has a pang of worry cutting through your post-coital haze.

“Javi, your hands—” you start, softly yet concerned. As you slowly sit up, a subtle twinge in your back reminds you just how thoroughly he’d fucked you into the couch. You grimace but press on, your brows knitting together as you reach for him.

Out of habit, he flexes his fingers, his lips tugging into something meant to be reassuring but doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he answers with a nonchalance that brushes off the concern in your voice.

Rising from his crouched position, he tosses the rag aside, going through the motions of lighting a cigarette. He sits beside you, pulling you close and wrapping the familiar, colorful quilt around both your bodies, blowing the smoke away from your face.

You don’t give up so easily. Curling into his lap, you nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck, planting a featherlight kiss against the birthmark there. He smells like sex, tinged with the fading scent of his cologne.

Wordlessly, you reach for the arm around your shoulder, cradling his hand gently. You bring it to your lips, brushing them against his injured knuckles. Your eyes stay locked on his, the act full of care, as if you’re trying to kiss away the pain written in every crack and abrasion.

“It’s over,” He announces steadily, his words sinking like a stone dropped into water.

You blink at him, confused. “What do you mean?”

He pauses, taking another drag then licking his lips with a flick of his tongue. His gaze is fixed on where your fingers are still curled around his hand. “Mateo.” The name makes your body tense instinctively at the mention of it, and he brushes his thumb over the back of your hand in a soothing gesture. “The intention was to bring him in alive, but… he got caught in the crossfire.”

It’s a lie built on necessity and self-preservation, but a lie nonetheless. His dark eyes search your face, gauging your reaction. 

Your lips part slightly as you process what he’s just said: Mateo. Dead.

You can finally be in control of your own life again… good riddance, right? You should feel relief, maybe even vindication.

And yet, the feeling is muted, tangled up in something you can’t quite place. 

Is it the lingering haze of sleeping with Javier clouding your judgement? Or is it the unsettling knowledge that this death, even while deserved, will find a way to sneak back into your mind when you least expect it? Will it resurface in the future, leaving you grappling with emotions you don’t want to feel for a man who tried to have you killed?

You look up at Javi. His eyes are a deep, earthy brown of aged mahogany—steadfast, enduring, yet weathered by time and trials. You search them, hoping the steady intensity might offer you some clarity.

Instead, all you find is an intangible burden. What would it take, you wonder, to dim that tragic glint that eclipses his beautiful eyes?

Still, you nod, your voice barely above a whisper. “Good.” You tighten your grip on his hand, your smaller fingers pressing against his rougher, calloused ones. “Thank you.”

Javier’s molars grind together at your quiet gratitude. It’s like chewing glass, and he has to toke on the cigarette to ease the feeling. 

Would you still feel this way if you knew the truth? If you knew that Mateo’s death wasn’t just a convenient win, but a calculated decision with the help of bad men just like him.

Would you still be thankful then?

Your fingers slip from his hand to his cheek, tilting his face toward you. The softness in your touch undoes the tension at his jaw. “You don’t have to carry this alone,” you say quietly, like you’ve somehow caught onto the turmoil simmering beneath his stoic exterior. “Not with me.”

He closes his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch despite himself. You have no idea just how much shit he’s already hauling, how much he’ll never let you see. “You’re safe now,” is all he can bring himself to say, and it feels like both assurance and a deflection. “That’s all that matters.”

Javier stands in the lone office, his mind weighed with the heaviness of recent conversations. Stechner’s words reverberate like a stinging slap.

“For everything you know, you’re extremely naïve.”

The condescension was thornier than he wanted to admit, piercing through his frustration more sharply than the looming fallout.

He’s been fired. Reassigned. Whatever bureaucratic label they slapped on it.

The scandal of his ties with the vigilante squad has finally blown up in his face. By morning, he’ll be on a flight back to Laredo with nothing but his duffel bag and a bruised sense of self.

He should have seen it coming. Hell, he did see it coming, but he still walked straight into it, didn’t he?

This is what happens when you gamble with drug traffickers and criminals, people whose loyalties shift like sand.

Trusting them had been an obvious mistake. But trusting the U.S. government to have his back? That was downright foolish. Those assholes were playing their own games under the guise of diplomacy.

Stechner was right—he is naïve, thinking he could wrest something just out of this mess on his own terms. Justice could never be carved out of deceit and bloodshed.

There’s no victory to claim. Just dirtied hands and sleepless nights.

Well… it wasn’t all for nothing. There’s you. The one silver fucking lining in this entire shitshow.

But even that was about to collapse under the weight of his failures. He’d have to tell you. But how the hell could he look into your eyes and explain everything he’d done? The compromises, the lies, the violence he had incurred. 

That he’s leaving?

Javier drags a hand down his face, the lines on his brow deepening with each thought.

Disgust. That’s what he expects to see when he tells you. Maybe judgment, too. 

He knows himself too well. The moment he looks into your eyes, he’ll falter, take the coward’s way out and give you only half-truths wrapped in feeble excuses.

The clock ticks on the wall behind him, each second louder than the last, a metronome counting down to his own undoing. If he doesn’t get out of here soon, he’ll drown in his own misery and ruin the night before it even begins.

You have been looking forward to the New Year’s Eve party. The embassy’s farewell to another tumultuous year, held at some ritzy bar downtown.

Javier would have skipped it without a second thought if it were up to him. But you’d been excited, your eyes lighting up at the prospect of something normal, craving it, so he agreed to be your date.

The timing couldn’t be worse. The night should be about new beginnings, but all Javier can feel is the heaviness of his impending departure. And he has no idea when—or how—he’s going to find the words to say goodbye.

His body moves on autopilot until he’s standing outside your door, his hand clenching and unclenching at his side before rapping his knuckles against the wood.

The door swings open, and there you are—radiant, with that smile that could light up even the darkest corners of his life. It’s so warm, so genuine, it hurts more than it soothes him.

“Hey,” you greet cheerfully, stepping aside to let him in. “That was a lot quicker than I expected. Is everything okay?”

For a moment Javi hesitates, an explanation stuck in his throat. He crosses the threshold, shutting the door behind him.

His eyes sweep over you almost involuntarily as you turn and head back toward the bathroom. The skirt of your dress sways with each step, modest in length but criminal in how it hugs your figure. His gaze locks onto the swing of your hips, hungry and selfish, his feet moving as if tethered to yours.

“Everything’s fine.” The words come out clipped, his tone consciously flat. He doesn’t want to invite more questions, doesn’t want you to see through the cracks forming in his wavering facade.

You don’t press him, too preoccupied with the mirror, inspecting your makeup. You swipe another dab of blush across your cheeks, leaning in closer to scrutinize your reflection. “Too much?”

He stands in the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly filling the frame as he leans against it, watching you with an enamored look he doesn’t bother hiding. “Looks perfectly fine to me,” he replies gruffly, though he means it.

Things between you two have settled into uncharted waters. That night on his couch had been electric, a collision of want and need that left you both reeling. But since then, you’ve held back, keeping the boundaries undefined.

It’s not that you don’t want him—every time he’s near, your body remembers the way he felt inside you, the way he made you feel whole again.

However, there’s something he’s holding back, and you can feel it in the way his gaze lingers on you for too long. You've decided not to push, not while you’re still piecing yourself back together, taking cautious steps on your own journey of healing. 

Still, the love between you is undeniable. You feel it in the way he holds you at night, his arms firm yet tender as you drift off to sleep. It’s there in the softer timbre he uses when you talk over the phone while he’s stationed in Medellín. 

Even though you’re been back in your apartment now, every night he’s in the capital, he’s either at your place or you’re at his.

You’ve returned to work, and while it’s helped you settle back into a sense of normalcy, it doesn’t feel the same. 

The small routines you’ve fallen into do bring you comfort, despite the bigger questions that loom in the background. 

You find yourself wondering if it’s time to leave the clerical work behind and seek something greater, something that aligns with the new version of yourself you’re trying to uncover.

Then there’s the question of where you’ll go from here—literally. Colombia has become more than a temporary home, and you’ve realized there’s little waiting for you where you’re from. Truthfully, you could go anywhere. But do you want to?

The answer is clear: the only person you want to be with is standing in your hallway.

“Thanks for coming out with me to this. I know it’s not exactly your kind of night.” You glance at him over your shoulder, adjusting the last details of your appearance in the mirror. “Want a drink?”

“It’s not,” he concurs, his voice carrying a teasing lilt, “but there’s no way I’m letting you go out there alone looking this beautiful.” His gaze sweeps over you once more as he follows you back out into the living room, his flattery leaving no room for misunderstanding.

The compliment lands as intended and you feel the apples of your cheeks tingling warmly. “You’re sweet,” you murmur as you pour both of your drinks at the bar cart. 

A comfortable silence settles between you, broken only by the crackle of the record player in the corner, spinning a soft tune you both half recognize. For a moment, it feels easy. Natural.

When you turn back to him, you hold out his glass with a small, shy smile.

Should he tell you now? Get it over with and rip it off like a bandaid. But as you take a step closer, your voice breaches his spiraling thoughts.

“¿Estás seguro que todo está bien?” (Are you sure everything is alright?) You ask, your brows knitting with quiet concern.

His grip around the glass tightens slightly. He swallows the bitterness lodged in his throat, the words forming in his mind before dissolving into silence. Instead, he forces a half-smile, his tone turning light, almost flippant.

“De mí no te preocupes cariño,” (Don’t worry about me) he tells you softly. “Debemos celebrar el Año Nuevo sin ninguna mamada.” (We should celebrate the New Year without any bullshit)

You search his face, sensing the weight he’s trying to hide, but when his hand lifts to brush against your cheek, your resolve falters. The back of his knuckles are rough, calloused, but his touch is achingly gentle. You lean into him instinctively, your eyelashes fluttering as a sense of calm washes over you.

He’s right. Whatever weight he’s carrying, whatever darkness lingers behind his eyes, it can wait until tomorrow. Tonight is about enjoying the fleeting moments of joy.

“Okay.” When your eyes meet him again, there’s gentleness there, a silent agreement to leave the worries behind.

Javier tips his glass toward yours in a silent toast, a half smile pulling at his pouty lips. “Salud.”

“Salud,” you echo, clinking your glass against his.

From his spot at the bar, Javier’s eyes stay glued to you, the knot in his chest tightening with each laugh that escapes your glossed lips. You’re standing with a group of your coworkers, your head tilted back as you throw yourself into some joke he couldn’t hear.

The sound of a countdown filters through the bar, and the announcer’s voice booms that there are five minutes left until the new year.

As if on cue, you start making your way back to him, your expression alight with excitement.

“They’re setting off fireworks on the roof! We should get up there before it gets too crowded,” you suggest, the words spilling out with the eagerness of someone who’s had just enough to drink.

Javier nods, his lips twitching into a faint smile in one of those rare moments where his amusement is genuine and unguarded. He finishes the last sip of his drink, sliding off the barstool suavely. 

Before you can take more than a step, his arm loops around your waist, pulling you closer.

The haze of the drinks and his steady warmth make you feel like you’re walking on air as he guides you to the stairs leading to the rooftop.

When you step outside, the cool night air nips at your bare shoulders, making you shiver. You turn on your heel, already halfway to suggesting going back for your coat when Javier beats you to it.

“Just take mine,” he says, shrugging out of his leather jacket gallantly. He drapes it over your shoulders, the weight of it heavy but comforting, the potent scent of him wrapping around you like a second skin, making you giddy.

The sleeves fall far past your hands and you let out a contented laugh. “Gracias, Javi,” you angle yourself to press a kiss to his cheek.

With his hand in yours, you tug him toward the edge of the rooftop, where the city sprawls out below in a sea of twinkling lights.

“You know, despite all the violence and corruption, this country really is so beautiful.”

Javier doesn’t respond right away. His gaze shifts from the city to you, longingly. “Yeah,” he agrees in a raspy timbre, “it is.”

But his words aren’t meant for the city. They’re meant for you.

An eager, ill-timed firework crackles in the distance, a single streak of light exploding into a shower of gold and white over the skyline. 

“Look at that,” you whisper, the sound barely audible over the growing cheers and whistles of the crowd.

Javier doesn’t look at the fireworks. He can’t. His gaze is glued to you, the way the vibrant colors illuminate your features, casting you in a kaleidoscope of light. 

He’s memorizing everything about this moment: the tilt of your lips as you smile, the slight raise in your brow as you lose yourself in the spectacle, his jacket draped over your shoulders.

The countdown begins, voices around you picking up in excitement.

Ten… nine…

You glance up at him, your face glowing with the anticipation of a fresh start with the only person you want by your side. “Javi,” the way his name rolls off your tongue jabs at his crumbling walls.

Eight… seven…

He manages a fleeting smile, the corners of his mouth tugging upward despite the leaden weight of his turmoil on his back.

Six… five…

Your free hand comes up to rest lightly on his chest, your fingers brushing over the fabric of his shirt. “Thank you for being here.”

Four… three…

“Always,” he replies, even though it’s a lie.

Two… one…

You both lean in at the same time, as if pulled by some invisible thread. Your lips meet his in a kiss that feels as inevitable as the sunrise. It’s soft at first, tender and unhurried, but it shifts quickly, urgency fueling it.

The rooftop erupts in cheers as the first moments of the new year are ushered in with a thunderous cascade of fireworks. The sky is alive with bursts of red, white, gold.

For you, it feels like the perfect moment, the start of something good. You can’t imagine wanting anything else but this—him, here, now.

For Javier, it feels like a bittersweet end. Laced with his unspoken heartbreak, a desperate attempt to memorize the taste of your lips, the way your body fits so perfectly against his, before everything comes crashing down.

When you finally pull back, your cheeks are hot, your smile radiant as you look up at him. “Feliz Año Nuevo.”

He forces a smile, his thumb brushing over your cheek. “Happy New Year, cariño.”

You surge forward again, the pull of him irresistible. Your hands cradle his jaw as your tongue teases against his bottom lip, a silent plea he answers without hesitation. His mouth parts, letting you in—hot and enthralling, making your toes curl in your heels.

His fingers slide lower, grabbing a possessive handful of your ass. A soft moan escapes you, muffled against his mouth, and your thighs instinctively press together, trying to quell the thrum of arousal beginning to pulse at your cunt.

“Take me home,” you whisper desperately as you break away, all shaky and breathless. Your eyes meet his dark and hooded ones, mirroring your own need.

For a second, Javier doesn’t move, caught in the crossfire of his own thoughts. But as he looks at you, sees the way, your pupils are blown wide with desire—any lingering hesitation crumbles.

“Let’s go.”

He leads you through the crowd, his broad shoulders parting the sea of people like he was made to shield you from the chaos.

Your pulse races, anticipation coiling tightly in your stomach as the fireworks continue to explode above, unnoticed by either of you.

You love how his weight settles over you, his hands traveling in hunger across every inch of your skin. The way you grind against him feels like second nature, your body responding to his every move with an unrelenting need. 

You hadn’t expected him to take his time like this, stretching out every moment of foreplay as if he’s trying to make it last forever.

It’s the third time tonight he’s taken you apart with his mouth, but this time, his fingers are joining in, plunging into your soaked heat while his tongue flicks over your clit in a rhythm that makes you see fireworks erupting against your vision.

Your legs tremble uncontrollably, your body twisting against the damp sheets as you struggle to stay present.

Javier’s tongue drags slow circles over your swollen nub before he sucks it into his mouth, the gentle pull sending sharp jolts down your spine. 

His fingers curl inside you, brushing against that devastating spot that has your back arching clean off the mattress.

“Javi!” you cry out, hips stuttering against his face as the wave of your climax crashes over you. His hooked nose presses against you as you fall apart.

He doesn’t stop. He’s utterly lost in you—your sweet headiness, the way your walls squeeze around his fingers. You have to yank hard on his hair to finally pull him away, your breath coming in shallow gasps as he looks up at you, mouth glistening with your release.

He licks his lips slowly, savoring every last bit. There’s a desperate intensity in his eyes, like his palate is memorizing the taste of you.

Javier kisses his way up your body, stopping to worship your breasts, his tongue and teeth teasing each peak until you’re squirming, your pussy continuously drooling for him.

When his lips finally crash against yours, it’s messy as he lets you taste yourself on his tongue.

Your hands roam over his broad back, tracing the curve of muscle and sinew, appreciating the feel of his skin against yours. You sigh softly, content to be pinned beneath him.

“Turn over. On your stomach.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the order, and though your body feels overwhelmed from his attention, you obey without hesitation. Your desire for him outweighs everything else.

Javier shifts back, giving you room to move. You reposition yourself, chest and stomach pressed flat against the mattress while your hips lift, aided by the pillow he slides beneath you.

The cool air kisses your exposed skin, and you hear him groan behind you—a deep sound that has your pussy clenching in anticipation.

“Tan hermosa,” he whispers hoarsely, his rough hands caressing your ass before delivering a playful smack that makes you gasp. The flesh jiggles under his touch, and he leans down to place a tender kiss on your shoulder, biting softly as he aligns himself behind you.

You feel the head of his cock drag through your folds, gathering the slick mess he’s drawn from you before pressing against your wet entrance. He pushes in slowly, the stretch making your mouth fall open in a silent cry.

“Javier,” you whimper, your fingers clutching the sheets as he fills you inch by inch.

The angle is devastating, reaching places you didn’t even know existed, and all you can do is hold on tight.

His strong thighs cage yours, while his broad frame looms over you, his toned arms braced on either side of your head. Each measured thrust sends his heavy balls slapping against your puffy, soaked clit.

“Puta madre, you’re so fuckin’ tight like this.” He lowers more of his weight onto you, pressing you further into the mattress, his thrusts growing more delirious.

The force of his movements pulls unrestrained moans from your lips, each one echoing with pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

Your trembling hands fumble over the sheets until they find his calloused palms pressing firmly into the sheets. 

Without hesitation, you intertwine your fingers with his, your softer touch setting off something feral inside him. He starts to pound into you, his hips snapping hard and fast as though the world outside this room doesn’t exist.

Your pussy clamps around on him in response, helplessly succumbing to his pace. Your hips instinctively try to push back against him but his weight over you, so dominant, keeps you in place, forcing you to take the entirety of his cock.

“I-I—” The words tumble out, but they’re incoherent, your mind too clouded with the way he breaks you open, your sex swallowing him in even deeper.

“Another one already? I should’ve taken care of you and this perfect pussy a long,” he thrusts hard, “time,” another sharp snap of his hips, “ago.”

“Ah!” you shriek, your nails digging into his hands where your fingers remain entwined, your vision crossing as he hits that spot inside you that flares your orgasm. “Just like that. Don’t stop, Javi.”

He doesn’t falter nor considers easing up, inducing another wave of stickiness from your cunt.

The obscene sounds of your bodies meeting—wet and raw—fill the room, punctuated by the shameless cries spilling from your throat. Your climax slams into you with breathtaking intensity, your pussy spasming and gripping him so tightly, it pulls a scratchy groan from his lips.

Javier finally stills, buried to the hilt, letting you ride out the aftershocks as your shaking body collapses beneath him. He peppers soft kisses across your damp shoulders and down your spine, his mustache bristling deliciously against your skin.

When his lips find the curve of your neck, he lingers, licking at the delicate flesh there as though he can’t get enough of you.

Four orgasms in, your body feels utterly spent, your thighs trembling as the weight of exhaustion begins to set in. You turn your head, your voice soft as you murmur, “Javi.”

He lifts his head, his eyes searching yours with concern. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” you hum, a lazy smile curling at your lips. “Just… hold me.”

His chest rises and falls with a staggered breath, the weight of his departure lingers like a shadow over the moment, threatening to sour it. But he pushes it away.

He pulls out of you slowly, the wet slide drawing a hushed whimper from your lips. He rolls onto his side, gathering you into his arms and tucking you against his chest. His still-hard cock, satiny and heavy, presses against your stomach, impossible to ignore.

You glance up at him, fingers trailing down his sternum toward his length. “Do you want me to…?”

He catches your wrist gently, stopping you. “No. Not yet.”

You hum your understanding, pressing a kiss to his collarbone. His arms tighten around you, his lips brushing the top of your head as the two of you settle into a lull of lazy, unhurried affection.

Kisses are exchanged between whispered words, hands mapping the planes of the other’s body.

Everything about him is so damn addictive. 

The lust that simmers reignites, pulling you under its spell, and this time, you don’t wait for permission. Your palm wraps firmly around his cock, tugging him languidly.

Javier’s lashes flutter, his head falling back slightly, exposing the strong line of his throat. A low sound escapes him as his hips move instinctively to match your strokes. “Fuck,” he groans, strained, “Así mero.” (Just like that)

Your thumb brushes over the bead of precum glistening at his tip, smearing it down his length, making him shudder. His jaw tightens, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

The whisper of his name is laced with need as your lips trace his neck. “I need you again.”

He hooks one of your legs over his hip, the other tangled with his in a side-styled missionary, your bodies pressed so tightly together that you can feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your breasts.

Your pussy lips part open, eager for him, and the anticipation buzzes through your body. You guide him where you need him and he lets his hips take over, the thick, spongy tip sinking into you until he’s fully seated.

A gasp escapes your lips as he starts to move, slow and purposeful.

Tears prick at the corners of his eyes, but he keeps them hidden, burying his face against your throat, engulfing you in his arms entirely.

The thought of losing you cleaves at him, and a desperate idea flits through his mind—if he could just open up, let you see the broken pieces of himself, maybe you’d understand. Maybe you’d come with him to Laredo, let him show you, and himself, the quiet beauty of a life together on his family ranch.

The fantasy swells in his chest, making his thrusts grow more passionate. His teeth sink into the curve of your shoulder, almost enough to hurt.

You’re barely human anymore, lost in the voracious sensation of his cock stretching and filling you; just a mass of feverish energy.

Your fingers dig into his back, nails raking across his sweat-slicked skin as you cling to him, completely uncaring of the sticky warmth where your bodies connect or the thick scent of sex that permeates the air.

“Oh god, Javier,” you cry out, your voice breaking on a moan as you tilt your head back. “Keep doing that—oh my god—I love you.”

Your words are a jolt to his system, breaking down every defense he has left. He groans your name as his mouth trails up your throat, leaving a broad stripe of his tongue in its wake before nipping gently at your jaw.

“Say it again,” he breathes heavily as his hips grind deeper, the motion pulling an uncontrolled cry from you, your body jolting against his.

“I love you,” you babble as his movements turn rougher, more desperate.

He presses his forehead to yours, his gaze dark and wanton. “Kiss me,” he rasps.

You obey without hesitation, your lips finding his in a feverish clash of need and devotion.

Tongues tangle and teeth graze as if you’re trying to devour each other, your bodies writhing, desperate to become one.

“Where do you want it?” Javi grits out, hovering on the edge of his release. His chest heaves, feeling your nipples brushing his skin while his muscles turn taut as he tries to hold himself back for your answer.

You’re quivering from the aftermath of what feels like your fifth orgasm, maybe sixth—you’ve lost count.

Your mind is hazy, clouded with exhaustion and bliss, that his question barely registers. Your fingers clutch at his forearms, nails leaving crescent moons in his skin as you look up at him.

You manage a soft pout with trembling lips. “Inside,” You need it badly, your pussy instinctively clenching around his cock at the prospect of him filling you. Then, with more desperation, you plead. “Please, Javi.”

The way your lips purse, the edge of tears in your voice have his instincts taking over. A greedy, lustful desire too overpowering to resist.

He has to give you what you’re begging for.

“Fuck,” Javi groans, his head dropping against your shoulder, his voice muffled as curses and ragged breaths spill from his lips. He finishes inside of you in hot, shuddering waves.

The heat of his cum stuffing you has a blissful mewl escaping your lips. Your pussy insatiably holding onto every drop, milking him as though your body can’t bear to let him go.

He remains there, his cock twitching inside as the both of you ride out the ecstasy.

Javi makes no move to pull out, instead his arms wrap around you tightly, holding you close as his spend drips out around his cock and down to his balls.

Time feels like it bends and stretches, the minutes melting into hours as you lose yourselves in each other.

You fuck, you make out, you touch each other so tenderly that you’re certain you somehow managed to retrieve a slice of heaven right here in your bedroom.

The night gives way to the distant glow of dawn. The room is bathed in a soft, golden light as the sun peeks over the horizon.

You’re both exhausted, your bodies aching from the endless push and pull of pleasure, yet neither of you seems willing to stop.

Javier hovers above you, half lidded gaze locked with yours. Your legs are loosely wrapped around his middle while his hips move suavely. 

“Just one more,” he’s practically begging as those brown eyes of his bore into yours. He just needs one more. “You can do it, pretty girl. I know you can. Been doin’ so good all night.”

His lips finally find yours in an ardent kiss, swallowing your moans as your body tightens around him yet again. You’re lost in all he’s given you, your world spinning as your final orgasm tears through you.

He follows shortly after, his hand wrapped around your jaw as he holds you steady while he pumps you full of his cum.

Javi turns gentle as he plants sweet kisses on your forehead, your nose, your lips. He caresses your thighs then up your side as your breathing slows.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart. Just relax.”

He continues to knead and fondle, murmuring soft praises until you’re completely at ease, melting into him.

You’re drifting toward sleep, limbs heavy and utterly spent, your body glowing in the soft light of early morning. The faint sheen of sweat glistens on your skin, catching rays as they filter through the curtains.

Javier leans against the headboard, eyes tracing the length of your body beneath the sheets. The serenity in your expression tugs at a longing so profound, it’s painful. When his gaze flicks to the alarm clock on the bedside table, the time glares at him in bold red numbers.

His flight boards in a little over three hours.

The lump in his throat swells, a heavy, choking pressure that makes it feel like it’s going to explode and rupture his neck. He prays you can’t feel the way his heart beats erratically or how his body seems to radiate a fever level temperature as the anxiety settles in. 

Fuck.

He moves slowly, not wanting to wake you. Carefully, he shifts your body, rolling you to your side. You’re so pliant, so exhausted that you murmur something unintelligible before nuzzling into the pillow. 

He hesitates, watching as your breathing deepens again.

His jeans are tugged on first, the soft rustle of fabric barely audible in the quiet room. He doesn’t bother buttoning his shirt, draping it over his shoulders as he moves around, collecting his belongings. 

Maybe this is the cleanest way, he thinks bitterly. To just leave. Slip out before the inevitable fallout. You’ll hate him either way—better to make a quick exit than to sit through the heartbreak, to explain the compromised morals that led him here.

But as he tugs his boot on, you stir. Your arm stretches across the empty space where he once was, craving his warmth. When you feel nothing, you open your eyes, squinting against the pale light.

“Javi?” You call out drowsily and a little confused.

For a moment, he considers staying silent, waiting to see if you’ll fall back into slumber. But then you sit up slowly, rubbing the sleep from your eyes with the heel of your hand.

You don’t care about the mascara smudged beneath your lashes or the eyeliner smearing your waterline. All you care about is the sight of him standing there, half-dressed, looking like he’s about to bolt.

“Why are you getting dressed?”

Javier licks his teeth, buying time he doesn’t have. His fingers flexing as if searching for something to hold onto. You catch the pained set of his jaw.

“I’m leaving.”

You blink, slow and disbelieving, as if the action will somehow help you make sense of what he just said. “Leaving? Where are you going?”

“To the airport.”

“Airport?” You’re more awake now, moving to the edge of the bed and reaching under where your robe lies in a heap.

The soreness in your muscles makes you wince as you bend to grab it, slipping it on as you stand. Your legs are wobbly, the remnants of the all nighter making themselves known. “Why? Did you get called back to Medellín?”

Javier watches you silently, his teeth grinding when you walk to him, your expression expectant and confused.

“I’m going back to Texas,” he finally answers.

“Texas?” The frown on your face deepens. “Is your dad okay?”

For you to assume his departure is over his father’s wellbeing somehow makes this worse. His lips press into a thin line, eyes darting away. “He’s fine.”

“Then why are you—” You pause, exhaling sharply, exasperation bubbling at his curt replies. You hate when he gets like this. You figured you’d be past it now.“Why are you going back?”

He struggles to form but a few words at a time. “I got suspended,” he tells you. “Indefinitely. Flight’s out at nine.”

The room falls silent. That’s the last thing you expected to hear.

“How long have you known?”

“Found out this afternoon.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” You glare at him. “You were just going to leave without saying anything?” That hurts.

“I didn’t want to ruin your night. I was trying to make it easier.” He stupidly answers.

“Easier?” Your voice rises slightly, incredulous. “Sneaking out after spending all night with me makes this easier? For who, Javi? You or me?”

His expression blazes with guilt. “You don’t understand what this is—what I’m trying to… protect you from.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” you fire back, your hands trembling as you tuck them into the pockets of your robe to keep from reaching for him. “You tell me that you love me and give me all these empty promises only to sneak out after you’ve fucked me.” He winces. “What are you protecting me from now? From you? From us?”

Javier’s nostrils flare, his breathing ragged. Every point you make is so valid and it crushes him. “From the mess I’ve made.”

“Then tell me what the hell happened.” You can’t help him if you don’t know what’s killing him. “Be direct. Stop shutting me out and just talk to me! I deserve that much.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to deflect again, to retreat into the same cagey silence. But then he exhales sharply, like the words are being dragged out of him against his will.

“I killed him.”

The simplicity of it leaves you puzzled. “Who?”

“Mateo.”

Your chest tightens, trying to recall what he’s already told you about the other’s demise. “You said he died in the crossfire—”

“I lied.” The admission lands with the force of a hit, and Javier’s eyes meet yours, pleading for understanding but knowing it’s a futile hope. “I found him. Holed up in Cartagena. I dragged him out myself. Took him to a warehouse.” He grows quieter with each word, but the confession barrels forward. “I beat him. Then I emptied the entire clip into his body.”

The room goes deathly still, the echoes of his words lingering in the air. Even the rhythm of your breathing slows, like your body needs time to process what you’ve just heard.

“You… you dragged him out,” you repeat, as if saying it again might change its meaning. “You took him to a warehouse.”

He nods once, a sharp, curt motion, feeling as if he’s watching this outside of himself.

“And you—” The words burn in your throat. “You killed him. Like that. You… tortured him.”

“I had to.” The anguish bleeds through his words.

Had to.

It feels like the ground has just given out beneath you. Your lips part, but no words come. You’re staring at him like you’re seeing someone entirely different.

“Had to?” you can’t help but parrot, the excuse tastes bitter on your tongue. “Why couldn’t you just arrest him?” Mateo deserved all his suffering, sure, but it wasn’t up to Javier to enact it as so.

You’d made peace with the idea of his death when you thought it happened in the chaos of a raid. But this? This is something else entirely.

“It’s not that simple,” he tries, his voice rigid with frustration, but it feels like an insult to your intelligence. 

“Is this why you got fired? Because they found out you killed him?”

Another pause. His hesitation only stokes the fire burning in your chest.

“No.”

Now you’re spiraling, your mind racing to conjure something worse than killing a man that could’ve cost him his career.

You take a step closer, toe to toe now, your robe hanging loosely off your frame, his shirt still unbuttoned and exposing his chest. It’s hard to believe you were just entwined in carnal bliss. “What did you do, Javier?”

There’s so much hurt laced in your question, it’s a wonder the room doesn’t shatter around you. He looks away, his lips rubbing absentmindedly, mustache twitching as he struggles to form a response.

“I cooperated with them,” his confession feels jagged. “The cartels. The paramilitary assholes. Get Escobar—that was the goal.”

Your legs move on instinct, a shaky step backward, and Javier follows reflexively, his hand half-reaching for you before he thinks better of it. His presence only makes it worse, his body too close, his words too loud in your ears.

It’s like every fear wrapped into one devastating realization. After everything you went through—after the pain he watched you try to claw your way back from—he still went out there, trading his soul for deals made in blood.

“You knew what they did to me,” disappointment strings your words together, and while you understand that it wasn’t the same men who jumped you—they are all still cut from the same cloth. “You saw what they took from me, and you still…”

“There wasn’t another way,” he insists, desperate now, the plea in his eyes almost unbearable to look at. “I did what I had to do to bring him down.”

“There’s always another way!” You yell, the words ripping from your throat like they’re trying to drag the hurt out of you with them. “But you didn’t care. Not about the innocent people they killed or the lives they ruined.”

His face twists in anguish, as if he hadn’t been beating himself up for all the civilians that became casualties, but you don’t stop. The distress boils over, spilling out of you in a torrent. “The job always takes priority. Above everything—above everyone.”

Your hands act on their own, shoving at his chest as if the force could make him feel even an ounce of the pain you’re carrying. Javier doesn’t resist. He lets you push him, lets your palms land against him over and over, taking it all because he knows he deserves it.

“How am I supposed to look at you the same?” You demand, tears streaming freely down your face now, each one a testament to the betrayal sinking its claws into you. You shove him again, harder this time, backing him toward the living room. “How am I supposed to trust you when you’ve been lying to me this whole time?”

His own eyes glisten, cheek tensing in distress, but he doesn’t say a word because he can’t.

“You’re no better, Javier. You’re just like them.”

You begin to get flashbacks of your confrontation with Mateo. His callous words echo in your head, overlapping with Javier’s explanations. The two begin to blur together, their justifications eerily aligned, like different faces of the same haunting coin.

“This world isn’t all black and white like you think it is. People like me—we do what we have to, to survive.”

You stare at him, and for a moment, he’s not the man you love anymore. He’s another wraith from the nightmare you barely escaped.

“I know.”

He’s such a self-aware asshole, and it makes you livid. The way he stands there, bracing himself like he knows he deserves everything you’re throwing at him—like he’s already written himself off as the villain in this story. It’s infuriating.

The morning light streams in through the windows, slicing across the room in uneven beams. It’s amplifying everything: every emotion, every movement, every goddamn look he gives you as you stand off in the middle of the living room.

“Despite it all… you still found the time to fuck me. And I let you.”

You can feel the fire licking up your neck, but it’s not from embarrassment—it’s from the sting of humiliation. How you let yourself be fooled twice by two different men. 

You tighten your robe around you, the soft fabric suddenly feeling like sandpaper against your skin. Everything feels wrong now.

He watches you, his expression etched with guilt for making you question your worth. Despite it, he doesn’t regret taking you to bed.

“I’m so fucking stupid,” you continue, more to yourself than to him, carrying anger and self-loathing. “For trusting you again. For ignoring every single red flag you waved in my face. You weren’t just a shitty friend, Javi. You were a walking disaster, and I still let you back in.”

He flinches, but it’s not enough. You want him to feel it, to feel the way your heart aches and how your trust, fragile and carefully rebuilt, crumbles to dust at your feet.

“You should’ve stayed gone,” you state with another shove, forcing him closer to the front door. He continues to comply, stumbling backwards in silence, letting you release it all.

“If you cared about me at all, you would’ve stayed away. You just had to come back, had to get your hands on me again. And I was so desperate—so fucking desperate to believe you’d be different.”

You laugh tearfully, hands falling to your sides as you stand in the short hallway that leads to the entrance. “But you’re not different. You’re just a man with nothing but a big ego that’s drowning in his own penitence.”

He swallows hard, your words reverberating with the sickening truth and he wills himself to speak.

“Nothing was getting done,” Javi begins, the weariness of it all finally breaking him. “No one fucking cared. That motherfucker kept killing people, bombing the streets all while getting richer and untouchable. No matter what I did, no matter how hard I worked, it wasn’t enough. And then—” His voice tapers, gaze dropping for just a moment before moving back to yours.

“And then you got hurt. That was one thing I could fix. I could right the wrong, make you feel safer. I did it for you!”

“For me?” You scoff out a doubting laugh. “So, what, you decided you’d be judge, jury, and executioner? You think killing him—brutally, no less—makes any of it better? That it erases what he did to me?”

“It was a start—”

“You didn’t do this for me, Javier,” you cut him off, your voice teetering with fury and hurt. “You did it for you. To ease your guilt, to feel like you had control.”

His breathing grows ragged, his hands trembling at his sides. “You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to get so fucking lost I couldn’t tell the good guys from the bad anymore? I did what I had to do!”

“Stop saying that!” 

“I don’t know how else to fix this,” he fires back.

“And I don’t know how to believe you,” you whisper, the fight draining from your voice as tears spill freely down your cheeks. “All you do is hurt me, Javi.”

Javier steps back, his shoulders slumping, his entire frame caving in. Desperation flickers in his eyes as he reaches for the only card he has left to play—the last, sapped attempt to salvage what little remains.

 “I’m sorry,” he breathes, though it’s barely audible. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your body freezes when he gets closer. His large hands tremble slightly as they cup your face.

“I never wanted to hurt you. Te amo.” He murmurs, his voice soft and pained as his forehead presses against yours. His lips brush yours, and it sends a jolt through your body, a cruel reminder of all the ways he’s managed to slither his way back into your heart and mind. 

Your lips quiver, salty wet trails streaking your cheeks. “No,” you whisper, shaking your head and pushing against his chest, your palms meeting his bare skin where his shirt falls open. You manage to break away, the distance between you offering only the barest reprieve.

But Javier doesn’t stop. He steps forward again, crowding you, his desperation palpable. “Please, cariño,” he implores. “I love you. I need you to know that. I’m sorry—so sorry.” The words tumble out of him in a desperate loop, growing more frantic each time, as if sheer repetition might somehow undo the damage. 

And fuck do you hear the genuine ache there, but it doesn’t matter. You’ve heard it all before—the apologies, the promises, the declarations. None of it fixes this. 

Despite your actions, your body betrays you. Even as you try to shove him away, you feel the magnetic pull, the infuriating draw that keeps you tangled in his orbit. It’s a push and pull, your hands shoving at his chest while your heart screams at you to stop.

And you hate him for it. For the way he makes you feel. For the way his arms still feel like home even as your love for him falls apart.

“All I hear is excuses. Like always. Get off me, Javier.” Your voice shakes, but the resolve in it is ironclad, each word laced with finality. You swallow back your sobs, forcing yourself to sound strong—for him, for yourself. He hears it too; the end is in your tone. You’re done.

His hands linger on your waist for a moment longer, the satin of your robe bunched helplessly in his grasp. Reluctantly, he lets go, his back brushing against the doorknob as if the exit is pushing him to leave.

Javier’s gaze lingers over you one last time, absorbing every detail like a man cataloging his losses.

The swollen redness of your eyes and how you seem to fold into yourself as if shielding your heart from further harm. Because of him. The betrayal etched deep into your expression cuts deeper than any wound he’s ever felt. Because of him. It all screams painful vulnerability, lowered self-esteem you didn’t have before.

All he’s done is hurt you. Him and his inability to separate his good intentions from his devastating habits. Him and his selfishness, pursuing you when he knew better.

Now you get a good look at him: disheveled, bags shadowing his weary eyes, faint bruises staining his jawline, his heaving chest exposed and slick with the sweat of desperation.

You both stand in silence, weighed down by words unspoken because there’s nothing left to say. The air between you is charged with the knowledge that you despise what he’s become.

He reaches for the door and opens it, the sound of the bolt sliding back loud in the tense silence.

Time marches on, indifferent to your heartbreak, and Javier hesitates, his boots heavy as they meet the threshold.

Gathering every ounce of strength left in you, you find your voice. “Please leave… and don’t come back.”

Your voice prompts him, cold and resolute, and it takes everything in him to obey. He steps out, the apartment door left wide open behind him.

He turns, desperate for one last look, the soft daylight framing him like a man on the edge of a cliff. “I love you.”

You grip the edge of the door, willing yourself not to fall apart further. “Not anymore,” you whisper, venom interwoven through the statement. “Never again.”

And with that, you shut the door in his face, turning the lock with trembling hands.

The weight of it all crashes over you now that you’re alone and you stumble back, collapsing right there on the floor. You bury your face in the crook of your elbow to muffle the sobs racking your body as you begin to mourn the loss of the man you loved.

On the other side of the door, Javier stands frozen, the loss sinking into his bones. The worn numbers of your apartment stare back at him, mocking him with their permanence.

He blinks slowly, a single tear leaking from his eye as his fingers brushing the wood one last time before he turns away, dragging his feet next door, knowing that he’s lost you forever.

Months later, you receive a letter.

The envelope is creased and smudged, the handwriting unmistakably his—slanted, hurried, like he couldn’t get the words down fast enough. You almost toss it, but that small, unhealed part in your heart with his name carved on it keeps you from doing so.

I’m sorry. For everything. I think about you every day, and I know I have no right to, but I do. I hope you’re happy. You deserve that much…

You read it over and over until the words blur.

You never write back. There’s no reason to.

Some love stories don’t end with a clean break or a tidy resolution. Some just… linger, like a wound that scabs over but never truly heals.

And that’s what you and Javier become: a scar, a memory that neither of you can fully let go of, no matter how hard you try.

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[kyyupidz]

Hey hey :3! Soooo it’s my birthday in acouple days and I was wondering if I could request some x reader content with Floydie. I love him very dearly and would like to spend my birthday with him pls and thank u :}

hey siri: is my boyfriend love-bombing me? (g/n reader x floyd leech)

★ after dating floyd leech for a week, you come to the sickening realization (before your birthday no less!) that floyd leech may or may not be love-bombing you. dammit! well, no relationships stay perfect forever, right? ★ hurt/comfort, preestablished relationship ★ 2.75k words, reader is the ramshackle prefect, reader is called shrimpy, brief ace, deuce, grim, and azul mention, happy birthday user cryptidsandcreepycrawlings! <3

a week ago, you confessed your undying love to floyd leech of octavinelle. 

stupid? maybe. when you brought up the idea to your friends, they pretty much all told you to drop it. ace had called you as senseless as deuce, deuce was too surprised to respond to either of you, and grim had begun shaking even thinking about floyd.

unfortunately for them, all their warnings went through one ear and out the other. what’s the worst he could do? kill you? bring it! you’re not afraid! 

...okay, maybe you were a little scared. when you decided to completely disregard all warning flags and desperate mewls of mercy from grim, you were, admittedly, extremely nervous. you had locked yourself in the bathroom, and while grim clawed at the door trying to stop you, you texted floyd to meet you at the courtyard in the evening.

his response?

nah

…oh. well–

kidding dw ill be there!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  wait for me okay!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

and that’s how you managed to drag floyd leech out to the courtyard to spill your heart out to him!

…too bad the confession itself was… well… a whole stumble of words. nobody said it was going to be easy confessing to a 191 centimeter eel! you couldn’t even look him in the eyes, you were so scared! at the very least, he had kept quiet the whole time you were word-vomiting, patiently waiting for you to finish.

and when you were done… you had glanced up at him and… and…

he was smiling like crazy. like, maniacal crazy. your heart had practically stopped in your chest when you looked at him, and not because he was pretty, but because you were scared he was going to pull out a scalpel and carve it into your flesh!

…okay, maybe it was because he was pretty. but that’s not the point!

surprisingly, instead of laughing in your face or torturing you or just walking off, he immediately made a grab for you and pulled you into his arms, long arms encircling your torso and crushing the ribs inside to dust. 

“aww, shrimpy! let me give you a big squeeze!” he had squealed excitedly,  “ahaha!~ ain’t you just the cutest? okay, let’s have fun and play together forever and ever!”

admittedly, his acceptance of your feelings was a little creepy and ominous. it didn’t feel like he reciprocated more so that he was chaining you to him and dooming you to be his eternal plaything. but those are just details! what’s important is that he said yes, and now you’re officially dating floyd leech!

and really, it’s been a dream. more than that. he’s everything you wanted. even though grim immediately scampers upstairs into the safety of your shared room when he visits and ace keeps gagging every time you talk about him, he’s perfect. 

when he enters a conversation with someone, he immediately goes on a tangent about how “shrimpy just confessed their feelings to me!” which is quickly followed up by “you better congratulate me or i’m gonna squeeze you.” 

the thought of him showing you off to other people really makes your heart warm! 

and when you initiated the first kiss, a chaste peck on the cheek, he immediately pounced on you and gave you thousands more in turn. your friends are sick of seeing him draped on you and making kissy faces at you all the time, but you wouldn’t have it any other way! 

better yet, he’s been walking you to class every morning and walking you home every afternoon, saying that he just wants to spend a little more time with his favorite shrimpy. he doesn’t always lead you to class like he promises, sometimes dragging you along to skip in his room, but where floyd goes, you follow!

you guys are perfect. at least, you really thought you guys were perfect. but last night, ace had crashed on your couch, and made you rethink your entire relationship.

“are you sure he likes you, prefect?” he had asked you. and you immediately rolled your eyes, prepared for another lecture about how you need to rethink your love life choices.

“stop trying to break us up already,” you replied, swatting his shoulder, “this is why you keep getting collared.”

yet instead of just sighing and letting it go, ace had fallen eerily silent.

“i don’t know, prefect,” he muttered, “what if he suddenly decides you’re not fun anymore and dumps you? you know how he is, with his crazy mood swings. what if you do something he doesn’t like and he decides then and there, ‘it’s over!’”

at the time, you had swatted at him again, scowling.

“floyd would never do that!” you said, “he isn’t like that!”

but now… you aren’t so sure.

you know, it’s awful of you to think this way about your boyfriend! especially when he’s been nothing but kind to you. but you just can’t help yourself, this irrational feeling taking root in your mind and infesting your every thought. 

what if he really is just dating you because he thought it’d be fun in the moment? what if he really does dump you the moment you become boring? oh sevens, is this what they call love-bombing? are you being love-bombed?

you feel a pit forming in your stomach. worst part? tomorrow’s your birthday. your birthday! and you’re spending it stressed and worked up over a hypothetical chance of your boyfriend not liking you. dammit, that’s not fair!

in hopes of at least having a relatively decent birthday, you do everything that you can to put yourself to sleep. warm milk, counting sheep, running around a few times… 

it doesn’t work. you keep tossing and turning and groaning with exasperation.

and when floyd shows up at your door the next morning, you find yourself not overwhelmed with love, but doubt. does he really like you? or is this just one big game to him, where he sees how much fun he can squeeze out of you before you’ve run out of entertainment value? 

is that what this is? a game?

“hey, shrimpy,” floyd says, snapping you out of your thoughts. he’s pouting, clearly displeased that you’re ignoring him. “i’ve been calling your name for like, the past five minutes. what’s got your brain so scrambled today?” 

you smile up at him, standing on your tip-toes to give him his morning kiss. for some reason, it feels wrong. hollow, devoid of any sort of affection. 

…you make sure to give him a few more to make up for it. it makes him giggle and kiss you back. 

“sorry,” you respond back as cheerfully as you can, “it’s nothing, really! guess i stayed up a little too late today.”

…sevens, what are you thinking, doubting your boyfriend? you’re just the worst, aren’t you? he doesn’t deserve that, not after all he’s done for you! someone who doesn’t love you wouldn’t walk you to class every single day. he’s done too much for you to chalk it up to simple love-bombing!

besides, who knows floyd better, ace, or you? obviously, you! you’re his partner! so why are you even bothering listening to ace? ace, of all people?!

you know what floyd’s like. you know that if he’s interested in something, he’ll chase after it for a while before it gets old and he ditches it. but those are things. objects. you do the same thing sometimes, abandoning a book if you start to get tired reading it. but people are a whole different matter. he wouldn’t do that to people, would he? would he ditch a person like that?

no. he wouldn’t! you know he wouldn’t.

…would he?

“hey,” you say suddenly, and he peers down at you curiously. 

“yeah?”

“if… hypothetically,” you start, trying to figure out how to articulate your thoughts, “jade wasn’t cool anymore, would you… abandon him? like, you weren’t having fun anymore with him.”

“if jade wasn’t cool anymore, huh…?” he hums in thought, shoving his hands into his pocket, “...nah. that’d never happen.”

you blink. okay, maybe his brother was a bad example. blood is thicker than water, or something. you can’t say you’re too surprised. 

“really?” you prompt, “not at all?”

“no way,” he shakes his head, “i mean, if he was, i’d totally drag him to the bottom of the ocean and let him get ganged up on by sharks. but i’d never get bored of jade!”

on second thought, maybe blood isn’t thicker than water. you shiver despite yourself. if that’s the treatment jade gets, you’re horrified to even think about what’s going to happen to you. maybe ace was right after all…? 

“why’d ya ask though, shrimpy?” he says, pinching your cheek, “someone got ya thinking that i’m gonna ditch you if you get boring?”

wow. bullseye. you forget how perceptive he can be sometimes. you laugh nervously, dismissing his concerns with a wave of your hand.

“nothing like that,” you say, like a liar, “just thinking.”

yeah. yeah! you’re just overthinking it all. you mentally kick yourself for believing ace’s stupidity once again, and vow to make it up to floyd by being extra sweet and nice and cool. good thoughts, happy thoughts. you’re going to have a good day with your boyfriend and you’re going to celebrate living one more year with absolutely zero negative thoughts! 

(and yet, you still find that nagging “what-if” gnawing at the back of your mind.)

“floyd…” you manage to work up the courage to call out as you both sit in one of the mostro lounge booths. he’s supposed to be on the job, but he decided on a whim to skip and hang out with you. he says it’s more fun being with you than running around taking people’s orders. 

you didn’t know how you felt about that, considering your recent revelations, but you smiled back regardless. after all, doubts or no doubts, he is still your boyfriend. and you want to spend your birthday with the guy you really like! 

“what’s up, shrimpy?” he responds, chewing on your milkshake straw. despite serving it to you, he’s taken it for himself, the thief.

you steel your nerves, drawing in a breath. even though you told yourself earlier this morning that it was all nothing, you couldn’t stop thinking about ace’s words all day. so, you’re going to confront him for the second time today! but not in a roundabout way like before, no no no, you’re going to ask him head-on if he’s gonna leave you if you become a bore! as they say, communication is key, right?

“do you…” you pause, palms suddenly feeling very sweaty, “...like me?”

floyd blinks at you. once… twice…

“are you confessing to me again?” he asks, tilting his head to the side.

“huh?” you sputter out, “no, no, i’m not confessing to you again, i–”

“awh, shrimpy, i already told you i liked you a week ago! your brain’s been real scrambled today, huh? don’t worry, i know just the way to unscramble it!” 

and with that, he jumps up from his seat and runs off. you can only stare wide-eyed and slack-jawed as he pushes his way towards the mostro lounge kitchen and disappears behind the double doors. 

you thought he’d come back in a few minutes or so, but no. he took until closing. had he done this any day but today, you would’ve let it slide. even before you two were dating, you used to wait for him all the time in this specific booth, waiting for him to finish up. but now…

you just feel bad. like you got stood-up or something. you couldn’t even finish your milkshake, you were so down in the dumps. not that you could’ve anyway, floyd chewed your straw to bits. the downsides of having a boyfriend with sharp teeth, you suppose.

but just when you were about to give up, go home, and text him later that you weren’t feeling well, floyd bursts out from the kitchen and places an absolutely huge ice cream sundae on the table. 

“ta-da!” he beams, sliding into the seat across from you with a grin, “whaddaya think? pretty cool, right?”

you gape at the monstrosity that floyd just laid before you. you’re not even sure what flavor the ice cream is. you think he took a scoop from every single tub the mostro lounge had and threw them all in, though it’s hard to tell by the way he’s drowned the whole thing in sauces and whipped cream. you look closer and spot a brownie and cookie layer completely drowned in the mess of sugar. are those… gummy worms too?

“this is…” you start, then immediately clamp your mouth shut. you’re not sure what he’d do if you told him this is simply too much. 

floyd’s smile only grows. “totally awesome, i know. i’m a cooking prodigy! azul chewed my ear out about it, saying that i’m wasting resources ‘n’ that i should be at the front helping the actual customers, but he let it go eventually. he’s gonna force me on dish-washing duty later, but it’s okay because i did it for shrimpy!”

your heart thumps loudly in your chest, the negative thoughts you were harboring seeming to fade away at his declaration. you can’t help but smile back at him, the way he so eagerly awaits your praise melting your doubts away.

“it is awesome,” you say softly, “you’re awesome. thank you so much.”

floyd seems to practically radiate pride, that maniacal smile you’re all too familiar with on full display. you gaze affectionately at the sharp row of teeth he sports. that’s your man right there!

“look, look,” he presses, “let me show you the best part.”

he turns the sundae around, and lodged haphazardly in between the glass and the sundae are two sugar cookies. 

they look like… you. and floyd. 

the one resembling floyd is messily frosted. there was an obvious attempt to create his signature smile, but it seems like the frosting tip was just a bit too big. and the frosting tip for his hair seems like it was too small, so every strand just looks like well-cooked blue spaghetti. 

but yours is almost identical to you. obviously, he’s taken a few artistic liberties, but compared to floyd’s? yours looks like a professional baker did it. it appears to you that between the time it took for him to make his cookie and the time it took to make yours, he got a rather significant boost in cookie decorating skills. 

“aren’t they cute?” he says happily, “i worked really hard on them, y’know. never knew how hard it was to frost cookies!” 

you gingerly pick your cookie up. the more you look at it, the more you feel your face warm. it’s like you’re falling in love all over again. 

it really does look like you. you wonder how long he had to stare at a picture of you to get it down so well. or maybe he’s got your face memorized so well that he can recall every detail? either way, you feel a flutter in your stomach.

“hey-hey, shrimpy,” floyd calls, “show me your cookie real quick?”

you blink. slowly, you turn the cookie to him, and he smushes the face of his own cookie onto the face of yours. the frosting smears against your fingertips as you gasp at the sudden destruction floyd has caused. 

“look, they’re kissing!” he giggles childishly, unfazed by the hours of his hard work he just disregarded. you stare shocked at the cookie sandwich that floyd has just created. 

he smiles at you, with his sharp teeth and stained uniform, and boops your nose with his finger. “happy birthday shrimpy.”

and then you realize, sevens, how could floyd ever leave you?

“...you know what,” you say breathlessly, “you know what, i think the real floyd should get some love, too.”

you reach over the table to grab him by his collar and pull him in for a kiss. it’s just as calamitous as the cookie kiss, just lips smashing against lips, but you both pull away laughing and red-faced and wholly in love. 

“so?” he prompts, propping himself up on one hand to stare at you, “your brain all fixed up now?”

you smile at him. really smile at him. “yeah. all fixed. thank you, floyd.”

…wait, so, you have to eat this mess of a sundae he created now, right?

note: HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! not only is this my first request, this is also a BIRTHDAY REQUEST??? oh boy. I REALLY REALLY REALLY HOPE this fic gives you nothing but good blessings and much fortune because by the time i was done writing i realized maybe writing a hurt/comfort fic wasn't the way to go for a birthday present. NONETHELESS i do hope the comfort balanced out the hurt and that the hurt didn't hurt too bad!!! may you receive nothing but the best and may you live to see the next birthday with mr floyd leech himself! <3 <3 <3 <3

[apoloadonisandnarcissus]

Resurrection, Death, Rebirth and Reincarnation in "Nosferatu" (2024)

Is it possible that Robert Eggers sneakily pulled a “Coppola” in his “Nosferatu”? This sounds insane but stay with me, while I try to unravel Orlok’s backstory.

“Nosferatu” (2024) left me with some burning questions about Ellen and Orlok connection (outside of the occult meaning), because Robert Eggers is a director obsessed with detail:

Why does Orlok want to be spiritually united with Ellen, forever? To the point of obsession, really; he traveled from Romania to Germany, and he’s willingly to kill everyone and spread plague in order to achieve it. His entire goal is to have Ellen’s soul by his side for all eternity, he’s consumed by it;

How come she understands him speaking Dacian (an Balkan extinct language for centuries)? Does their connection come with a translator device? In “Bram Stoker’s Dracula” is unclear if Mina understands Dracula when he speaks Romanian, but she recognizes his voice as familiar (she’s the reincarnation of his wife);

Why is lilac their signature flower? Native to the Balkans and also connected to rebirth. Sure, the Victorian symbolism of this flower fits them, but so could others. And it’s clear Eggers really wanted this specific flower, even if it doesnt fit the setting: because it blooms in the Spring, and the events of the film are set in Winter. Winter represents death, closure, reflection, despair and sadness, and rest, as nature is dormant and will rebirth and renew in Spring time, which symbolizes the circles of life, promises of new life, new beginnings, growth and fertility. According to Lina Muir, the costume designer, lilacs remind Orlok of when he was alive;

Ellen and Orlok are connected with every facet of life and death: resurrection, death itself and rebirth. Is it possible that “reincarnation” also fits here?

The Curse of Nosferatu

According to Adrien Cremene, in his “La Mythologie du vampire en Roumanie”, the strigoi myth dates back to the Dacians. The strigoi are creatures of Dacian mythology, troubled or evil souls, the spirits of the dead whose actions made them unworthy of entering the kingdom of Zalmoxis (more on the Dacians and Zalmoxis later). Which appears to be Orlok’s case? He probably did some terrible things in life which caused him to be cursed to become Nosferatu?

A strigoi isn’t necessarily a vampire; but it’s not excluded because they can feed on blood. They rise from their grave at night, wandering and creating havoc. Strigoi haunt their relatives; bring plague with them; feed off the heart of the living, and their life force; and being bitten by a strigoi doesn’t turn the victim into one. There are strigoi-viu (living; sorcerer) and strigoi-mort (undead), with the last being Orlok’s case, obviously.

What is believed to be the cause for this curse is diverse, but according to the encyclopedist Dimitrie Cantemir and the folklorist Teodor Burada in their book “Datinile Poporului român la înmormântări” (1882), it can be one among several things:

Physical characteristics that doom the person in life: being the seventh of seven brothers; being a redhead; etc.

Lead a life of sin;

Die without being married;

Die by execution for perjury (false oath);

Suicide

Die by a witch’s curse.

Other causes in Romanian folklore can be: violent past; “bad death” (violent death; lack of closure; conflicts with relatives); sorcerers and witches; or someone who can’t leave the living world because they can’t forget their loved ones.

And this explains why Herr Knock wanted to be violently killed by Thomas, near the end of the film: he wanted to become a strigoi, Nosferatu like Orlok (“prince of rats”), and wanted a violent death to seal the deal. But his covenant with Orlok is not the same as Orlok and Ellen’s.

“I relinquished him my soul. I should have been the Prince of Rats – immortal... but he broke our covenant... for he cares only for his pretty bride [...] She is his! [...] Strike again. I am blasphemy!” 

Since Robert Eggers took the time to write a few pages on Orlok’s backstory, I doubt the explanation is something as simple as “he was a sorcerer” in life. Orlok having a violent past is also hardly surprising, since he was a warlord who most likely saw battle, violence is to be expected here. There’s no reason to be secretive about any of these options. Everyone is expecting Orlok to be evil incarnate when he was alive. The only reason for not letting us know about his past it’s because he’s probably a tragic character, and that would humanize him at the eyes of the audience, and break the horror theme.

And here is where it gets enigmatic; because Orlok was dead, and had been for centuries, until Ellen awoke him. It’s her crying prayer that rises him from his grave, and turns him into a strigoi. He didn’t enter Zalmoxis kingdom, though; because he says his soul was in “the darkest pit”.

We don’t know if Orlok died because of a witch’s curse; but he was risen from the dead by one (enchantress, witch).

In Romanian folklore, it’s said when strigoi raise from their grave the first time, they return to those they have loved the most, because they wish to relive their life together. The strigoi usually torment them until they are dead, too. Which is what we see in “Nosferatu” with Orlok and Ellen. But this can only be possible if Orlok had known Ellen in his human life; with her being the reincarnation of his wife or lover/bride he didn’t get the chance to marry.

In Romanian folklore, it’s said strigoi come at night, and appear at the window of their loved ones, asking for entrance

The theme of the strigoi lover is also a staple of Romanian Romanticism and stories of women and men being visited by their dead lovers were very popular, both in folklore and in high culture.

“Your passion is bound to me. […] I cannot be sated without you. Remember how once we were? A moment. Remember?”

The use of the term "sated" in this context is also curious, because, in Archaic English (which is what Orlok uses, being from the 16th century), it's connected to the verb "sit", which means rest or lie. "I cannot rest without you"; which makes sense with their whole deal being about them together ever-eternally in death. He can’t find peace in death without her spirit by his side.

Who is Count Orlok?

Eggers’ Orlok isn’t a random demon vampire; he was once a man.

Robert Eggers doesn’t want us to know the full backstory on his Count Orlok, but he wrote a novella on it and gave it to Bill Skarsgård. We know he’s a 16th century Transylvanian nobleman, from the 1580s (“lord” and “lordship”), he’s not Vlad the Impaler (he’s from the 15th century), he was a voivode (warlord), a sorcerer (Şolomanari) and he was married, and had a family.

Bill Skarsgård cited the Bulgarian epic “Time of Violence” as one of Eggers’ many inspirations for Orlok backstory. And, indeed, he lived during the Ottoman rule of the Balkans, but he wasn’t the prince. His castle is in Transylvania, which was a state under Ottoman supervision. Transylvania nobility led many rebellions against the Ottomans invaders (hence the legend of “Vlad the Impaler”, who’s considered a Romanian national hero).

Orlok costume design (interesting his face is blurred, because he doesn’t look like a rotten corpse here)

In Bram Stoker’s novel (which is also one of the main inspirations for this film), Dracula is very proud of his boyar heritage when he speaks to Jonathan. In 2024 adaptation, we also see Orlok demanding Thomas Hutter (Jonathan cinematic counterpart) to address him as “lord”: “Your Lord. I will be addressed as the honour of my blood demands it.” A Romanian boyar is pretty much a “lord”, a feudal nobleman with a castle, administrative responsibilities (political) and/or military power. A “boyar” title could be hereditary (which seems to be Orlok’s case), or earned.

Orlok signet ring: with his own sigil. The gemstone appears to be rumanite, also known as “Romanian amber” (which comes in various shades of black, red and/or brown).

On his sarcophagus and on the mysterious cyrillic contract Orlok makes Thomas sign, we have Orlok’s coat of arms, and Robert Eggers, being obsessed with detail, crafts his worlds very carefully. “Coats of arms” is heraldic design, and were used by nobility.

Each “coat of arms” is unique to the individual (nobleman) and speaks of achievements, heritage, etc. “Coats of Arms” are traditionally composed by a shield, supporters, a crest and a motto, but might not have all of these elements. Orlok coat of arms doesn’t have a motto.

The crest is a crown. Which it’s probably connected with his noble lineage, and his role as sovereign of a county (count);

As supporters (holding the shield) we have two Dacian dragons (Draco) with their tails intertwined. Here, it’s a mix of dragon and wolf, a balaur (sky demon or “heavenly dragon”), and it’s connected to Zalmoxis. This dragon with a wolf head, was the Dacian battle flag. Orlok’s sarcophagus also has many Dacian wolfs. A historical note on the supporters; they were chosen by the nobleman and could change throughout his life, so these Dacian dracos were being used by Orlok at the time of his death, but he might not have used them all of his life;

The figures on the top, inside the shield, are a Dacian dragon with a sun or star; and a wolf with a crescent moon. Usually this star and crescent moon motif represent the Székelys, an ancient Hungarian sub-group (said to descend from the Huns), and with seats of power within Transylvania, on the hills of the Eastern Carpathian Mountains. Castle Orlok is located beyond the Árnyék Pass (also known as Umbră Pass) in the Carpathians, but this is a fictional place. Both “Árnyék” and “Umbră” mean “shadow”, in Hungarian and Romanian;

At the center, the shield is a Barry of eight fesse (horizontal stripes) or three bars, on the left (symbolic or military rank and recognition) and one tower on the right (symbolic or strength, protection, resilience of a stronghold, guarding its inhabitants from adversity and external threats);

1 Seven Rays (bottom, right), a star standing alone, probably a reference to his personal sigil (heptagram)?

3 sabers which seem to be Hungarian szabla (bottom; left). These swords were symbols of nobility and aristocracy (szlachta) The węgiersko-polska saber was popularized among the aristocracy during the reign of the Transylvanian-Hungarian King of Poland Stephen Bathóry in the late 16th century. Swords in heraldry are usually used as a symbol for military honor.

Now we are getting somewhere because Stephen Bathóry was Prince of Transylvania between 1576 and 1586, which fits the dates we have for Orlok: 1580s-1590s, late 16th century. The Báthory family ruled Transylvania as princes under the Ottomans until 1602.

We don’t know the dates for Orlok birth and death, but since Robert Eggers mentioned the 1580s and Lina Muir talked about the 1590s, I’m assuming these decades were important in his life, and he was already an adult. And he probably died somewhere in the 1590s since that’s the reference Lina Muir has for his costume design (which he was buried with): “Robert, right from the beginning, knew that he wanted his Orlok to be a representation of a Transylvanian count from around 1590.” In a interview to “Art of Costume”, the costume designer said:

“For Orlok, our research focused on the look of a Transylvanian-slash-Hungarian count from around 1580. He’s a character who was young and vital 300 years before the events of the film […] Even his enormous kalpak hat—a piece that would have been worn differently by a younger man—is now part of his strategy to hide the grotesque reality of being 300 years old.”

Robert Eggers also mentioned Hungary several times in association with his Orlok, because Transylvania was a Hungarian politically dominated principality. Orlok is also a count, the sovereign of a county, and the Székely had several autonomous seats within Transylvania; these were self-governing, with their own administrative system, and existed as legal entities. Their autonomy was granted in return for the military services they provided to the Hungarian Kings. Orlok also has a Hungarian royal army 16th century hairstyle, and military heraldry on his coat of arms, so he saw battle and/or military service.

Orlok being of Székelys lineage is also aligned with the “Dracula” novel, where Count Dracula shares the same ethnicity: “We Szekelys have a right to be proud, for in our veins flows the blood of many brave races who fought as the lion fights, for lordship. . . . What devil or what witch was ever so great as Attila [the Hun] whose blood is in these veins?” The Székelys are said to be only true Transylvanians, because they guarded the land's borders long before the Magyar invasion and Hungarian rule. Their allegiance was only to the sacred soil of Transylvania, no matter who holds temporary political dominion over them, which also makes sense as to why Orlok/Dracula, on vampire form, needs to rest on their soil during daytime.

Men could become sovereigns really young in the event of their fathers deaths. Sigismund Báthory (we’ll talk about him in a minute) became prince of Transylvania at the age of six. And it’s the same with weddings; we have several cases of marriages at 14, 15, 16, and so on, throughout History. No idea what’s Orlok case.

Being a Count, Orlok was probably a hereditary member of the Union of Three Nations? Founded in 1438, and composed by Hungarian, Székelys, and Saxon noblemen of Transylvania. Their function was to provide mutual aid against Ottoman attacks and peasant revolts, and were successful for centuries. As a Count, Orlok wasn’t low in the aristocratic hierarchy; he was just two ranks below the Prince (Marquis and Duke).

Bill Skarsgård citing the Bulgarian epic “Time of Violence” as one of Eggers’ many inspirations for Orlok backstory, might indicate he probably was involved in the religious turmoil of Protestants vs. Catholics in Transylvania in the late 16th century. In the 15th century many Romanian noblemen converted to Catholicism; and in the second half of the 16th century, Transylvanian authorities forced their people to convert to Calvinism.

In the late 1550s, Protestantism began to spread in Székely villages due to Hungarian-speaking preachers, who promoted the theology of John Calvin (Calvinism). While the majority of the population remained Catholic, some Calvinist settlements joined the new Unitarian Church of Transylvania. In 1566, priests who didn’t convert to the “true faith” were expelled from the country.

However, when Stephen Báthory took power in Transylvania in 1576, restrictions began to arise, and Orthodox hierarchy was restored. Székely peasants demanded for their freedom, but were refused. As retaliation, hundreds of Székelys joined his opponent, Gáspár Bekes, who was defeated in 1575. As consequence, more than 60 Székelys were executed or mutilated, and Báthory's supporters received Székely serfs (slaves).

When Stephen’s sucessor, Sigismund Báthory, a Catholic, came to power in 1586, he wasn’t well-liked by the Union of Three Nations representatives, which tried to undermine his authority on several times, with plotting and conspiracies. The “Long War” (1591-1606) started; it began as a Christian alliance against the Turks, and became a four-sided conflict in Transylvania involving the Transylvanians, Habsburgs, Ottomans and the Romanian voivod of Wallachia led by Michael the Brave.

In 1593, Sigismund abdicated, and tasked his cousin Balthasar Báthory with the government of Transylvania, and he tried to seized the throne for himself, but was stopped by other leading officers who set up an aristocratic council. The commanders of the army, persuaded Sigismund to return, and arrest Balthasar and fourteen other noblemen for plotting. They were either executed (beheaded) or strangled in prison. Only one was Protestant, the others Unitarian. Many of their relatives converted to Catholicism to prevent the confiscation of their estates. Which side was Orlok?

In 1595, the persecution of radical Protestants began, and hundreds fled Transylvania. In that year, Sigismund married Maria Christina of Austria but was unable to consummate the marriage. He accused Margit Majláth (mother of his executed cousin, Balthasar Báthory) of witchcraft, causing his impotence.

Sigismund promised to restore the Székelys' liberties if they took up arms against the Ottomans, and more than 20,000 Székelys joined the royal army. They helped win the Battle of Giurgiu. However, their decisive warrior role during the war was ignored, and they were not only denied their freedom, but, in 1595, their leaders were massacred in the “Bloody Carnival” by István Bocskai, the commander-in-chief of the Transylvanian army.

In 1599, Andrew Báthory becomes prince of Transylvania, but the most influential noblemen didn’t support him. His main supporters are noblemen forced into exile in 1594, but they were impoverished young men, without influence. However, Andrew choose Catholic lords over them. Meanwhile, Michael the Brave invades Transylvania and the Székelys become his allies. Andrew tries to flee the country, but is ambushed by Székelys slaves and beheaded with a shepherd's axe.

We’ve arrived at the end of the 16th century, and we don’t know if Orlok lived to see the 17th century because we have no indication of that, since Robert Eggers only talks about 1580s and 1590s. Whoever Orlok was in life, clearly left a lasting impression because there were legends about him, as Thomas was made aware once he arrived, and several locals warned him about Orlok’s shadow. He was also connected with the Devil by the Christian Orthodox nuns.

From the movie, it’s clear he’s remembered more because of his “magical powers” (sort of speak) than for his military accomplishments. Which is the same case as Bram Stoker’s Count Dracula. In “Nosferatu” (2024), it’s Ellen who awakes Orlok in the 19th century, with him being dead for centuries at that point. Still, there appear to be legends about him in Transylvania, all the same.

If Orlok was involved in the Catholics vs. Protestants conflicts in Transylvania in the late 16th century, like everything seems to suggest (“Time of Violence” inspiration and historical context), he certainly wasn’t on the Catholic side of the conflict. We don’t have any Christian religious iconography on his coat of arms or personal sigil; and he used both during his life. Protestantism defended a more personal and private relationship with religion, than the performative and grandeur of Catholicism. A Protestant facade would allow Orlok to pursue and practice his true religion without raising suspicion to his county. Still, rumors about it certainly spread during his lifetime, until they became legend.

Hypothesis #1

Now, if we go with Orlok being 55 years old at the time of his death; let’s do some math. Both Robert Eggers and Lina Muir have said he’s 300 years old during the events of the movie, which is set in 1838. If we do the math (1838 minus 300), the date of Orlok’s birth would be 1538. And if we add 55 years to this date, we arrive at 1593 as the date of his death. Which would mean he was probably among Balthasar Báthory supporters, and was arrested for treason and strangled in prison (he obviously wasn’t beheaded).

We also have a woman and accusations of witchcraft as retaliation for the death of these noblemen. Someone also commissioned Orlok’s sarcophagus, not only expensive-looking (fit for his ranking), but also filled with symbols and sigils of immortality and rebirth. Who had this sarcophagus made? Himself or someone from his family?

On his castle catacombs, there are more sarcophagus, which obviously belong to Orlok’s family, who’s also buried down there. He was also placed in a prestige location within the cryptic; someone respected his role as Count, which suggests someone either cared or respected him, in life. Unless he was the last one to die, and ordered for his sarcophagus to be placed there.

Did his wife, the Countess, survive him, and ordered his sarcophagus to be made? If so, she clearly wanted him to return to life. Maybe she was also involved in sorcery as he was. We also have countless examples of wives taking over their husbands estates/titles after their deaths (even as rulers of Transylvania). Maybe his wife was one of those who reluctantly converted to Catholicism in order to keep the family estate?

“I [was inspired by] a 15th-century sarcophagus from Poland. Orlok is Dacian so I started looking at Dacian dragons. Trajan's Column in Rome shows the battle of the Romans defeating the Dacians and you see their Dacian dragon, which has a wolf’s head, so I started adding wolves’ heads. The feet of the casket are actually Dacian dragons. We came up with a coat of arms for Orlok to put on and added Solomonic symbols. The idea is that the more you stack up the details, the more you’re creating the world.” Production designer Craig Lathrop

Now, we do have “strangling” associated with Orlok and Ellen, right in the prologue, when he reveals himself to her, under the lilac trees:

This is a horror movie, yes, but Robert Eggers is very intentional with his stories and he doesn’t do cheap jump scares. Why did Orlok do this to Ellen? Especially when he just asked her to be one with him ever-eternally. This act does have a meaning we aren’t aware of.

And his first words to her are “You”, and then he says “you wakened me from a eternity of darkness”, and he repeats “you… you”, and says she’s not for the living. This somehow suggest a recognition from his part. He knows not only what she is, but who she is.

Orlok also calls Ellen “enchantress”, and it was her sadness (grief? Heartbreak?) which powered her prayer. She did it unconsciously, and due to her supernatural abilities, but maybe her soul has tried to achieve this in the past? But didn’t succeed then?

Orlok’s “asmatic” speech can also indicate his vocal chords are damaged? Sure, he’s been dead for centuries and has to inhale and exhale in order to be able to speak, because he doesn’t need to breathe (obviously, he’s a walking corpse).

The flaw with this theory is that Orlok doesn’t seem to have neck injuries compatible with death by strangulation.

Hypothesis #2

Another likely option, is that Orlok might have died from the plague, the “Black Death”, during the second plague pandemic in Europe (1346-1844), which known several outbursts throughout these centuries. Which would explain why he returned as the “plague carrier” and his association with rats (since the Black Plague was believed to be caused by the fleas of certain rats).

The plague hit Transylvania particularly harshly during the 15th and 16th centuries, more deathly than before; especially between the years 1550 and 1587. The towns and villages in the Carpathians suffered deeply with the plague in 1553-1554, with countless deaths. Between 1552 and 1554, many aristocrats died, and some territories were even depopulated due to the plague.

The Catholics saw this outbreak as God punishment of His enemies, as divine justice against the heretics (Protestants). Protestants, on the other hand, refused the “plague” Catholic saints (like St. Sebastian) and saw hardship as a path to salvation but also as punishment for pride and other sins, advising against attachment to the “riches of the world”.

Being a Count, in the face of a plague epidemic, Orlok had to work alongside religious and medical authorities to deal with the situation. However, when epidemics got out of control, physicians (doctors) could have full power of decision over the people. Several restrictions to gatherings of every kind were made during this period. Burials on churchs were forbidden. Mentions of rotten corpses and maggots were popular in religious speech to force citizens to keep the plague graveyards clean, and avoid the spread of disease. In “Nosferatu” we have allusions to all of this and even the “Death and the Maiden” motif at the end of the film.

If we take 1538 as Orlok’s birth, these dates (between 1552 and 1554) can’t possibly be his dates of death because he would be a teenager during these years, between 14 and 16 years old. They can, however, be when he became Count? Maybe his father and/or mother also died from the plague? Or even his wife?

The plague epidemic could also be the reason why he became so interested in conquer immortality, tapping everywhere to achieve it: alchemy (“elixir of immortality” and “panacea” to cure all diseases), Zalmoxis cult, and Şolomonari magic. Him dying of the plague anyway would be one of those wicked ironies which would fit his character. His corpse certainly exhibits plague wounds, like the ones on his victims.

However, this would make Orlok younger than Robert Eggers claims he is; but Eggers being so secretive about Orlok background, he can also be concealing his true age, after all. Orlok dying during the Transylvania plague epidemics would make him 49 years old tops or even on his 30s, at the time of his death. Which would fit Lina Muir comments on his hat design being worn by younger men.

Hypothesis #3

If we go with the strigoi folklore, Orlok might have died with “unfinished business”, which is a staple of ghost legends everywhere in the world. The cause of his death, or even the date, is not exactly relevant here.

Connecting with Ellen being a reincarnation of his past lover; she might not have been his wife, at all. The majority of aristocratic weddings were motivated by politics. The wife Bill Skarsgård talks about, might have been chosen for political reasons, and alliances. She might have died, too, and Orlok wanted to remarry (which was the usual practice), this time for love. But, his bride died before the wedding, or he did.

This option would fit this story better, because Orlok and Knock talk about Ellen as “bride”. Even when asking Thomas about his “maiden token”, Orlok calls Ellen “your bride”. It would also give a deeper meaning as to why Ellen put on her wedding dress to marry Orlok at the end.

In this option, Orlok’s bride wasn’t buried next to him in his castle crypt, and death separated them. Which would explain why Orlok is so obsessed in pursuing Ellen’s soul and have her by his side for all eternity.

Şolomonari and Zalmoxis

Orlok sigil: an heptagram surrounded by a Draco ouroboros (death; rebirth; reincarnation); the letters are cyrillic for “Zalmoxis”; the center is the alchemist symbol for blood; the symbols appear to be Vinča; with archeological findings in Romania with these symbols being over 8,000 and 6,500 years old, and consider by many as the oldest form of human writing, but their meaning is still unknown. They are here either to show Orlok comes from an ancient bloodline; or he has known reincarnations throughout the ages?

Heptagrams are connected to the seven elements of Alchemy but aren’t represented like this. Heptagrams are also connected to divine feminine goddesses, like Babalon and Isis.

We also see Ellen’s beauty being compared to a sylph by Herr Knock (probably due to his own deal with Orlok), which makes her connection to the 16th century, because “sylphs” were created by Paracelsus, a Swiss alchemist, in 1566 (Orlok would be 28 years old when this book was released). Sylphs are beings of the air element, a sort of fairy or nymph.

The genetics of historical Vlad III, “The Impaler”, “Dracula” can be traced much farther back than the Szekelys and the Huns: he was descendent from the Dacian warriors. And this seems to be the same case with Eggers’ Orlok; or he developed a fascination with them. Aside from his sigil and coat of arms, the audience knows there’s a connection between Orlok and the Dacian civilization, because he speaks Dacian in the film (a language which was already extinct in the 16th century).

The Dacians were a Indo-European people from Ancient times (6th century) which inhabited modern-day Romania (as well as parts of the surrounding countries) and were eventually conquered by the Romans. Their cult was a deity called Zalmoxis, God of life and death, who granted eternal life and knowledge to the worthy, ensuring their place in the afterlife. Sacrifical rites and shamanism were practiced in his honor. Zalmoxis was considered a prophet, represented as a handsome man, a priest who controls the forces of nature, with power over wild animals.

Zalmoxis is kind of a mysterious figure, he’s a man who became a God to his people, and in some legends he was a king, in others a slave of the Greeks who freed himself, while in others he’s the high priest of the actual God of the Dacian people. He’s often compared to Jesus Christ because he, too, was resurrected after being three years underground. According to Herodotus, Zalmoxis learned the secrets of immortality when he traveled to Egypt: we already have a link here with Ellen, because she was compared to a “priestess of Isis” (Isis, the Queen of the Underworld).

Ancient greek historian Herodotus wrote about several Dacian legends and rituals; as the priests of Zalmoxis who kept the secret of incantations that could make human beings immortal, and the ritual practice of wrapping a young man who wished to become a warrior in the skin of a wolf (some men were said to be able to change themselves each year for several days into the form of a wolf). There are some theories among historians that hallucinogenic mushrooms were used in the wolf-pelt ceremony, allowing the men to experience a complete psychological transformation into wolves.

Dacian warrior

Once psychologically transformed into a wolf and thereby initiated into the Brotherhood of the Wolf, the Dacian warrior would enter fearlessly and ferociously into battle under the banner of the Draco, the wolf-dragon. This appeared to be Orlok’s case because he has the Draco on his coat of arms, which he would wear in battle.

Draco: the Dacian battle flag; Brad (Romania)

We are told this book is Şolomonari by Von Franz, and obviously belonged to Orlok, and it was in Herr Knock’s office:

However the language it is written is Latin-based, so I’m guessing it’s Dacian (instead of the cyrillic Orlok used before in written material). My mother language is Latin-based, I can understand some of the Dacian spoke by Orlok, and I’m recognizing some words here, too. This book is probably from a Zalmoxis cult, which isn’t surprising because this leads us to another question: scholars in recent years have been disputing long-lasting ideas about who the folkloric Şolomonari truly were, which seems to be the approach Robert Eggers is taking with his adaptation of “Nosferatu”.

In the “Dracula” novel, Van Helsing says Dracula attended the school Scholomance. In Romanian folklore, it’s located in the Carpathian mountains where the Devil was the lead instructor of 10 or 13 students. One of each class was either kept by the Devil or given permission to ride a dragon. In “Nosferatu”, the old abbess tells Thomas, Orlok was selected to have his soul kept by the Devil, and, possibly, cursed to vampirism as a result: “A black enchanter he was in life. Şolomonari. The Devil preserved his soul that his corpse may walk again in blaspheme.”

Xenoarcheologist Jason Colavito is one of the pioneers of these kind of studies, exploring science, pseudoscience and speculative fiction, and has done research on the Scholomance and the Şolomonari. He made the connection between Dacian priest-shamans and the folkloric Şolomonari (named after King Solomon and alchemy) and how they were perceived as benevolent forces until the Christians defamed them as “devil worshippers”. This association between Paganism and the Devil wasn’t exclusive to Romania, it happened throughout Europe when European kings and leaders converted to Christianity and forced their populations to forsake their old Pagan beliefs.

The Devil’s School of Scholomance is, then, a distortion of Dacian Pagan beliefs; where Zalmoxis had a underground chamber, a great hall, where he taught the secrets of immortality, and of life and death to his followers. In “Nosferatu”, it’s the Orthodox nuns who first make the association between Orlok, the Şolomonari, and the Devil; and then the alchemist Von Franz does the same. But none of these characters have first-hand knowledge of what the Şolomonari truly are, and Von Franz admits he never encountered a Nosferatu before. And, indeed, there’s no “satanic” symbols on Orlok’s sigil and coat of arms. He’s Pagan, a follower of Zalmoxis.

The question here is: how did Orlok had access to this knowledge? Was there an actual “school” or a Zalmoxis cult in the 16th century, in this story?

[leftoverghosts]

✩ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ · won't forget my name, not today (part one)

will you cast me to the wayside? · · ─── · boyfriend!pat x girlfriend!user x pining!art

Art has been secretly in love with you since last summer, and Patrick decides now’s the time to fix that. He drags you to Art’s guest room, revealing Art’s obsession with you through a Polaroid photo. What starts as a playful moment quickly escalates when Patrick challenges you to push your boundaries, leaving you questioning how far you’re willing to go to keep him happy.

i lose control when you're not next to me · · ─── · divorced!art x f!theonewhogotaway!user

A chance reunion with Art in your hometown grocery store sparks a new connection, leading you both to question what might have been. After years apart, tentative smiles and an old promise resurface, as you and Art realize the possibility of more than just friendship. With the weight of past regrets and the pull of unfinished business, you wonder if fate has brought you back together for a second chance at love. (you are going to have to tell art your hometown, i left that open.)

my dream maker, heartbreaker · · ─── · atlanta!art x exgirlfriend!user

You supported Tashi and Art through many key moments, but missed the shift in their relationship when your best friend got hurt. Years later, you learn that Art and Tashi are engaged. When you cross paths, Art’s regret is clear, but his bitterness surfaces when he sees her with Patrick over your shoulder. (i needed angst!!)

breakin' my heart, you make a mess of me · · ─── · nepohobo!patrick x babymama!user

You're successful and proud of your life as a mother and a self-made woman, but Patrick, your ex, still clings to his unfulfilled tennis dreams. As the reality of your past choices hits, you can’t help but feel frustrated by the only failure on your record—letting him into your life at all.

moon river, wider than a mile, crossin' in style · · ─── · rookietennisplayer!pat x gn!succubus!user

Patrick Zweig accidentally summons a succubus while playing with a Ouija board, hoping for a laugh. To his shock, the demon appears, offering him a taste of the extraordinary and a night full of temptation and danger. Pat’s disbelief quickly turns to intrigue as he faces the unexpected consequences of his curiosity. (succubus bot, but pat's version!)

cradle me so i can see if i'm doomed · · ─── · stanfordtennisplayer!rafe x f!tennisplayer!user

Rafe is captivated by strength, precision, and confidence in women, qualities he sees in you. He becomes deeply protective, drawn to your drive and the way you embody his ideals. His love for you grows all-consuming, his thoughts constantly on how to shield you from harm, wanting nothing more than to be the one who keeps you safe and close. (heavily inspired by season one, episode two of euphoria, as i tweaked the speech about nate to fit tennis!rafe.)

i lost my mind, i don't mind · · ─── · stanfordtennisplayer!rafe x f!tennisplayer!user

You hadn't wanted to come to the frat party, but like most things Rafe wants, he gets. Caught up in the heat of the moment, you find yourselves dancing in the middle of the crowd. With his jealousy bubbling to the surface, Rafe warns you about the men staring, claiming they want you. Eventually, he pulls you away to the bathroom, the tension between you both growing with each step.

i hit 200 followers on c.ai, so here's another bot drop! this is part one and mostly canon-esque in story. as always, let me know what you think. xoxo. alternate universe bots will be posted tomorrow, along with the second part of obsessed!crownprince art.🍀💚

[novaursa]

Legacy (friends at heart)

- Summary: Tywin was the man who saved you from Robert's wrath. He was also the man who doomed you.

- Pairing: targ!reader/Tywin Lannister

- Note: Be aware of unspecified time-jump.

- Rating: Mature 16+

- Previous part: the others

- Tag(s): @sachaa-ff @oxymakestheworldgoround @luniaxi @alkadri-layal @butterflygxril @urdxrling

Jon Snow sat at the head of the table, his grey eyes scanning the faces of his siblings. Sansa, regal yet weary, sat to his right, her hands clasped in her lap as she gazed pensively into the fire. Arya, ever restless, leaned back in her chair, idly twirling the point of a knife against the table’s surface. Bran, seated at the far end, looked calm but distant, his eyes fixed somewhere beyond the room, as if seeing things none of them could.

The weight of their discussion pressed heavily on all of them.

“How did they get through the Wall?” Arya asked, her tone filled with disbelief. “The Wall has stood for thousands of years. It was supposed to be impenetrable.”

Jon exhaled, his jaw tightening as he looked toward Bran. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

Bran, sitting unnervingly still, finally spoke. His voice was soft but carried an unsettling certainty. “The Wall was not built to last forever. The magic that held it is ancient and fragile. Something… someone… broke it.”

Sansa frowned, her brows furrowing. “If the Wall has fallen, then we’re truly out of time. Winter is here in full force, and now the dead march freely.”

There was a heavy pause, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the room.

“I wish Mother and Father were here,” Sansa said softly, her voice breaking the silence. “I wish they could see us together like this. They would have known what to do.”

Jon’s expression softened at her words, his dark eyes filled with unspoken emotion. “They would have,” he agreed quietly. “And so would she.”

Arya glanced at Jon, catching the shift in his tone. “Y/N,” she said, her voice tinged with curiosity. “How is she? You’re the one who saw her last.”

Jon hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “She’s... the same as she always was,” he said finally. “Strong. Fierce. But…” His voice trailed off as he looked into the fire, his expression clouded. “There was something heavier about her. It’s been years since she’s been here, and I think she carries that weight with her.”

Arya’s gaze softened as she set the knife down, her fingers brushing against the table’s edge. “The last time I saw her was at High Heart,” she said, a faint smile playing at her lips. “She arrived on the back of a dragon.”

Sansa glanced toward Arya, her own expression softening. “I last saw her at Joffrey’s wedding,” she murmured, her voice heavy with memory. “She tried to keep me close, but there was nothing she could do. It wasn’t safe.”

Jon looked between them, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. “She never stopped trying to protect us.”

Arya’s voice was quieter now, her gaze fixed on Jon. “Do you think she’s happy? With her new family?”

Jon nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “She has two sons now. Damon and Maelor. She loves them fiercely.”

At the mention of Damon and Maelor, Sansa’s expression warmed. “She always wanted a family of her own. She deserves that.”

There was a pause before Arya leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. “Do you think she ever misses us?”

Jon’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered the question. “She does,” he said finally. “I know she does.”

The room fell silent again, the weight of their shared history hanging in the air. Bran, who had been quiet for most of the conversation, finally spoke, his voice calm but certain.

“You’ll see her again, Jon,” Bran said, his gaze fixed on his brother. “One more time.”

Jon turned toward Bran, his expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

Bran’s gaze seemed to pierce through him. “You’ll see her again before the end.”

The cryptic nature of Bran’s words left the room feeling colder, the fire’s warmth doing little to chase away the chill that had settled over them. Jon held Bran’s gaze for a long moment before finally looking away, his thoughts his own.

Sansa sighed softly, her voice breaking the tension. “We should rest. There’s much to do tomorrow.”

Jon nodded, his jaw tightening as he rose from his seat. “You’re right. But this isn’t over. We’ll figure this out.”

As the others began to leave the hall, Jon lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on the fire. The memory of the woman who had raised him, the woman who had been his mother in every way that mattered, weighed heavily on his heart. No matter what came next, he knew Bran’s words would linger with him.

“One more time,” he murmured to himself, the flames casting shadows across his face.

The night was blacker than pitch, with no moonlight to pierce the endless winter darkness. A brittle wind swept through the craggy terrain surrounding Casterly Rock, howling through the narrow passes and scattering dry snow across the frozen ground. Beric Dondarrion dismounted his weary horse, his breath visible in the icy air as he surveyed their makeshift camp.

“Here,” he said gruffly, his one remaining eye scanning the area. “It’ll do for tonight.”

The others in his small company, five in total, nodded silently, their movements stiff from days of hard travel through the frostbitten landscape. Thoros of Myr dismounted as well, his red robes standing out starkly against the snow. He adjusted the sword strapped to his waist, his usually jovial demeanor replaced by a grim focus.

“The cold gets into your bones,” Thoros muttered, rubbing his hands together before pulling a flask of firewine from his belt. “A drink might keep us warm, eh?”

Beric shot him a look. “Save it. We’ll need your wits about you if anything finds us out here.”

Thoros smirked faintly, his weathered face lined with exhaustion. “What could be worse than what we’ve already seen?”

“Plenty,” Beric replied darkly, his tone leaving no room for argument.

One of the other men, a young scout with a face partially obscured by a scarf, began gathering sticks from the sparse brush nearby. “Should we light a fire?” he asked hesitantly, his voice muffled.

Thoros glanced at Beric, who frowned but nodded. “A small one. We’ll need it if we’re to keep from freezing.”

As the scout worked to kindle a flame, Beric crouched low, examining the map he had spread out on a rock. The flickering light of the fire illuminated his face, highlighting the scarred flesh and the tired determination in his lone eye.

“How much farther?” asked Lem Lemoncloak, his gruff voice cutting through the quiet as he tightened his cloak around himself.

“Half a day’s ride, maybe less,” Beric replied, tracing his finger across the map. “Casterly Rock isn’t far, but the roads are treacherous.”

Thoros crouched beside him, taking a swig from his flask before offering it to Beric, who shook his head. “Do you think they’ll even let us through the gates?” Thoros asked, his tone skeptical. “Lannisters aren’t exactly known for welcoming the likes of us.”

“They’ll let us through,” Beric said firmly. “Lady Y/N will see to it.”

Lem scoffed, leaning against a tree. “And you’re so sure she’ll even remember us? It’s been years since High Heart. She’s a Lannister now more than a Targaryen—married still to the man who all but destroyed her family.”

Beric’s gaze hardened. “She hasn’t forgotten what she saw. None of us have.”

There was a moment of silence, the weight of his words hanging heavy in the air. The memory of the visions Y/N had witnessed at High Heart—the endless night, the armies of the dead, the dragons circling above—was seared into their minds. They had followed her then, believing she was key to what was coming. Now, they sought her out again, hoping to lend their swords to the fight they knew was inevitable.

The fire crackled softly as Thoros leaned back, staring into the flames. “That dragon is with her,” he mused. “And not just any dragon—a dragon clad in Lannister armor, if the rumors are true. Do you think she’s changed?”

Beric’s expression was unreadable as he replied, “She’s changed because the world has changed. But she hasn’t forgotten who she is.”

“And what about her husband?” Lem asked, spitting into the snow. “Tywin Lannister doesn’t strike me as the kind of man to entertain a band of outlaws.”

“He doesn’t have to entertain us,” Beric said evenly. “We’re not going for him.”

The wind picked up again, sending a chill through the camp. The men huddled closer to the fire, their faces shadowed and tired. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of the flames and the distant howl of the wind.

“You think she’ll even let us fight?” Thoros asked quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind. “She has a dragon. What could we possibly offer?”

Beric turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the faint outline of Casterly Rock loomed in the distance. His voice was steady as he replied, “Faith. Resolve. A sword is only as strong as the hand that wields it. She’ll need us—just as much as we need her.”

Thoros nodded, though his expression remained thoughtful. “Let’s hope you’re right.”

As the fire burned low and the men settled in for the night, the darkness pressed in around them, bringing with it an unsettling quiet. Beric sat with his back against a tree, his sword resting across his knees, as he stared out into the shadows. Somewhere in the distance, a low, guttural sound echoed—a reminder that the night was far from safe.

He didn’t wake the others. Whatever was out there, it wasn’t coming for them yet. But the unease lingered, a constant reminder of the world they now lived in.

The night passed slowly, the fire burning down to embers as the men kept watch in turns. Morning was little more than a pale night light barely breaking through the heavy clouds, but it was enough to get them moving again.

As they mounted their horses and set out toward Casterly Rock, the wind carried with it the faintest scent of smoke—an omen, Beric thought grimly, of the battles yet to come.

The warm glow of the hearth cast flickering shadows across the grand dining hall of Casterly Rock, making the dark stone walls seem almost alive. The long oak table was set with an array of dishes—roasted meats, fresh bread, and steaming bowls of hearty stew, a rare luxury in the enduring winter. The room was quiet save for the gentle clatter of cutlery and the occasional laugh from your children.

Damon sat to Tywin’s left, his small hands gripping a spoon as he eagerly dug into his stew. Maelor was seated to your right, his little legs swinging beneath the table as he munched on a piece of bread. You sat across from Tywin, your gaze shifting between your sons and your husband, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

“Slow down, Damon,” you said gently, watching as your eldest son wolfed down his food. “You’ll make yourself sick.”

Damon paused, looking up sheepishly with a smear of stew on his chin. “I’m just hungry, Mother.”

Tywin, seated at the head of the table, raised an eyebrow, his tone stern but not unkind. “Your mother is right. Eat properly, Damon. A future lord must have composure, even at the table.”

Damon straightened in his chair, nodding solemnly as he picked up his spoon with a bit more care. “Yes, Father.”

You hid your amusement behind your goblet of wine, exchanging a knowing glance with Tywin. Despite his strict demeanor, there was a warmth in Tywin’s eyes as he observed his family.

Maelor, meanwhile, was busy tearing his bread into small pieces and dipping them into his stew. “Mother,” he piped up, his voice bright, “when can I ride Viserion?”

You chuckled softly, leaning over to brush a strand of Maelor’s hair from his face. “When you’re older, my sweet. Dragons are not toys.”

Damon, ever curious, chimed in. “But Father rode Viserion, didn’t he? You told me.”

Tywin glanced at you, the faintest twitch of a smile on his lips. “I didn’t ride her. I simply climbed on her back to avoid being eaten by those creatures in the dark.”

Damon’s eyes widened. “That sounds brave.”

Tywin’s gaze softened ever so slightly. “It was necessary, not brave.”

You reached for your goblet again, your eyes glimmering with fondness as you looked at Tywin. “Your father is underselling himself,” you teased lightly. “He’s braver than he admits.”

Tywin gave you a look that was both exasperated and amused, and for a moment, the weight of winter and responsibility seemed to lift from the room.

The conversation turned to lighter topics—Maelor’s eagerness to ride horses, Damon’s growing interest in history, and stories of your youth. Laughter filled the hall, warming the cold air like a fleeting glimpse of summer.

But the warmth was interrupted when the heavy doors to the hall creaked open. A pair of Lannister guards entered, their expressions grim as they approached the table.

“My lord, my lady,” one of the guards said, bowing deeply. “Apologies for the intrusion, but a group of men has arrived at the gates. They claim they’ve come to offer their services to Lady Y/N.”

Your brows furrowed, and you exchanged a glance with Tywin, whose expression darkened slightly. He set his goblet down with deliberate care. “Who are these men?”

“They didn’t give names,” the guard replied. “Only that they’ve traveled far and wish to speak with Lady Y/N directly.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line, your mind racing. “How many are there?”

“Five or six, my lady. They seem... weathered. Warriors, perhaps.”

Tywin’s gaze turned to you, his tone firm. “We’ll see them together. I’ll not have strangers wandering into my home without scrutiny.”

You nodded, your expression thoughtful. “Of course.”

Before rising, you turned to your sons, your voice softening. “Damon, Maelor, stay here with the servants. Finish your dinner.”

Damon’s brows knit together in concern. “Are you going to see those men, Mother? Are they dangerous?”

You smiled reassuringly, leaning over to press a kiss to Damon’s forehead. “No, my darling. Stay here with your brother. We’ll be back shortly.”

Tywin stood, his presence commanding as he adjusted his cloak. You rose beside him, brushing your fingers over Maelor’s hair as you passed. “Eat your stew,” you told him gently. “We won’t be long.”

As the guards led you out of the hall, the laughter and warmth of the meal seemed to fade, replaced by the chill of winter seeping through the castle walls. Your mind buzzed with questions as you made your way toward the gates. Whoever these men were, they had chosen a perilous time to make their journey.

And as always, Tywin’s keen gaze missed nothing. “You have an idea of who they might be,” he said quietly, his voice low enough for only you to hear.

You glanced at him, your expression unreadable. “Perhaps,” you murmured. “But we’ll know soon enough.”

You stepped into the cold night air, the stars barely visible through the dense clouds, as you prepared to meet the unexpected visitors.

The chill of winter clung to the courtyard of Casterly Rock, the snow crunching beneath boots as Tywin and you stepped into the open space. Torches lit the area, casting low light on a group of riders standing with their horses near the gate. The wind carried the faint scent of frost and the sea, the air biting against exposed skin.

Your gaze immediately locked onto the group of men, their weathered faces illuminated by the torchlight. There was something familiar about them—the way they stood, the way their eyes scanned the courtyard with quiet vigilance.

And then your breath hitched as recognition struck. Beric Dondarrion stood at the forefront, his one-eyed gaze fixed on you, his battered armor bearing the marks of countless battles. Beside him, Thoros of Myr held the reins of his horse, his red priest’s robes looking as worn as the man himself. Others stood behind them, cloaked figures with hardened expressions and the quiet confidence of those who had seen too much of war.

“Beric,” you breathed, stepping forward before you could think better of it.

Beric inclined his head, his voice gravelly but warm. “Lady Y/N.” He glanced at Tywin, then back at you, a faint smile playing on his lips. “It’s been some time.”

Tywin’s gaze darted to you, and his tone was cool as he spoke. “You know these men?”

You nodded, your voice steady despite the flood of memories. “Yes. These are the men I rode with in the Riverlands. When I was… missing, all those years ago.”

Tywin’s lips pressed into a thin line, his expression unreadable, though you caught the faintest flicker of something—irritation, perhaps jealousy—in his eyes. “You never mentioned any men,” he muttered, his tone low but unmistakably pointed.

You glanced at him, your brow arching slightly. “There wasn’t much time to recount every detail, Tywin,” you said evenly. “But yes, I owe my life to them. They sheltered me after wounds from riding Viserion started to get worse.”

Beric stepped closer, his gaze flicking between you and Tywin. “We came to offer our aid, my lady. The Long Night is here, and we remember what you told us at the High Heart. What we saw.” He glanced at Thoros, who nodded solemnly. “We believe it’s time to fulfill that promise.”

Tywin’s expression remained impassive, though his eyes betrayed his calculating mind. “And what promise would that be?”

Thoros of Myr spoke this time, his voice deep and steady. “To stand against the darkness, Lord Lannister. To fight for the living.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “A noble sentiment, but not one I take at face value. You come uninvited to my gates in the dead of winter, claiming allegiance to my wife. What exactly are you offering, and what do you expect in return?”

You placed a gentle hand on Tywin’s arm, your voice softening as you spoke. “They’re here to help, Tywin. They’re not our enemies.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, then back to Beric, his jaw tightening slightly. “Help,” he repeated, the word laced with skepticism. “And how do a handful of men plan to help against creatures we’ve barely managed to hold at bay?”

Beric’s one good eye met Tywin’s unwaveringly. “We’ve faced them before, my lord. And we’ve lived to tell the tale. You may find we’re more useful than you think.”

There was a tense silence as Tywin considered Beric’s words, his mind weighing every possibility. Finally, he inclined his head, though his tone remained cold. “We’ll discuss this further inside. For now, you and your men will be fed and given quarters. I trust you’ll behave accordingly.”

Beric nodded. “We’ll not give you reason to regret it.”

Tywin turned on his heel, his cloak billowing behind him as he began walking back toward the castle. You lingered for a moment, your gaze meeting Beric’s. “Thank you,” you said quietly. “For coming.”

Beric offered a faint smile. “It’s the least we could do, my lady.”

You gave a small nod before following Tywin, who was already a few paces ahead. His silence was heavy as you walked, and you could feel the unease radiating from him.

When you reached the castle’s inner halls, Tywin finally spoke, his tone clipped. “I don’t trust them.”

You sighed, glancing at him. “I understand. But they’ve earned my trust, Tywin. They’re good men.”

His gaze flicked to you, his expression unreadable. “Good men or not, they’re an unknown variable. And I don’t like surprises.”

You reached out, placing a hand on his arm to stop him. “I wouldn’t have survived without them. They helped me when I was lost, when I was vulnerable. That has to mean something.”

Tywin’s eyes softened slightly, though his jaw remained set. “I don’t doubt their past actions, but their presence here complicates things. We’ll see if they’re as honorable as you believe.”

You gave him a faint smile, your hand lingering on his arm. “Thank you for allowing them to stay.”

His gaze held yours for a moment before he nodded curtly. “Don’t thank me yet. This isn’t a courtesy—it’s a test.”

You couldn’t help but smile despite his tone, knowing that beneath his guarded exterior, Tywin’s decision to allow Beric and his men to stay was, in its own way, a gesture of trust in you.

The soft glow of the torches lit the chamber where Tywin Lannister sat at the head of a long table. The room was quieter now, with the bustling noise of Beric’s men settling into their quarters fading into the background. The air was warm, unusually so for the middle of the relentless winter. Across from Tywin sat Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr, their rugged appearances stark against the polished surroundings of Casterly Rock.

Tywin’s gaze was sharp, his presence as commanding as ever, as he leaned forward slightly, clasping his hands on the table. “Your men have been given food and shelter, but I expect discipline. My castle does not tolerate disruptions.”

Beric inclined his head, his expression neutral but respectful. “You have my word, Lord Lannister. My men understand where they are and the gravity of the times.”

Thoros took a swig from a flask he’d kept at his side, his eyes scanning the room. “You’ve got a strange warmth here, my lord,” he remarked, his deep voice tinged with curiosity. “Unusual for such a winter.”

Tywin’s expression didn’t change, but his tone carried a measured edge. “It’s not unusual when you understand the cause. There are two dragons sleeping beneath this castle, warming the Rock with their presence.”

The room fell silent, the weight of Tywin’s statement hanging in the air. Thoros set his flask down, his brow furrowing. “Two?” he repeated, his tone quieter now, almost reverent.

Beric leaned back slightly, his one good eye studying Tywin closely. “So it’s true, then. Not one, but two dragons sleep beneath your home.”

Tywin met Beric’s gaze, his voice steady. “You’ve heard correctly. The larger of the two is Viserion, my wife’s dragon. The smaller one hatched inside Dragonmont years ago from one of Viserion’s eggs.”

Beric’s lips pressed into a thin line as he exchanged a glance with Thoros. “And the second dragon—has it bonded with anyone?”

Tywin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Not yet. It’s young, temperamental, and untested. But it remains here, under my control.”

Thoros chuckled softly, though there was no humor in his voice. “Control is a fragile thing, especially when it comes to dragons. They answer to no one unless they choose.”

Tywin’s gaze sharpened. “You misunderstand. I don’t need to command it. Its presence alone is enough to deter threats. Dragons are weapons, and I wield them as I would any other.”

Beric leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “Weapons they may be, but they’re also fire made flesh. They’re alive, with wills of their own. Do you believe you can truly keep them beneath the Rock forever?”

Tywin’s jaw tightened, though his expression remained impassive. “The dragons are not your concern, Dondarrion. They serve my purposes, nothing more.”

The anxity in the room grew thick as Beric studied Tywin carefully, his gaze unwavering. “I don’t mean to question your methods, my lord. But the fire beneath your castle is a reminder of what’s at stake. If the Long Night has taught us anything, it’s that we cannot take such power for granted.”

Tywin leaned back slightly, his cold green eyes never leaving Beric’s face. “I don’t take anything for granted. That’s why I’m still here, holding this castle, while others crumble.”

Thoros chuckled again, this time with a hint of warmth. “And yet, it’s the dragons that make this place a haven in the dark. The warmth, the life—it’s not entirely your doing, Lord Lannister.”

Tywin’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Perhaps not. But I know how to use the tools at my disposal. That’s the difference between survival and ruin.”

The room grew quiet again, the crackle of the torches the only sound as Beric considered Tywin’s words. Finally, he nodded slowly. “You’ve prepared well, Lord Lannister. But preparation only takes us so far. When the true storm comes, we’ll see if even dragons are enough.”

Tywin’s expression hardened, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. “Dragons are enough, as long as they’re wielded wisely. And here, they are.”

Thoros picked up his flask again, tipping it toward Tywin in a mock toast. “Then let’s hope your wisdom holds, my lord. The Long Night is not kind to those who falter.”

Beric rose from his seat, inclining his head toward Tywin. “Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Lannister. We’ll do what we can to aid you in the days ahead.”

Tywin stood as well, his gaze cool and assessing. “See that you do. You’ve been given a chance to prove your worth. Don’t waste it.”

As Beric and Thoros left the chamber, the weight of their words lingered in the air. Tywin remained standing, his mind already working through the implications of their conversation. The warmth of the dragons beneath the Rock was a source of power, but it was also a reminder of the unpredictable forces at play in the world—a world growing darker with each passing day.

The cold, dark void of the endless winter stretched across Damon’s dreamscape like a suffocating shroud. Snow blanketed the ground, heavy and unyielding, as he wandered through an unfamiliar forest. The towering trees loomed above him, their skeletal branches twisting into grotesque shapes against the starless sky. The air was heavy, thick with an unnatural stillness that pressed against his small frame.

Damon's breath came in shallow gasps, his feet sinking into the snow with each hesitant step. His heart pounded in his chest, the only sound in the oppressive silence. Somewhere in the distance, faint whispers danced on the icy wind. They were unintelligible but sinister, wrapping around him like tendrils of shadow.

“Mother?” Damon called out, his voice trembling. “Father?”

No answer came, only the rising chill that gnawed at his skin. The whispers grew louder, now resembling mocking laughter. Fear rooted him in place as a shadowy figure emerged from the darkness. At first, it was unrecognizable—a towering form cloaked in swirling blackness. Then the shadows receded slightly, revealing Tywin’s face, his piercing green eyes devoid of life, staring at Damon with an unseeing gaze. Blood trickled down from a gaping wound in his chest, staining the pristine snow at his feet.

“Father!” Damon screamed, his small hands reaching out, but Tywin's figure crumbled into ash before his eyes, the wind scattering it into nothingness.

“No, no, no!” Damon’s cries echoed in the void, but they were swallowed by the darkness. He spun around, searching for something, anything, to ground him. His mother’s voice—soft, soothing—called his name from somewhere far away.

“Damon...”

The sound filled him with fleeting hope, and he ran toward it, the snow beneath his feet now feeling like ice-cold quicksand. Each step grew heavier, the effort immense, but he pushed forward. The voice grew louder, clearer, until he saw her. Y/N, his mother, stood a few paces away, her silver hair gleaming even in the bleakness of his dream. Relief washed over him.

“Mother!” he cried, rushing toward her.

But as he approached, her form shifted. Her warm, comforting expression twisted into one of pain and terror. She reached out to him, blood dripping from her fingers, before her body collapsed to the ground. A shadow passed over her crumpled figure, and Damon’s eyes snapped upward to see a monstrous spider, its grotesque legs spanning the entire forest. Its countless, soulless eyes glimmered like dark stars as it descended upon her, its fangs dripping with venom.

“No!” Damon screamed, his voice breaking. He tried to run to her, but the ground beneath him gave way, and he plummeted into a pit of darkness. His mother’s scream echoed in his ears, merging with the guttural growls of unseen creatures.

He fell endlessly, surrounded by whispers, laughter, and the sound of snapping jaws. Just when he thought the darkness would consume him entirely, a thunderous roar shook the void.

Viserion.

The she-dragon’s roar shattered the oppressive silence and chased away the darkness, her powerful cry like a beacon of light in the nightmare. The shadows recoiled, retreating into the void as Damon felt himself pulled upward, the chill replaced by warmth and the suffocating stillness lifting.

With a start, Damon’s eyes snapped open, his small body drenched in cold sweat. His chest heaved as he sat up in his bed, his heart hammering against his ribs. The faint glow of moonlight filtered through the frosted window, and the familiar warmth of the castle walls slowly brought him back to reality.

Another roar echoed in the distance, fainter this time but unmistakable. Viserion’s presence seemed to reassure him, her cry a reminder that she was near, guarding them.

Damon’s wide, frightened eyes darted around the room, settling on Maelor, who was fast asleep in the bed beside him, his small form rising and falling peacefully under the blankets. Damon swallowed hard, his throat dry, as he swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He clutched his knees to his chest, trembling as the vivid images of his dream lingered in his mind.

“Mother... Father...” he whispered, his voice shaking.

He couldn’t shake the sight of their lifeless forms or the monstrous spider that had loomed over them. The fear gnawed at him, but deep inside, a spark of resolve flickered. He couldn’t let those nightmares become reality.

Outside, the faint cry of the dragons echoed once more, a comforting sound that kept the darkness at bay.

[justastargirlbabe]

Assurance | R. Cameron

insecure!reader x bf!rafe

Warnings: oral (fem.receiving), reader is insecure of her body, aftercare, i think thats it...

summary: You can always count on your boyfriend to show you how beautiful you are.

Friday night, you and rafe ALWAYS go out on friday night… but instead you're sitting on the floor doom scrolling. Your mind is racing seeing all these gorgeous girls online. Oh how you wanted to be those girls so bad.You've always hated your body, constantly getting those weird subtle comments on it from peers and family, and it didn’t get any better once you started dating rafe. You never missed any of the stares you get at the club pool, or the whispers from kook bitches, or surprised looks from adults when they find out about your relationship with rafe. Of Course you love Rafe with all of your heart but everything has just been getting too much and you hate your body more than ever. 

You've been rejecting invites from your friends, completely avoiding going out, and ignoring rafe. *19 unread notifications from: Rafey <3*, your phone read. Turning down the music you throw your phone on the floor,Bringing your knees up to your chest as you start whimpering, and then it all comes out and you're completely sobbing on the floor.

in the middle of your breakdown you miss the sound of your door opening and suddenly here Rafe yelling " Babe where are you?? why are you ignoring me, is everything okay”. he worryingly pushes the door open, you don't move. " baby what's going on, are you okay why are you crying, talk to me mamas” Rafe pleads to you worryingly. " Go away, don't look at me, please just leave I'm fine”  you say, wiping your tears, putting on a fake smile. Rafe pulls you into his arms despite your protests, “babe please just talk to me, whatever it is I'll make it better I promise let me help you” Finally you give in. “it's just- it's just why do you even love me when I look like this? all these other girls with their skinny bodies and Rich families and you want me?”  you say whilst sobbing, tears starting to cover his shirt . "Oh honey, you're beautiful and I don't care about money or these Other girls, I love you, only you, all right Mama”. he wipes off a few tears and kisses your burning cheeks you cling to him wrapping your arms and legs around his muscular body. he lifts you up and sits you on the bed kneeling in front of you. “Is this why you've been hiding from me all week? dodging my calls and texts because you don't think you're beautiful?” He questions, looking for an answer.You nod your head, “it's all just becoming too much for me, all the people at the club with their opinions and Nasty looks, I guess it just made me realize I'm not good enough for you” you say scared of Rafe’s response. “I'm sorry baby, if there's anyone specifically who's been upsetting you please let me know so I can deal with it. I always want you to be comfortable when you’re with me,ok?” You nod your head again too overwhelmed to respond. Rafe senses your tense body. "you know what baby, let me just show you how beautiful I think you are.”  Rafe smirks, your eyes go wide. He slowly lifts off your, his, oversized shirt. you're holding your breath as he kisses your stomach whispering.“ my girl is so beautiful”. Your bra goes next, and suddenly Rafe is sucking your nipple, swirling his tongue around the bud. you push his face into you and throw your head back. “you like that don't you Mama, going to make you feel so good baby”. you moan in response. he kisses his way to the band of your pajama pants, he lifts your hips and pulls down the pants, your panties along with them. he looks up at your speechless face. “fuck honey, your soaking, is that all for me?” he patiently waits for your response. “Yes daddy, please I need you to touch” you blabber. “ ‘m need your special kisses so bad”. “don't worry your sexy little head mama, ima take good care of you bub”. He moves up and kisses you passionately on the lips, taking time to suck on your tongue, pulling away with a ‘pop’. He moves in between your legs and drags his finger through your folds. Muttering under his breath. He places a delicate kiss on your clit, and moves down to your dripping hole. He sticks his tongue in, swirling it around and licks a stripe up back to your clit sucking it into his mouth. making you yell out in pleasure. Hearing how much you're enjoying it, he sucks harder, bringing up two digits to finger your pussy. “Fuck daddy, i dont think i can take it much longer.” you plead. “Shh Mama you'll take what I give you, my gorgeous little slut”. His words make you clench around his fingers. “fuck you're so close. I can feel you squeezing honey”. He pumps his fingers at a tiring pace, only replacing them with his tongue and slapping your clit when he hears your screams.

He comes to hold you, trying to calm your restless body, as you come down from an overwhelming high. Once you’ve relaxed, you grab at his pants to return the favor, your mind still fuzzy. “Uh-uh sweet girl” he tuts, pushing your hand a way pulling you closer. “But”, you protest but you're silenced by his endearing voice. “no baby,let me take care of you ‘kay?”. You allow him to place you on the bed, your body craving his touch when he left to fetch a towel from the bathroom. “Spread your legs baby”. He says sweetly. gently wiping your sensitive pussy, covered in liquids, and gives one quick kiss to your clit, causing you to jolt. He takes his shirt off, knowing you'll need skin-to-skin contact, and lays your head on his chest. You lay there listening to him muttering sweet nothings and giving gentle kisses to your temple and neck. Finally feeling some sort of assurance that you were missing.   

I think this is kinda bad, because it is my first time writing...But please let me know if there's any ways i can improve, and feel free to send requests!!

[jackoshadows]

The only difference between Jon and Robb is Jon's special bond with Arya. It's not about Jon and his 'sisters'. It's about Jon and Arya.

I wish this fandom would stop diluting Jon's bond with Arya to shove Sansa in there when it does not exist in the books.

No, Sansa's 'ghost' does not linger over Jon! 5 mentions of Sansa in 42 POV chapters including one about how Sansa always reminded him he was a bastard is not Sansa's ghost haunting Jon's narrative.

Robb put his duty to the North above his family. Jon put his love for Arya above his duty to the realm. The only family member that Jon will break his most important sworn oaths for is Arya - and even there he spend an entire book angsting over whether he can save Arya until the very end where he snaps. That's how important his duty/oaths are to him.

Who was right? I can't say. Robb put his countryman above family. Jon put Arya over the realm. I can't criticize either one of them.

And Robb certainly loved Sansa more than Jon. He was so angry about Sansa's forced marriage to Tyrion that he wanted to behead Tyrion and kill him so that Sansa would be a widow.

It was just that Robb was helpless to assist Sansa in any feasible way that wouldn't put his campaign at risk. Catelyn releasing Jaime doomed Robb's campaign - this was what Robb was preventing from happening. And Sansa always had faith in Robb and knew he was trying his hardest to win back for the Starks.

Jon meanwhile was more concerned for why his friend Tyrion is now a kinslayer. We read no concern or worry for Sansa who has been forcefully married off to the enemy. The difference in his reaction to the marriages of Sansa and Arya is very telling.

I would also suggest that you read Jon ASoS XII to understand why Jon refuses Stannis' offer. (Please everyone, JUST READ THE BOOKS before spouting off fanon like how 'Sansa's ghost lingers over both boys')

Jon refuses the offer to be Lord of Winterfell because Stannis demands that he burn down the Winterfell Godswood and convert to the Lord of Light. As Jon considers the pros and cons of the offer, Ghost turns up with his red eyes and white skin and reminds Jon of a weirwood, the Old Gods and his oaths sworn in front of the Old Gods.

Jon then remembers how Ghost is a gift from the Old Gods and there is no way that he can burn down the WF weirwoods and accept Stannis' offer. His place was at the NW.

The direwolf had no answer, but he licked Jon’s face with a tongue like a wet rasp, and his eyes caught the last light and shone like two great red suns. Red eyes, Jon realized, but not like Melisandre’s. He had a weirwood’s eyes. Red eyes, red mouth, white fur. Blood and bone, like a heart tree. He belongs to the old gods, this one. And he alone of all the direwolves was white. Six pups they’d found in the late summer snows, him and Robb; five that were grey and black and brown, for the five Starks, and one white, as white as Snow.

He had his answer then - Jon, ASoS

The difference between Stannis' offer and Robb's decree is that the latter is from a much beloved brother who has no demands for Jon, like burning down the Godswood and giving up the Old Gods. It means all the world to Jon Snow that it's Robb who is naming him King in the North and Lord of Winterfell. The same brother who once told him he can 'never be Lord of Winterfell' is now legitimizing him as Stark and giving him Winterfell. This is closure for Jon and a resolution of his relationship with Robb. Of course he is going to accept Robb's decree!

And when Jon becomes Lord of Winterfell/KITN in the next book, he will do so as Jon Stark - it will be in 'Stark' hands! He doesn't have to pass it on to anyone else for it be in 'Stark' hands. As per Robb's decree, Jon's now one as well. And if his siblings love him, they will support him as leader of the North - considering he is the oldest, wisest and most experienced of them all.

Also remember that it was BOTH Robb Stark AND Catelyn Stark who decided that Sansa is disinherited as long as she is married to Tyrion. Why is it always just Robb getting the blame for this? The only disagreement between Robb and Catelyn was over who they would chose to be the new Lord of Winterfell - Catelyn wanted some distant cousin from the Vale and Robb wanted Jon.

So it is not just Stannis. It is a political decision. Jon used Sansa as an excuse to get Stannis to stop nagging him about accepting when he had already made up his mind. Jon also suggested that Stannis make Crowfood Umber Lord of Winterfell. Does that mean that Jon loves Crowfood Umber and Umber's ghost lingers over Jon?

So again, Sansa getting disinherited is plain politics. No one in the North wants the Lannisters getting control over Winterfell. NO ONE. Until Sansa requests and gets an annulment from the High Septon in KL she is out of the game for the Northerners. The only person who wants her as Lady of Winterfell is Littlefinger and I doubt anyone in the North is going to support him.

As a savvy politician familiar with the game, Jon would certainly understand where Robb and Cat where coming from wrt Sansa and the Lannisters and he is not going to make any decision different to theirs. If the North sides with him and wants him to be KITN/Lord of Winterfell as per Robb's decree, then he is going to accept. It's not a Southron king offering him Winterfell anymore. It's the North. It's Robb.

The only other opposing faction is Rickon supported by the powerful house Manderly. It's going to come down to between Jon and Rickon. That is until Arya and Bran makes a appearance.

You know what makes me feral? Robb Stark making Jon Snow his heir. From every single possible angle, it's just too good.

Robb's unfailing trust in his brother. His willingness to fight his mother for Jon, even after the Theon fiasco, and insist that Jon is different. Robb's love for his bastard brother is one of my favorite things about him, and the moment where he decides to make Jon his heir is truly Robb at his best.

And Jon never finds out. He turns down Stannis's offer of legitimization and Winterfell, not knowing that everything he ever wanted is already his. It drives me crazy, because it would mean so much to Jon. Even if he wouldn't abandon the Wall for it, he would want to know that Robb loved him enough to make him a Stark.

And Sansa! The way her ghost lingers over both boys. The way Robb and Jon think about their sisters is one of the major differences between them. Robb wouldn't give up his honorable war or his prisoner the Kingslayer to save two little girls. He disinherited Sansa when she was married to Tyrion, which is good military strategy to keep Winterfell out of Lannister hands, but would hurt her immensely if she knew.

And Jon is the opposite. Jon dies trying to get to Arya, because he will give up his honor and prioritize one little girl over a war against a literal army of the dead intent on annihilating all the living. (Not good military strategy, but Jon and Arya's bond is so important). And Jon won't take Winterfell when there's a chance Sansa will claim it. Even when Stannis calls her Lady Lannister, Jon does not dream of usurping Sansa's claim. I truly believe that Jon would sooner have Lady Sansa Lannister rule from Winterfell than claim it while she lives to keep it in "Stark" hands.

The politics of which Stark sibling holds the North is endlessly fascinating to me and I wish they could know what their siblings are doing for them. Jon should know that Robb made him a king. Sansa should know that Jon refused to take her home.

[lavalamps-and-ladydoors]

Do you think about this much? I can't tell if it crosses your mind often.

oh wow. buckle up my friend.

As Dan says in the Amazing Dan reaction video, "I was desperate to create my own brand on YouTube", you can see that desperation in his earlier videos especially pre 2012. I mean a lot happened that year, they move to London, start hosting a joint radio show and their brand becomes 'Dan and Phil'. Even past the phandom, shipping, privacy invasions, conspiracies ect, they were still known as Dan and Phil. Like they won the Radio 1 Teen award for best vlogger, even though they don't vlog and are two people.

They embraced it with the books and TATINOF, but looking back you can tell it was weighing on both of them, Dan especially. We now know that II was supposed to be the end, that it was both of them giving it their all, giving the people what they wanted before they stopped posting jointly. Honestly after seeing what they went through throughout those first 9 years it makes total sense why Dan would want that.

All of this makes the WAD era that much more gut punching. It must have meant the world to Phil to see his partner do this show. A show that was born out of so many 'failed' projects, pain, and injustice. He got to see Dan saving his own life over and over again, see him be authentic, help so many people. And throughout all of this Phil is having his own chronic health issues, the greenening, stresses ect. But we see him support Dan through it all, the texts in WDAPTEO 3+4, the orange heart tweet, promoting Dan's book when he wouldn't do it enough himself, he'll always be Dan's biggest cheerleader. They just love each other so much and its beautiful to see.

I love to see how Dan credits Phil in his solo projects. Most of the time it's not how one would expect someone to be credited. This type of work obviously happens all the time but Dan puts it into words and makes sure that we know at least a fraction of what Phil is doing.

'Special thanks to amazing phil for production assistance" (Basically I'm Gay)

'Archive Historian - Phil Lester' (Why I Quit YouTube)

'Creative Producer- Phil Lester' (Dystopia Daily)

'Remote Crisis Manger- Phil Lester' (We're All Doomed Tour)

I feel that people has underestimated Phil for so long, I remember people would hate on him for being less 'edgy' than Dan, for making different kinds of videos, even when he came out half the posts I remember seeing were comparing their videos and not appreciating that this man just came out. to millions of people...

I'm just so grateful to be in an era where they don't have to hide their appreciation for each other, where Dan can call Phil a power bottom, post pictures in a joint Halloween costume, and be genuinely proud that they beat Jesus/Jedus in a RPF shipping poll??

While the hiatus sucked I'm honestly glad it happened. I'm just so excited to see what Phil does next and when there is an eventual Phil solo project, I'll know Dan will be cheering him on the whole time🧡

[the-cat-and-the-birdie]

Hey, you.

If you're American, and you've been having a hard week egg for.. reasons -

I have something to say to the Americans.

Just remember.

They aren't immortal.

Nobility has lied for centuries. They told us they were placed on the throne by God - the rule of the king being the will of the Creator.

The French proved them wrong.

You are young. They are human. They will one day die.

And on the day they die - regardless of if hell is real or not - there will be a movement when they are laying on that death bed. They will feel their live slipping from their grasp.

And they will feel the fear.

The possiblity of eternal consequence.

They will fear what waiting for them on the other side. The one journey they cannot buy their way out of. The moment the bell tolls for thee.

And honestly, the thought brings me peace.

Trumo and Elon AREN'T demons - though it's so easy to think of them as so.

They are evil humans. And all humans die. Trump? He's 80. He's over three times my age. He's older than my grandmother. He eats McDonald's and Diet Coke like no one's business. Knock on wood I'm betting he's got ten years TOPS.

('I'll be the last president' - my ass. If you take a bad fall it's game over dude. You won't release your health records cause you're most likely due for a heart attack soon mfer. Your minions don't like your candy ass Junior enough to have him as a successor and Baron doesn't fucking care so realistically speaking whats your game plan here? 🤨 Elon's kids have too many daddy issues to take your place. You can't even use a sword. Napoleon would slay you where you fucking stand you pansy)

So if you've been struggling this week, I just wanted to remind you.

Black people won our civil rights without the support from the media, without online social networks, without the support from 90% of white people.

70 years ago, around when my grandma was born - I could not sit next a white person in school. If a white man was walking towards me on the street, I'd have to step into the gutter and let him pass. At risk of being actually killed by the whole town if not.

Nowadays in my city I could tell a white guy my age 'Fuck you!!' to your face. Middle finger and all. And they're not gonna put me in jail for it. No stranger is gonna jump in. The whole town isn't gonna care. If anything, people will just record.

That all happened in ONE generation.

So no matter what Trump does.

Remember. He's not immortal. He will die like we all do.

You're young. You'll have the rest of your life to reverse everything he's done.

That's the thing about personality cults. Once the personality is removed, the whole thing falls apart. And the personality in question is once again - an 80 year old who eats Big Macs and wears suits two sizes too large. A man who would probably get genuinely upset if you asked him to recite his 8 times tables.

If Trump dies in the next 10-20 years, before he turns 100, I'll be 35-45. a.k.a - my generation will be entering the older majority. Our generation will be the eldest and the most influencial. What then?

The Trumpettes won't have their leader for their personality cult so they'll have no one - not even their republican parents - to tell them who to think.

We'll be older, wiser. We'll teach our kids the signs. We'll tell them stories what to do, and invest pubic funds to conserve the history of our fight - to never be erased.

If you're scared this week, I understand.

But remember. We've fought harder with less - and we still won.

So keep your head up. Doom is the tool of the enemy. You keep going, you keep living, and you survive to tear down their legacy while the bastard spins in his grave.

Keep going. Keep your angry hearts and clenched fists. Hold on tight to your love and rage. And keep going.

That's what Hobie would want. That's what a Hobie is there to teach us.

Hope this helped someone, anyone, even if it was a little bit. If this helps you get through the day, or the next hour, with the smallest bit of hope - that's all I want.

Thanks for reading this far! Here's Hobie :)

--------------------------------------------------

And bonus:

Ayo I just gotta add this in here -

Word to god, and when I say this I say this with my whole chest -

I'd be DAMNED before I ever say I'm scared of Donald Trump.

First of all, I'm black and poor. There's been a white man wanting me dead since the moment I left my Mama's hoohaa and guess what, I'm still here. That mfer ain't special. Call me when the klansmen come not when done mfers with tiki torches cosplay call of duty.

Cause none of them coming to the hood..tf.. Try that shit in neighborhood with Bloods and Crips.. Y'all not the only ones with automatics and lots of money. It's just the black people with money and automatics keep shit quiet. If these racist mfers had ppl breaking in they house the way Kendrick had mfers breaking in Drake's with choppers they'd be terrified as fuuuckkk

And secondly there's 4chan fellas out there that probably legit jack off to the idea of a black queer trans person crying in fear. And those mfers can kiss my black ass and kick rocks cause I wake up every day smiling. So -

Anyway I'm done lol

I just had to get this out of my system lol. OKAY BYE FOR REAL

[idkkprincess]

Somebody That He Used To Know

Analyzing a little more on Post-Amnesia Shadow coming to face with his past.

Honestly, while Dark Beginnings did a great job showing us of the relationship between Shadow and Maria, Generations showed us what Shadow meant to Maria.

Not what Maria meant to Shadow, because this Shadow isn't her Shadow. He's different. Whatever fully happened on the ARK is lost.

And while, Maria cares for him regardless of what he can become. She knows something is wrong. She knows she hasn't seen him in a long time. She knows he's gone through things, she could only imagine.

This Shadow, has recovered from amnesia post-dying post-brainwashing, he only knows of Maria in certain aspects. He's never actually met her. It's kinda similar to his Pre-Genesis Archie counterpart, who never met her but knows of her and knows the pain of losing her. He knows so much about her because of how much her death has impacted his life. He doesn't really know why she cared for him, only that she did.

To Shadow, seeing both Gerald and Maria brings up things that he knows happened it's just that he doesn't recall them happening. He saved Maria, not because she was Maria, but because it was someone in danger.

A lot of what he does in the game with Maria is trying to reason with her. Especially with Maria's wish, because that is literately all he knows about her other than a few things here and there.

There hasn't been any confirmation that all of his memories have returned. Dark Beginnings, shows that he remembers part of things, especially closer to the ARK Incident. Even then, his memories are used more as a taunting devices from Black Doom than anything else most of the time.

I also still think he feels guilty about he death. He remembers most of his strong emotions, such feeling inadequate of failing at being her cure, her sacrifice to save him, or just the fact that he knew he wasn't going to fit in. Which he also still questions at the end of the Dark Beginnings because that is the only thing that is still relevant to his life.

At the end of the day, the ARK incident doesn't matter. He can't go back and fix it. Even Gerald tells him to not tamper the time stream. I think the reason why the "Let Me Save Gerald and Maria" story idea got dropped is because he has little to no idea who these people are or were to him now. At the beginnings he knows he should precent thier deaths, but at the same time he's busy. He learns more about them, more about his purpose and who they were. Because Gerald and Maria don't know him anymore and he doesn't know them that much either.

And that's why he cries again at the end of the game, because for the first time in a long time, his heart and his mind make sense. He finally understands why this hurt him as much as it did back then. He finally realizes why Gerald wanted to destroy the world and he seemed fine with it until he wasn't.

Shadow also seemed to understand why Maria seemed more important than Gerald in his mind. She stood by him and supported him to do better. Maria coddled Shadow. She was the supporting words that would guide him to be who needed to be. Unlike Gerald who kinda just let him do what he wanted. Gerald had the belief that Shadow would do the right thing, he's a scientist who believes in his work. For Maria, this is her first time understanding that people would grow and they would be something you can't control. Shadow is his own person at the end of the day, not something you plan out methodically. It was all experimental.

Shadow has always wanted them back for some odd reason he tends to bury. He just finally understood why and couldn't bear it.

“That which inspires us to our greatest good is also the cause of our greatest evil.” - Viktor, Arcane

[ink-stainedkiss]

Pretty When You Cry - Suguru Geto

Synopsis: The deed was done, Suguru knew what his future was, and no one was going to change his mind. Although, it wouldn’t hurt to give you false hope.

A/N: I’ve had this idea for a oneshot for a long time now and I hope you guys liked it as much as I did! I will drop part 1.5 of ‘Doomed to fall apart’ tonight and hopefully a new smau💕

Warnings: Manipulation, Angst, Toxic love, ClutLeader!Geto, You are so down bad (PLEASE GET UPPP).

Word count: 1.2k

In all honesty, Suguru felt…bad. Not for those lesser forms he slaughtered, no, but for you. Somehow, you had found him wandering back through the destroyed village, on his way to collect Mimiko and Nanako from the designated waiting space. Your hand gripped his wrist firmly and if you were anyone else, he would have killed you were you stood, but he could never bring himself to harm you. Or anyone back at Jujutsu Tech for that matter. He was stunned that you had found him, but the worst part was the look you gave him.

Your eyes scanned his tired face, searching for something that was already gone,”Suguru?” Oh, you sounded so desperate. You unconsciously gave his wrist a squeeze and instinctively, Suguru lifted his hand and cupped your cheek,”Hello, My love.” Without knowing, you leaned into his touch, but you noted how much colder he felt. His thumb began to softly caress the apple of your cheek and your heart crushed with sadness,”Why?”

The question was barely audible, your voice hesitant and cracking, but Suguru heard it. Coincidentally, you were the only one he hadn’t spoken to. He understood why. The two of you were in a very happy relationship, until the last mission. You had noticed how distant Suguru had become. The dark circles forming under his eyes, how he seemed to always be in another world, but you never realized how bad it was until it was too late. Suguru exhaled somberly, only deepening your worries,” I don’t expect you to understand. No one does, but you will. Someday into the future.”

This didn’t help. You were so confused and his mysteriousness was only making you upset. You really weren’t sure what explanation you hoped for from him. Would there ever be a logical reason for the gruesome things he did? You remembered the report. His own parents. The harder you think, the more you become disgusted with the hand holding you. Even as you stared at the man in front of you, his purple eyes, black gauges, and beautiful long hair telling you it was Suguru Geto, the dread you felt continued to remind you that he was long gone. After his response, you knew he wouldn’t give you an actual answer, so you moved on.

“Why did you never tell me?” You wanted to pull his hand away from your cheek. Punch him. Kick him. Scream and shout. Kill him. Although your mind would never allow it. You were so deeply in love with Suguru that it hurt. Suguru shook his head, giving you a look like you were a child needing a scolding,”Again, you wouldn’t have understood. I know you would have looked at me like I'm crazy and ruined my plans.”

He spoke to you like getting him help was the worst thing possible. Anger bubbled in your chest and you threw his wrist to the side, gritting your teeth,”So you go and kill an entire village?!” A light frown grew on Suguru’s face as he watched your emotions overflow,”You had so many people to talk to, but you decided to keep it to yourself! You’re so fucking selfish.”

You threw a punch, landing it harshly on Suguru’s jaw. He let out gasp, but you continued,”You ruined everything! I thought we were okay, that I was going to spend my life with you, but you and your fucking ego had to destroy it! I hate you so much.” Suguru should have been pissed, but as he turned back to you, clutching the newly developed bruise, he saw the tears welling in your eyes.

Your jaw was tight and he knew you were trying to hold them down. Behind your venomous words and threats, Suguru knew you wouldn’t do anything. You tossed another punch, but this time he caught your fist, his eyebrows furrowing while you unleashed your pent up anger,”I could have helped! We all could’ve! I hate you. I hate you! And you won’t even tell me why!”

Suguru held your other fist and you eventually fell into his chest, tears now streaming down your face. He hated how his heart felt heavy. You shoved your face closer into his loose t-shirt, soaking the material, all while mumbling one word under your breath,”Why?” Suguru now understood that you weren’t asking why he murdered those people, you were asking why he demolished the perfect future for you two.

It made Suguru smile knowing you truly didn’t care that he was killed, just that you weren’t able to stay with him normally. He showed no signs in answering your question, so instead he lifted your head, wiping away the streaks of sadness. Before you could open your mouth, Suguru slammed his lips into yours. Immediately you melted against him, shoving your hand into his hair. Your mouths moved in sync and it was as if nothing bad happened, like you were back to normal. It felt nice to taste you again, just as sweet as ever.

In between the moments of breath, Suguru heard your faint hiccups and muffled sobs. The hands on your face collected small droplets that continued to pour from your eyes. After a few minutes, Suguru pushed away, watching as your bloodshot eyes opened. Your nose and cheeks were dusted in a red and the tears blotching your face sparkled in the leaving sun. Suguru knows you would be livid, but you look so damn pretty when you cry. Your disheveled appearance reminded him of a lost fawn, crying for protection, and who was Suguru if he didn’t protect you. His finger pushed your hair behind your ear, smiling softly at your pathetic expression. So innocent, he thought.

It was honestly cute how even though Suguru had killed hundreds, you came running back into his arms after a kiss. He leaned in, placing another kiss that lingered. As he pulled away slowly, he let one sentence slip from his lips,”Would you like to join me, My love?” The question left you speechless. You stared into his eyes, only finding the utmost sincerity. He was genuinely asking you to leave behind Tokyo and join whatever ploy he is going to start.

It was wrong. So, so, terribly wrong. He killed people. His own parents. He wasn’t a good person, but then you watched his signature smile spread onto his face. One that brought bright and happy memories into your head. It was like a burst of ecstasy hit you. The two of you were standing in the middle of the crime scene. You were standing with the killer, but all you could see was your loving boyfriend. As your face softened, Suguru knew you were going to comply.

Giving a soft nod, you confirmed his thoughts,”Of course.” Suguru wrapped his arms around you, noting how your sobs calmed down. He knew you were only agreeing because you truly believed Suguru could turn back. You would have to realize this would never be true on your own. Soon enough, the realization that no one, not even his closest friends or teachers, not even you, could help him. However, as he held you in his embrace, he decided to give you the hope that maybe it could be done.

[lotus-pear]

rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening

[fun-esta]

[immortalmolloy]

Most people would have been scared away by what Louis had done. Daniel was not most people. He was nothing like normal. He found it thrilling and he wanted more.

His heart beat faster as the beautiful vampire moved closer to him. Armand could kill Daniel right now, sucking the life out of him, and it would be a pleasant way to go. If Armand didn’t kill him, then the possibilities were endless. Daniel was so excited and hopeful when earlier he had been ready to give up completely. He thought he would never meet a vampire again and was doomed. Now he had met not just any vampire but Armand. Daniel was absolutely fascinated by him. He was captivated by him, staring at him in awe. All vampires may be beautiful but none of them could surely compare with Armand. He could crush Daniel effortlessly like a bug and Daniel would thank him for it.

His gaze was drawn to Armand’s mouth. He yearned for those lips pressed to his own. He craved the feeling of Armand’s fangs in his neck. He wanted to see them then feel them pressed into his flesh draining his life force. It would be the height of intimacy having Armand hold him and drink his blood. He wanted to give himself to Armand in every way. ‘Take me. I’m yours,’ he thought desperately.

@auburnandamberangel

Daniel Molloy was searching for death, but it eluded him.

He spent endless days in New Orleans seeking Lestat. He yearned for the dark gift more than anything. After he’d met Louis, everything had changed. He could not simply return to his old life. No one would believe him about the vampires. They would think he was crazy. He couldn’t pretend as if it all never happened, couldn’t go on acting normal when he knew that there was another path.

He’d always had a hole inside of him that could not be filled, always craved more out of life. When he met Louis, he knew what it was he had been searching for all along. Louis kept it out of reach though. Louis tried to convince him that becoming immortal was not something to desire. It hadn’t scared him off though. If Louis would not give this to him then he would find another who would.

Luck was not on his side though. He had not found Lestat or any other vampire. He had not received the gift he was so desperate for. As time went on, his hope faded. He was driving himself crazy spending his days searching for vampires, constantly replaying every detail of the interview for any clues he may have missed. He began to despair.

Daniel knew what normal people did, but he was not normal. He knew what his family expected of him. He knew the future that was ahead of him. He would marry a woman he despised because it wasn’t acceptable to marry a man. He’d have a house with a white picket fence. He’d have children who would inevitably resent him. He would never write anything as significant as the interview. He’d end up getting old and most likely teaching journalism classes to a bunch of idiots. It was so boring he’d rather fling himself from a very tall building. If he couldn’t be a vampire, then he didn’t want to exist any longer in misery.

And then one night he felt something other than anguish. He felt a calling. He was being summoned. It drew him inexorably, like a magnet. He went outside and greeted death.

[bucket-puns]

Jubilation.

SOPHIE BAYBEY. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK. OKAY LAST BLSMP FANART FOR REAL. SOPHIE ACTIVATED A SLEEPER AGENT.

[autisticrosewilson]

So do you guys actually think that Jason's entire story, relationship to the others, and philosophy amounts to him being a rebellious teen who wants his dad's attention? Like are you 100% serious? I thought you were joking about that but too many of you are saying it with your whole chest.

And what the fuck is this "Bruce antagonizing Jason is fanon!" Shit I've been seeing? You guys are aware that a parent can love their kid and still be a shit parent right? I know you guys don't want to fathom the thought that maybe your blorbo might also occasionally have to face responsibility for consistently endangering children but let's not start being delusional now.

Bruce does love his kids, that doesn't mean that he hasn't hurt them. And I'd also argue that for the most part he feels in the right for it, and he's said multiple times that he believes it's for their own good, so you can't even argue that he's sorry about it. It's okay for you guys to admit that your PERSONAL INTERPRETATION of the character wouldn't do that but don't sit here and pretend that it's not a facet of the source.