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athenaluciscaelum · 16 days ago

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Note: @pandapenguinnn thank you for making this request. As I said, even though I have lots of criticism with the new Netflix DMC series, I would like to explore even this alternative of Dante. That being said I hope you enjoy reading this and I did justice to your request. I think I took a few liberties but only where nothing was specified.

Best Friends

Let's Rock!

Pairing: Netflix Dante x GN Reader

Rated: General

Words: 3009 words

Warning: very lil gore and child abuse

Disclaimer:

Feel free to leave comments, but remember to be nice and civil.

Dante's life, to say the least, was unfortunate. After the demons attacked the Sparda Mansion located in Red Grave, in the suburbs and very secluded suburbs of New York. Dante was a scared eight-year-old child. He was crying as he came out of the closet. The whole mansion was burnt down...but somehow the structure and the closet remained intact; Eva's body lay lifeless in the living room...and Vergil was nowhere to be found, presumed dead. Dante was in shock, sitting near his mother's lifeless body... The mansion behind a forest strip was isolated and cut away from most of the society. What was supposed to be a safe haven turned into ashes. Dante soon felt the hunger, cold and loneliness. He stood up, not thinking much...deep in pain and sorrow...walking into the forest...he kept walking and walking and walking. He doesn't even remember how long he has been walking ...but soon he reached a place... There was one store in a rather isolated area. Dante sneaks in... with no money... his only option was to steal...as he tries to steal some food... a man grabs his arms and raises his hand to strike... Dante quickly blocks himself and strikes him back, his strength too much, making the man stumble and fall against the rows of racks. Dante takes the opportunity, picking and running away with the stolen food... He gets by for a few weeks by stealing, pickpocketing, trying to find food from trash and living in an abandoned place.

Soon he was found by some organisation workers; Dante was taken into the government custody and taken to New York, where he was handed to the Child Care Service. Dante was a tough nut to crack. He was a beautiful child with peculiar white hair and those icy blue eyes. His family were quick to take him in and even consider adopting him.

Dante was happy with the idea of being loved and accepted again. His new foster family was a couple in their thirties with two of their own biological sons. Dante tried to be a nice kid and fit in; he didn't want to end up on the streets, cold and hungry. But in his foster home, Dante was daily mocked and bullied by his foster siblings, which was brushed off by their foster parents as 'kids being kids'. Dante had nightmares every night...making him cry and scream for his mother every night. At first, his foster mother was attentive to him, but after a week, she was irritated to the point of shouting and cursing at him. Dante felt his heart drop as she shouted at him; his unparalleled strength also made him subject to punishment, as he would continuously break dishes and furniture. But he tried to keep his sorrow and anger in; he tried to fit in. He was miserable; the last straw came when one day, as his foster siblings were bullying him, he pushed one of them, unaware of his own strength... The boy broke a few bones. He swore on his dead mother it was not intentional, but the heavy hand striking his cheeks heated and red made him angry beyond the point. He pushed back, causing more damage than intended, leaving more than one family member with broken bones and no more. Dante's foster mother cursed at him as she shouted at the top of her lungs, "He is a demon child; no doubt his mother and brother are dead! I'm sure he is the problem!"

Dante was labelled as a problem and violent child. He was sent to the orphanage. By now he was nine. Dante felt lonely and unwanted and hoped to escape the orphanage each day. But it provided food and shelter. So he stayed.

Soon he was enrolled in school when he was ten, and there he met you. The kindest child among all the bullies. You came up to him in the class and sat beside him; he looked lonely. You asked sweetly, "Hey, do you want to play?" Dante looked away out of the window and answered, "No." You blinked and spoke confused, "Why not? Let's go..." Dante huffed, "No one likes me; you won't either. Everyone hates me eventually." You blinked your cute eyes and spoke amused, "Why? And hate is a bad word." Dante looked at you, and he felt warmth? He blushed and spoke sadly, "Because I hurt everybody...that's what they say...that I even hurt my own mother..." You looked at him confused, "That's so dumb..." Dante laughed and said, "Isn't dumb a bad word too?" You put your finger on your lips and shush, "Don't tell my mom."

You and Dante were playing during recess; after a while, you pulled out your appetising lunch of a sandwich, juice, trail mix and fruits. Dante sat with you quietly on the grass. You looked at him, "Are you not hungry?" Dante shook his head, "I have nothing to eat." Your eyes go wide, "What!!!???"

From that day, you made sure to pack Dante lunch each day; your mom might not agree to it. So you took it upon yourself. It was your duty to feed Dante. You shared your games with him, you both listened to new music from your iPod, and you both studied together, though Dante was terrible at it. Not because he was not intelligent. It was just that he was much of a rebel. He had a different way to approach things, which didn't fit in with conventional class learning. You too shared all about each other's lives. So you knew everything he knew about himself. All the guilt he had, and with time, you were able to reassure him that his mother's death was not his fault and he was just a child. You spoke like the ten-year-old you were. You spoke, drinking your juice from a straw in a trying to be mature way, "You were just eight, a child; we can't properly tie shoelaces; your mother said to stay safe, so focus on honouring her wish, okay?" And it all clicked for Dante.

Dante didn't stay in the orphanage system for long. He left the orphanage by twelve and started to visit Bobby Cellar to become a handyman... whatever one will hire him for. He will do; he just does not want to care. Everyone laughed at him at first. A seven-foot man walked up to him, putting a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dante effortlessly threw him across the cellar to the wall with an arrogant smile. He spoke coolly, "Anything else?" Enzo was first to squirm up to him, "Lil buddy, you want a job? I will give you a job...we are in for a long haul. I can't see…lifetime partnership!" Dante's first few jobs were in different groups. He was protecting someone, keeping an eye on the cop for some gang or petty theft. He never lost connection with you. You were his best friend after all, but your parents were now against you seeing him for obvious reasons. But you will meet him. You guys will meet in an abandoned apartment he came to occupy, filling it with a stolen leather couch, some mattresses, bedding, and a jukebox he got all from second-hand stores or scrapyards. You gave him an earful for stealing. You will hang out in his 'place' a lot. Sometimes, you two will be singing karaoke at the top of your lungs, dancing to the jukebox, and playing on the arcade he promised he didn't steal. Sometimes it will be quiet; you will be reading him a story, telling him about your day at school, sharing your school books and knowledge with him. Dante to your surprise, likes math and somewhat physics – something about knowing how guns go bam! Or how he can modify his motorcycle himself got him going. Dante was also thankful that you brought him real food and sometimes cooked on the little stove he got in his apartment. He will find himself looking at you. He will be admiring you. And then refused to accept internally that there is anything more than friendship. As a twelve-year-old, it was eww, right? You both will walk hand in hand and tease each other; he will put a strand of hair behind your ear, or he will pick a random trinket for you from his missions. You both tried every pizza place in the town.

Your parents found out about you meeting Dante when you were sixteen. They saw you walking with Dante holding hands with him. You were explicitly told to never see Dante again. You were grounded and chaperoned everywhere. It was the death of your social life. To think from their perspective, their teenage child was hanging out with a person labelled as mercenary, stayed a few nights in lockups, and is known to be bad news. The last thing they wanted was for Dante to get their hands on their precious child. But Dante wasn't one to budge. He would crawl up to your room at night. You both will talk about each other's day, keeping your voices really low, or he will even go to the library just to see you. Dante was now more in the sphere of taking an actual demon job and wanted to keep you at arm's length. Not wanting to seize friendship but also trying not to be seen in public together. He would now look at you in a totally different light. Your lips looked so soft, your skin so warm and your scent so strong. But you didn't change your perfume. To his lack of awareness...the strange mix of his raging teen hormones and demonic heritage mingling to drive him more and more crazy about his only comfort in the world.

Dante tried to brush these feelings off...it was you, his best friend. But he would still hold your hand longer after all; you were so clumsy, or press you a little more into a tighter hug. After all, he should give you a good hug; you were best friends. Or making sure you dated no one, to think Dante can't let his best friend fall for a wrong person. Dante was just being a best friend. Yeah, right? Wrong

He can't keep this up when, at night, he woke up sweating and feeling something akin to his first 'heat' and could only think of you. Like what will your body feel like pressed against him while cuddling, or how your lips will feel on his cheek or how his fingers will feel kneading your soft curves? Dante snapped, looking at the broken mirror, throwing splashes of cold water in his face. No! No! He kept saying himself. He tried to entertain the idea of dating someone else, but it made him feel like throwing up.

It was your last year of high school. So you were busy preparing for your finals and applying to college. Dante kept looking at you as you were deep in papers and books and libraries while studying or filling out applications. Dante spoke, "Y/N, isn't all this boring?" You shook your head, "No, it's actually what I want from life." Dante thought, "Life, huh? What else do you want from life? Not a dashing boyfriend like me?" You swatted his shoulder, "You are such a tease," and rolled your eyes. Dante held your chin and turned your face. "Look at me..." You were surprised, flustered and stuttering, "D-D-Dante!" Everyone in the library looked at you, and you were more embarrassed now.

As you two walked home. You were too embarrassed to address what happened in the library, and Dante was not sure how much he should push you. Dante's hands were stuffed in his trench coat pocket; he broke the silence, "Wanna come over to my place to play video games?" You shook your head and spoke a little stressed, "Dante...I have an entrance test for a university lined up soon..." Dante looked sad; he spoke unsure, "Will you leave New York?" You thought, "Hopefully not if I got into college here. But I have applied in quite a lot ...so my first choice is to stay in New York, but if that doesn't happen ..." Dante frowned and took your hand... He pulled you and spoke urgently, "Come with me!" You asked him, amused and with a grin on your face, "To where..." Dante spoke smiling, looking back at you as he brought you to his motorcycle, "To relax, stress and important exams aren't a good mix!" Dante took you for a long and calming ride in the evening as the sun was going down. He left you home like a gentleman by 09:00PM.

A few weeks later, at 09:00AM in the morning, you rushed into Dante's apartment without knocking and shook his sleeping form with a grin on your face, "Dante! Dante! I'm staying in New York; I got into college here! I will just be moving out of my parents house! But I'm not going away..." Dante hugged you tight and pulled you into his bed; your smile faded and was replaced with uncertainty as you lay with him in his bed. You both are facing each other...you spoke unsure, "Dante...." Dante rubbed his nose against your nose, "Congratulations, Y/N." You pulled away and sat up on his bed. You didn't look happy; you were conflicted. Dante's heart sank...did he fuck up? Dante was trying to find words, but none came out, "I-I-I-I." You sighed, hanging your legs from bed... You spoke hesitantly, "I have lots of preparations to do...so I will see you around...this is my new apartment address...I'm moving in by tonight." You quickly put your jacket back on and ran out of the door. Dante puts his head in his hands and curses himself, "I'm such an idiot..."

At night, you lay in your new apartment bed feeling dizzy ...you remember the proximity with Dante, and it makes your head spin...last night you were out late without your jacket on, and it was really freezing cold. This didn't help your physical health as well. You felt sick...you tried to brush it off as a common cold and kept pushing yourself. It was a bad idea. You are badly sick now and bedridden for a week. You didn't even have the strength to go to your phone and ask for help. Or didn't want to ask for help. You were somehow making yourself microwaved food and passing by.

For Dante, it was hell. He thought he lost you over a silly mistake. He was on the edge for the week, with no furniture left unbroken, no demon life spared, and no person who tried to flirt with him not scared away with a glare. Dante had enough... He found the piece of paper in his apartment that has your new apartment address on it... He ran and jumped roof over roof to make it to the given address as quickly as possible... He got on the door, jumping from the roof to the staircase, and banged on the door. Dante shouted, "Open up, Y/N, I know I'm a pain in the ass, but we are best friends; please do not abandon me like this... you are all I got, and I..." He paused, "I love you..." He was tired and sat against your door on the porch... You slowly stood up to open your door, covered in a blanket and coughing. But the door came down on itself. Your voice was weak but unsurprised, "Dante, I was sick, not ignoring you... Just come in." Dante looked at you; his heart dropped. You looked so pale, frail and gloomy. He liked you full of colour, energetic and smiling. He quickly gathered you in his arms and settled you on the bed. Your room was in the worst condition. This was so painful to him, as you were the person who always lectures him about keeping himself clean. It dawned upon him how ill you must be and how much toll it took on your body. He was angry as well...as you didn't try to call and reach out for help. Dante checked your temperature; it was 103.5° F. If you weren't so ill, he would have shaken your whole body for being such a dumb ass. Dante didn't know much about caring for a sick person since he never got sick. But he saw in movies that you are supposed to put a wet towel on an ill person's forehead to bring down temperature. He did exactly that as you were asleep. He couldn't exactly cook, so he ordered some soup and porridge for you. Also, he ran down to the pharmacist to get you medications and cough drops. When you woke up, he brought a bowl of soup to bed, which was followed by medication. Dante was upset and spoke one word, "Why?" You sniffle, "Because I thought I should be independent. I didn't want my parents to think I can't take care of myself, so I didn't tell them. I didn't tell you because I ...." Dante sighed, "You don't have to reply positively, you know... Just let me be your best friend... Forget it... Rest for now... If you aren't well by night... I'm taking you to the doctor."

You nodded, realising this conversation needed you both to be fit. By the next morning, you felt much better; Dante was sleeping on the couch... You poked his cheeks to wake him up. He grinned, his beautiful sleepy face so perfect in the morning. You can get used to waking up to this. Dante smiled, his hand on your forehead, then on your cheek, "Hmmm...your temperature is normal...are you feeling okay?" You smiled, "Well...I'm standing…" Dante stood up to make you some eggs and toast. You held his hand, your forehead against his ripped and dreamboat of a chest. Your fingers intertwined with his, he froze.

You summoned your courage, "Dante... I love you too…."

#dante devil may cry #dante sparda #devil may cry #dmc dante #dante #dante x reader #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry 3 manga #athena speaks #fantiction #netflix devil may cry #netflix dante

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tragedygroupie · 7 months ago

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babysitter blues

cw: LEGAL age gap, fingering, praise kink, loss of virginity, p in v, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it!), daddy kink, blink and you’ll miss it dacryphilia, authority kink (???), imbalanced power dynamic kinda???, alexandria rick, kind of long winded buildup to the smut, brief substance use (alcohol), soft dom! rick… yeah that’s all i can think of rn.

your entire life had been colored by an overwhelming sense of inertia. tucked away in the mundane labyrinth of the suburbs, not even the advent of the apocalypse could blot out the pervasive sense of ennui that had followed you since childhood. the horrors of the newly established outer world, the grotesque undead and the occasionally more dangerous still living were completely unknown to you. the apocalypse had not annihilated your reality, it merely redefined the confines of your sequestration.

life in alexandria was largely a matter of finding a way to pass the time. girls that barely qualified as adults weren’t exactly hot commodities, rarely sought out for anything, so it fell on you to fill the hours until the end of the world.

sometimes it was reading, which slowly morphed into a project of creating a library for the community, almost entirely curated from your own collection, with some generous donations here and there from bemused older folks surprised that young people still cared about that kind of thing.

other times it was babysitting, which started largely as preemptive measure to get out of being assigned any kind of work that would require any amount of physical activity. sure it was lazy, but you enjoyed the company of most of the kids, and they all liked you, enchanted by the whimsical dresses you wore and the stuffed animal army you had at your disposal.

truly, the only visible sign that you were experiencing an apocalypse rather than another red hot american summer were the bags under your eyes, perpetually exhausted from the never ending parade of nightmares that left you jolting awake, violently gasping for air.

a girl like you had no business hanging around a man like rick grimes. perpetually tense, eyes wildly darting around like he was itching to drive the butter knife he spread his jam with into the throat of some unspecified assailant. a bloody splash of color in your grayscale world. he was unlike anything you’d ever seen, a Marlboro man, blue collar through and through, from the dirt that he could never seem to fully rid his nails of to the rough, calloused hands that secretly made your mouth water.

this was the apocalypse, yet your sense of self preservation was as brittle as it’d been when you were sixteen. all your snark, that goddamn mouth that always got you in trouble evaporated when you were around him, replaced with an unfamiliar earnestness that made you cringe internally. you tried, really you did, to not follow him around like a lovesick puppy, to think of reasonable pretenses for your incessant need to be in his proximity, and fortunately enough, you quickly found an in.

no matter how adept rick was in this new world, he seemingly struggled when it came to childcare. when it came to his daughter, he was wildly protective yet somehow simultaneously clueless, and the first time you saw something approaching relief flash through his eyes was when you offered to look after her.

truth be told, rick didn’t quite know what to make of you. you were soft without being stupid, sheltered but not maddeningly clueless, and your eagerness to listen to him when everyone else dismissed him as paranoid endeared you to him in a way no one else in Alexandria quite managed. when you offered to look after judith, the last thing he thought was that you’d become a distraction. you were pretty, sure, but you were young enough to be his daughter, and if there was one thing rick grimes wasn’t, it was cliché.

but goddamn did you make it hard. his life in the new world had been characterized by leaving absolutely no room for error, every potential outcome identified and accounted for. yet in his brief respite from having to care for his daughter entirely by himself, he failed to consider that you wouldn’t just be a hot flash of want that pulsed through his veins whenever he happened to run into you, you’d be in his home. he was a stronger man than most, but he was still a man, and being in such close proximity to that kind of temptation was enough to drive anyone crazy.

every time he walked through the door it was something new. sitting on the floor with your hands outstretched, beckoning judith to crawl towards you, oblivious to your skirt riding up your parted thighs. bending over the cradle to kiss her good night, while the cotton of your already short dress just barely covered your ass.

you may not have been completely clueless about the dangers outside the walls, but you were downright brainless when it came to the effect you had on him, and it was that very lack of awareness that had him fucking his fist in the shower, coming with a groan to the thought of those pretty, naive eyes looking up at him as he split you open. it wasn’t enough, like putting a bandaid over a cut that sliced to the bone, but it was a safety valve, it kept him from doing something stupid.

today shouldn’t have been any different from the routine he had established. he got home as dusk started to settle, having made an extra effort to see judith before she went to bed. he tried to leave the frustrations of today at the door, determined to be a good father, to exact control over the flaming emotions that licked up his chest, stopping the spread before he became engulfed.

as soon as he hears your voice, with its lilting quality as you respond to judith’s babbling, the hard lines that have taken up a virtually permanent residence on his forehead soften. he walks across the threshold, into the living room where you’re sprawled across the couch, judith sitting on your lap. you get up, and he has a blissful few seconds to admire the dress you’re wearing, a little white dress with embroidered flowers better suited for frolicking in a garden than waiting out the end of the world, before you open your mouth to greet him.

“look who’s here judith! daddy’s here!”

fuck.

he knows you didn’t mean it like that, and a better man wouldn’t have thought anything of it. a clearly innocent comment shouldn’t have the blood draining from his head and rushing towards his dick, but the way that word rolls off your tongue is downright sinful. his face is an impenetrable mask of cordiality, concealing his desire as he answers.

“how’re my girls?”

it’s more forward than he’d be under any other circumstances, but he can’t help it, he needs to see if his words affect you the way yours do him. sure enough, a rosy blush blossoms across your cheeks as you hand Judith to him. the words rattle around your head, and you make a mental note to remember it for later, when you’re alone and twilight has fallen, so you can replay it in earnest.

“she’s been wonderful, we had so much fun today, didn’t we Judith?”

you go on, filling him in with details about the day, your voice becoming a pleasant hum that barely filters through, he’s too busy looking at you. all soft curves to his taut muscles, hands that’ve never seen a day of hard work. fragile things like you normally fill him with a vague sense of irritation, if not downright disgust, but with you it’s different, the overwhelming need to lay claim to the last bit of silken sweetness in this apocalyptic wasteland threatening to undo him.

dimly, he becomes aware that you’re asking if he wants to put Judith to bed tonight, and a dull panic sets in. you can’t leave, not yet, not until he’s gotten to feel you.

“i’d like to see how you do it. for future reference” he says, his voice cool and glacial, completely devoid of the growing desperation blooming in his abdomen.

you nod, secretly proud at the prospect of teaching him something. he’s so worldly, so knowledgeable in things you hadn’t even conceived, and the idea of him wanting to learn from you about anything makes you feel mature, no longer a lovesick puppy yapping at his heels.

you three go to judith’s nursery, and when he passes her to you, you begin to show him the routine you’ve established. it’s quick, nothing flashy, just getting her changed into her pjs, singing a quick song, and stroking her hair until she falls asleep. mercifully, she’s out like a light, and the two of you creep out of her room, careful not to disturb her. when you get into the hall, you avoid his eyes, unsure of what to do now. you see him so rarely, and without the buffer of Judith, you feel small again, all that newfound maturity fleeting, like it was never there.

rick has to suppress a smirk at your shyness, and after a beat of silence, he’s unable to resist making an offer.

“you want a drink?”

you look up at him, trying in vain to hide your excitement.

“sure.”

one drink follows another, though you never quite manage to get rid of the grimace that accompanies each swig. its endearing, he knows you’re only drinking this shitty beer because he offered it, trying to convince him that you can handle yourself. you’re sitting together on the couch, and the once respectable distance between the two of you has shrunk down considerably, your knee against his as you go on and on, talking about anything that catches your fancy. to his credit, he doesn’t seem to mind, nodding and trying to focus on your words rather than how soft and warm your thigh feels pressed against his.

“i know the whole library idea seem… frivolous, but you should come by sometime. i can recommend you something good.”

he smirks, his voice coming out low and measured.

“never said that darlin. i just don’t have a whole lot of time for reading.”

you shake your head, your voice earnest in a way that would leave you mortified if you were sober, trying to ignore the pang of need in your cunt at the pet name.

“bullshit. you’ve probably just… never read a good book. with the way the world is… who doesn’t need escapism sometimes?”

he nods, clearly humoring you. it’s nice to see you passionate about something, even if he shares absolutely no interest in it. he notices how you shift next to him, your thighs pressing together at the pet name, and makes sure to take note of it.

“amen to that.” he says, taking another swig from the bottle you’ve been sharing.

when he looks back at you, you have a dreamy, far away look in your eyes. he raises an eyebrow at you, his voice coming out teasing.

“have i got something on my face?”

you shake your head earnestly, your voice coming out achingly sincere.

“you have really nice eyes.”

he scoffs, amused by the observation. it’s something you’d normally be too scared to say to him, but the beer has clearly loosened your inhibitions, and goddamn if he doesn’t love it.

when you lean towards him, your lips meeting his softly, all unsure and sweet, it’s all he can do to not groan. this is wrong, you’re young enough to be his daughter, he should be the adult here, put a stop to this and gently tell you that you deserve better than him.

instead, he finds himself kissing you back, all those good, proper sentiments dying in his throat as he pulls you into his lap, his mouth never leaving yours. his hands are all over you, exploring every inch of the soft, supple flesh he’s been craving for god knows how long. you’re trying to keep up, your mouth clumsy and shy against his, but he’s relentless, his tongue slipping into your mouth as he kneads the plush of your ass through your white lace panties.

your dress is riding up your thighs, and it’s all he can do to not tear it off you. he knows he needs to be gentle, he gets the sense that you haven’t got much experience in this arena, even though his more primal instinct is to push you against the wall and fuck you till you see black. instead, his hands creep up your thighs, until he’s cupping your clothed cunt, your panties already dewy with arousal.

“fuck baby, all this for me?” he asks, his voice teasing as he marvels at how easily aroused you are. all this from a few kisses, it’s really just too easy.

you let out a keening whine, your hips instinctively rocking your cunt against his hand, desperate for any amount of friction. you nod desperately, too dumbstruck for words.

he chuckles, slowly starting to rub you through your underwear.

“use your words, pretty girl.” he says, his voice half joking, but with an undercurrent of seriousness, a warning that he’ll stop if you don’t comply.

your eyes flutter shut, the puffy sleeves of your dress falling down your shoulders as your hands go to grip his big arms.

“all.. for… you” you pant, your cheeks burning red.

it’s embarrassing really, how soaked your panties are. it makes you feel like a slut, but you know you wouldn’t get this way for just anyone. you couldn’t imagine being this easy for someone else, and if you were more clear headed you’d try to tell him, but all you can do is mewl pathetically, frustrated by how the lace of your panties dilutes the feeling of his fingers on you.

he chuckles, reading you like a book. he moves the lace aside, dipping his index finger into your aching cunt, biting back a groan when you gasp.

“that feel good, baby?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you let out a whiny mhmmm, and he allows it, pumping steadily while the rough pad of his thumb rubs circles onto your clit. when he curls his thick finger inside you, you swear you see stars, and your nails dig into the weathered muscles of his arms.

“oh fuck, daddy” you mumble, too far gone to notice or care that you slipped up, oblivious to how his eyes light up at your words.

“poor thing… those little fingers just don’t do it for you, do they? can’t reach that far, isn’t that right?” he says, condescension dripping from his voice.

you nod furiously, your hips bucking into his touch as your head lolls forward, letting him pull you closer into his arms as you whimper out a response.

“s-so close daddy”

he coos at you, that sweet desperation making him throb in his jeans. normally he’d make you work for it, make you respond to all his questions to build good habits (because there would be a next time), but he figures he’ll go easy on you just this once, especially when you plead so pretty.

“go on baby. make a mess f’me.” he says encouragingly, and that’s all it takes for you to come, burying your forehead into his chest as you ride out your high.

when you go limp, he starts stroking your hair, maneuvering your head so you’re facing him. he kisses you again, and it takes a moment before you kiss him back, your brain still partially fogged over from pleasure.

“you act like no one’s ever made you cum before” he says teasingly, and when your face flushes it just confirms what he already thought: you’re a virgin.

you avoid his eyes, your voice coming out all shy and flustered.

“i don’t really have much experience… is that a problem?”

he has to resist the urge to scoff, because no, that is absolutely not a problem. if anything, it makes him want you more. but he doesn’t want to scare you, so he just tilts your chin up so you’re looking at him, his hand cupping your cheek.

“it’s not a problem at all, honey. just wanna make sure you’re okay with all this.”

it takes all his self restraint to ask you that, because his jeans feel far too tight and all he wants to do is bury himself inside you before he preemptively blows his load, but he knows he needs to make sure you’re ready, that you want this too. despite everything, he’s still trying to be a good man.

you look up at him, and you nod, your pupils all blown out and hazy.

“ ‘m sure.” you say softly, before reaching up to kiss him.

he savors the kiss, giving you a moment before he stands up. you let out a small squeak, your thighs immediately going to wrap around his waist, looking at him in confusion.

“what, did you think i was gonna take your virginity on the damn couch? i’m not a goddamn animal” he grumbles, looking at you with fond irritation as you giggle.

he presses his lips to yours to keep you quiet, sloppily making out with you as he makes his way to the bedroom. when he gets inside, he lays you down on the bed gently, his mouth never leaving yours.

he gets you undressed in no time, not giving you a hard time about the fact that your white lace panties and bra are matching (almost like you were asking for it), and when your unsteady hands finally finish fumbling with his belt you get to see his cock for the first time. and fuck is he huge.

he looms over you, his arms caging you in as he presses warm kisses to your neck, trying to ease your worry. when he pushes in, he goes all the way, burying himself to the hilt. your eyes roll back in your head, letting out a soft cry as you snake your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you as he lets you adjust.

when he starts to move, he sets a slow, steady pace, and the ache gives way to newfound pleasure, your eyes screwing shut as he goes deeper than you knew was previously possible.

“fuck baby. you’re so fucking tight.” he mumbles, sucking a bruise onto your neck as you let out a moan.

when he’s sure you’re not gonna break, he starts to pick up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder and more pointed, earning whimpers and moans that seem to come from deep in your gut. tears start to fall down your cheeks, not from pain but from a combination of pleasure and being so overwhelmed.

“you cry so pretty, baby.” he says, angling his thrusts to hit that spongy spot inside your walls.

your face scrunches up as you get that newly familiar coiling feeling in your stomach, and you blearily open your eyes to look up at him, your bottom lip quivering.

“daddy… can i cum, please?” you whimper brokenly, and if he wasn’t almost there already, that definitely pushed him.

“such a sweet thing, asking permission on her first time. you can come baby, go on” he responds, his firm grip on your hips teetering dangerously close to bruising.

when you come, he can feel you pulsating around him, squeezing him like a goddamn vice, trying to milk him for all he’s got. it only takes a few more sloppy thrusts for him to join you, coming in you with a groan.

once you both came down from your highs, you turned to him, your body exhausted and spent. you weren’t exactly sure what he expected of you, you’d never hooked up with your employer before and all conventions about appropriateness were completely out the window when you had his spend dripping down your thighs.

“can i stay the night?” you ask quietly, your cheeks red with embarrassment.

to your relief, he just chuckles and pulls you closer, your head resting on his chest as he wraps an arm around you.

“sweet girl, i’d be a right asshole if i sent you home like this.”

you smile, quickly falling asleep in his arms. and for what feels like the first time in months, rick finds himself dozing off without much of a fight too.

#the walking dead #twd #rick grimes #rick grimes smut #rick grimes x reader #the walking dead smut

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msbigredmachine · 2 months ago

Text

The Boy Next Door: The Final Chapter

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 9.2k

💥TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains DARK THEMES. Please proceed with caution💥

“A quiet Connecticut suburb, forever scarred by the horrors hidden within one of its most luxurious homes.”

The news anchor droned on, her voice steady and professional, but still laced with the brand of disbelief that accompanied covering something too monstrous to fully comprehend.

“Authorities have confirmed that Mateo Hobbs, the serial killer Florida law enforcement has been tracking for the past eighteen months, has been apprehended. Linked to multiple kidnappings and murders spanning the East Coast, Hobbs recently embedded himself in an affluent Hartford, Connecticut neighborhood, hiding in plain sight.

“Perceived as a quiet, unassuming neighbor, Hobbs, using the alias Roman Reigns, was in reality, a ruthless, sociopathic predator. With deep ties to the notorious Samoan Sons crime syndicate in California, he’s alleged to have orchestrated a string of brutal crimes from Georgia to Florida all the way up to Connecticut, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake.

His reign of terror came to a violent end yesterday when he was shot by authorities during a tense hostage standoff in the basement of his Hartford mansion.”

The scene cut to an aerial view of Roman’s sprawling mansion, its pristine exterior now marred by crime scene tape and the steady movement of forensic teams. Uniformed officers and cadaver dogs scoured the property, methodically searching the grounds, the basement, and hidden crawl spaces for any remaining evidence of his crimes.

“His latest victim, Ivy Jones, a registered nurse and a single mother of one, had been missing for nine harrowing days. Jones, who was Hobbs’ next door neighbor and rumored to be his lover, was found in his basement, in critical condition but alive. Investigators say she was subjected to severe physical and psychological torture before she was found by authorities. Sources close to the case confirm that she was not the first woman to suffer at Hobbs’ hands—but so far, she has been the only one to make it out alive.

“Hobbs has now been linked to many more unsolved murders including the brutal killing of a pregnant woman whose remains were discovered months ago in a shallow ditch in the woods in this very neighborhood. Further investigation led authorities to a horrifying discovery within the basement of his mansion—two bodies, decomposing in separate barrels. The victims have been identified as local fitness coach Bianca Belair and attorney Gemini Beaufort. Both women had been reported missing in recent weeks, their disappearances previously unexplained.”

A pause, heavy with implication and omen.

“While authorities believe Hobbs acted alone, the full scope of his crimes remains unknown. Investigators are combing through evidence recovered from the property, searching for additional victims. The case remains open, and the search for answers continues.”

The broadcast cut to a clear image of Roman Reigns, reduced to a face on a screen, forever tied to death and destruction.

“For now, the nightmare is over. But for those who suffered at his cold, callus hands, the scars remain.”

Ivy drifted toward consciousness at a snail’s pace, the world around her emerging in fragments. First came the sterile scent of antiseptic, a smell she knew all too well. Then the steady, rhythmic beeping of a heart monitor, the faint hum of fluorescent lights, the muffled voices of nurses and doctors moving through the halls.

A heavy fog clung to her thoughts, making it difficult to pull herself fully into wakefulness. Her body ached—deep, radiating pain that pulsed through her limbs and settled in her chest. She inhaled, the simple act an effort, her ribs protesting with a dull, bruising throb.

She shifted slightly, and that was when she became aware of the wires. The thin, plastic tubing taped to her arm, the small pinch where an IV needle was inserted into her skin. It was wrong. Foreign. She was always the one on the other side of the hospital bed, checking vitals, adjusting drips, reassuring patients. Never the one lying there, helpless, under observation.

Her eyelashes fluttered as she forced her heavy lids open. The room was shadowed in a pale yellow light spilling from the small lamp in the corner. The walls were the soft, muted green she recognized from the hospital ward where she worked.

Her hospital.

A sharp breath hitched in her throat as reality came rushing back in a cold, unforgiving wave.

Roman.

The basement.

The gun in her hand, trembling, the trigger pulling back.

The gunshots. The stunned look in his eyes.

The thud of his body hitting the floor.

Her stomach clenched, nausea rolling through her. Her fingers instinctively curled into the stiff white sheets beneath her, her body trembling at the memory. The horror of it still clung to her, wrapped around her like invisible chains.

Ivy’s eyes flickered frantically around the dim hospital room, her breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Panic clawed at her chest until they landed on a familiar, curled-up form on the floor near the hospital bed.

Duchess was asleep, her body rising and falling with deep, even breaths. A thick bandage was wrapped around her stomach, a stark reminder of Roman’s cruelty. Ivy’s throat tightened at the sight, guilt and sorrow intertwining. He had hurt her too. But she was here—alive. Loyal as ever.

Swallowing hard, Ivy tore her gaze away and searched further.

Zaia.

She was nestled in Becky’s arms, her tiny face tucked against the older woman’s chest, her dark curls tousled from sleep. Becky sat stiffly in the chair, her red-rimmed eyes wide as they locked onto Ivy’s. It was as if she had been afraid to blink, afraid Ivy would disappear if she looked away.

“You’re awake,” Becky breathed, her voice brimming with relief.

Ivy managed a faint, weary smile in acknowledgment, but her focus remained solely on her daughter. With what little strength she had, she whispered, “Zaia…Baby…” Her voice barely more than a breath, but it was enough.

Zaia stirred, her small body shifting as she blinked groggily. Then, as her vision cleared, she saw her mother; awake, eyes open, alive.

“Mama!”

In an instant, she was wriggling out of Becky’s hold, her small feet hitting the tiled floor. However, Becky caught her before she could rush toward the hospital bed, her hands shaking as she wiped at her tear-streaked cheeks.

"Ivy," Becky’s voice cracked, "Can she…can she climb in?"

"Yes." Ivy barely got the word out before her arms were reaching, aching to hold her child, to feel her warmth, to reassure herself that she was real. That she was safe.

Becky carefully helped Zaia into the bed, minding the wires and the IV. The little girl clung to her mother like a lifeline, her small body trembling, her sobs muffled against Ivy’s faded lilac hospital gown.

Ivy held her just as tightly, pressing her lips to Zaia’s curls, breathing her in, as if the scent of her baby could chase away the lingering nightmares. Tears streamed down their faces as she rocked her gently, whispering soft reassurances, "I’m here, baby. Mama’s here. I gotchu."

Zaia hiccupped between sobs, her fingers clutching at Ivy’s hospital gown. "I thought…I thought you weren’t coming back," she whispered. “I thought you were gonna d—”

The hopelessness in her tone cracked Ivy’s heart wide open. "Never, baby. I will always come back to you," she promised, her voice raw with emotion. "Always."

Becky wiped at her face, watching them, barely holding herself together. “She wouldn’t sleep,” she choked out. “She kept asking for you. I tried to calm her down. Told her not to be scared.”

Her voice wavered, and Ivy could see it; etched in the tightness around Becky’s eyes, in the way her lips trembled. Becky now knew what had happened in that house, the horrors Ivy had endured.

Blinking rapidly, Becky cleared her throat. “I’m gonna go find a nurse,” she said gently, her hand lingering on Ivy’s arm for just a moment. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”

Ivy didn’t answer.

Because she couldn't bring herself to tell the truth. That she wasn’t okay.

Pushing all that aside, Ivy tightened her hold on her daughter, pressing her lips to the crown of her head, breathing her in. Nothing else existed. Nothing else would ever matter again.

"My sweet baby," she murmured, pressing her cheek against her daughter's. "My snuggle bug. I love you. More than anything. More than life itself."

Zaia sniffled, her little arms tightening around her mother’s neck. "I love you too, Mama."

The machines beeped softly in the background, the sterile hospital room surrounding them, but none of it mattered. In that moment, the only thing that existed was the warmth of her daughter in her arms, the unshakeable, unbreakable bond between them.

As the day wore on, Ivy felt exhaustion settle deep into her bones, dragging down every limb. The hospital room felt unbearably small, the steady beep of the monitor beside her too loud in the quiet. Duchess lay curled in her lap, her warm body a source of quiet comfort as Ivy absently stroked her fur. Across the room, Zaia slept soundly on the couch, her small frame rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Ivy glanced over at her daughter, a weary ache pressing against her chest. Their reunion had been everything; painful, overwhelming, much needed. It was the first time since her hellish ordeal that she’d felt even the faintest spark of life in her chest.

A soft knock on the door made her tense.

Lilian, her boss and the head nurse, stepped inside, her expression gentle but firm. “Ivy,” she said carefully, “there are two people here who need to speak with you.”

Ivy’s stomach twisted, but she managed a nod.

Lilian stepped aside, allowing them to enter.

The tall man with striking blonde hair stepped forward first. Ivy recognized him immediately; it was he who shot Roman in the back. The one who ended it.

Behind him, a woman followed, dressed professionally but with an air of quiet confidence. Ivy couldn’t recall her name; she only remembered she was the last face she saw before waking in this bed.

The man’s expression was calm yet serious as he broke the thin ice. “Miss Jones,” he greeted, with a frail semblance of warmth. “I’m Detective Cody Rhodes.” He gestured to the woman beside him. “And this is Lieutenant Jade Cargill. We’re with Florida PD, handling the Mateo Hobbs case—or Roman, as you know him.”

At the mention of that name, Ivy flinched, her breath hitching.

Her reaction made Cody hesitate, but only briefly. “We wanted to check in on you… and also, if you’re up for it, ask a few questions.”

Jade’s approach was softer. She stepped closer, her eyes warm and understanding. “I know this is difficult,” she said gently. “But whatever you can tell us will help.”

Ivy swallowed the burn in her throat. She knew this moment would come, but she wasn’t ready. She didn’t think she ever would be. But she had to.

Duchess nuzzled into her, as if sensing her unease. Ivy absorbed the comfort, steadying herself.

Cody and Jade watched Ivy. Waited, patient.

She forced herself to breathe, to start. “He…” Her voice cracked. She pressed her fingers into her temples. “I don’t know how long he kept me down there for…a week, a month...”

Jade sat on the edge of the bed, her body turned slightly toward Ivy, giving her space but offering silent support.

“From what we gathered, it was nine days,” Jade said softly.

Ivy’s nails dug into her palms. She thought she could do this. She thought she could get the words out, but the second she tried, it was like reliving everything all over again.

Roman’s voice. His hands. His snide, cruel laugh.

Jade’s hand rested lightly on her arm. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “You don’t have to push yourself.”

Ivy took a shaky breath, clutching Duchess tighter, her voice barely above a whisper. “Gemini was in the basement with me. She was…she was dead when I found her…He killed her…”

She squeezed her eyes shut, shame flooding her veins. The last time they had spoken, Ivy had pushed her away. She had been cold. Dismissive. And now, Gemini was dead.

She would never forgive herself for it.

Her fingers curled into the sheets, her entire body trembling as a sob caught in her throat.

“He r-raped me. Over and over and over…”

The words barely left her mouth before a violent shudder overtook her entire body. Her breath expelled in short, sharp gasps as her tears obscured her vision. It felt as though a steel band had closed around her ribs, squeezing, suffocating. Her stomach lurched, bile lurking in the back of her throat.

The memory barreled into her like a truck, brutal and unforgiving; Roman’s weight crushing her, his hands pinning her down, his harsh breath in her ear, the unbearable pain, the helplessness…

Her body convulsed with deep, gut-wrenching sobs.

Jade moved instantly, wrapping an arm around Ivy’s shoulders, grounding her, steadying her. “Breathe, Ivy,” she murmured, rubbing slow, soothing circles into her back. “We’re here. You’re safe.”

Ivy gasped, grasping her chest as if trying to rip something out, that terrifying thing buried deep inside her. “I couldn’t stop him,” she sobbed. “I begged, I fought...I—I—”

Jade tightened her grip on Ivy’s arm. “It's okay, Ivy,” she goaded.

She turned, blinking up at her, desperate. “Is he dead?” she rasped. “Please tell me he’s dead.”

A heavy silence fell over the room.

Rhodes and Jade exchanged a glance, something unreadable passing between them.

Cody exhaled. “He had a pulse in the ambulance.”

The world around her screeched to a halt.

Her chest constricted so violently it felt like her ribs were caving in. Her fingers clenched the sheets so tightly that her knuckles ashened, her nails digging into the fabric as if trying to ground herself, to hold onto something—anything that would stop the panic from swallowing her whole.

“He’s alive?” she whispered, a frightened, broken rasp.

“Barely,” Cody said carefully, disgusted at himself that he didn’t get the job done.

Jade leaned forward. “He’s being transferred out of state. He’s going to a maximum-security federal prison in Montana. Miles and miles away. He won’t be able to hurt you or anyone else ever again.”

Ivy could barely breathe. The walls felt like they were closing in. A sharp, ice-cold terror slithered down her spine, wrapping around her like a vice.

Cody’s voice was firm, absolute. “We failed the first time. We should have put him away. That won’t happen again. He’s never getting out.”

Jade squeezed Ivy’s arm. “You’ll never see him again. We promise.”

Ivy wanted to believe them. She wanted to trust that this was over.

But Roman had stolen so much from her.

And no matter how far away they sent him, she didn’t know if she’d ever feel safe again.

Sitting stiffly on the plush couch, her hands clenched together in her lap. The familiar scent of lavender and vanilla filled the air, a salt lamp casting warm hues against the walls. Dr. Ari’s office had never felt like a psychotherapist’s office. No stiff leather chairs, no sterile white walls. Instead, it was warm, inviting, with bookshelves lined with novels and plants cascading from their pots. Ivy used to love this space, used to tell Ari how she had the coziest office in the hospital. It had never felt clinical. Never cold.

Today, it felt suffocating.

Dr. Ari sat across from her, notebook resting lightly in her lap, her expression open, patient. She wasn’t just a colleague today. She was Ivy’s therapist. And right now, that made her feel like the enemy.

“I know this isn’t where you want to be,” Ari said gently. “But I appreciate you being here.”

Ivy didn’t respond. She kept her gaze on the floor, on the delicate weave of the rug beneath her feet.

“Let’s start small,” Ari continued. “How have you been sleeping?”

Ivy exhaled slowly. A question she could answer.

“Not great,” she admitted. “I wake up a lot.”

“Nightmares?”

A short nod. An understatement. The dreams weren’t just bad…They were choking, nausea-inducing. Literally, sometimes.

Ari didn’t push, didn’t ask for details. Not yet. Instead, she shifted slightly. “And Zaia? How is she doing?”

At the mention of her daughter, Ivy’s hands tightened in her lap. “She sleeps in my bed every night now,” she said. “She’s…not the same. Not as lively.”

Ari nodded knowingly. “She’s been through so much.”

Too much. More than any child should endure. Losing her father. Losing Gemini. Watching Gable’s head get blown off. Witnessing such violence firsthand. It wasn’t fair.

Ari let a beat pass before asking, “And Duchess?”

Ivy glanced toward the dog bed by the door, where the puppy lay, watching the two women carefully. “She won’t leave my side.”

Ari hummed in understanding. “She’s protecting you.”

Ivy swallowed against the tightness in her throat. She’d tried to protect her in Roman’s house, took a kick to the ribs for her. Words could never fully express how grateful she was for her bravery.

The silence crawled by like a serpent, cold, slithering. Ari’s voice was softer when she spoke again. “Ivy…do you feel responsible for Gemini’s death?”

She flinched.

Her stomach clenched, her nails biting into her palms. Though she had been expecting the question, it didn’t make it any easier to hear.

“She warned me,” she whispered, “Over and over again. She told me he was dangerous. She told me not to trust him. And I—I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “I let him in. Because of me, she’s gone.”

Her chest constricted under the crushing weight of the truth—Gemini had died trying to protect her. The evidence in her bag confirmed it. The police investigation unearthed even worse horrors: Roman had planted a camera in Gemini’s bedroom, watching her every move. The street cams showed him chasing her back into her house, murdering her, and stealing her bag and her car to erase the proof. Traces of her blood and his DNA smeared across her kitchen like a signature of death.

All because of her.

Ari let her sit with the words for a moment before she said, “That’s not true, Ivy, this wasn’t your fault.”

Ivy let out a bitter, humorless laugh. “Then whose was it?”

Ari held Ivy’s gaze, steady and sure. “The man who killed her.”

Her throat tightened. “I should have seen it.”

Ari shook her head. “He manipulated you, Ivy. You weren’t supposed to see it.”

A tear slipped down her cheek.

“I thought he loved me.”

Ari nodded, not interrupting, not rushing her.

“I—I was so stupid. I fell for him. Oldest fucking trick in the book. I let him into my life. I let him near my daughter.” Her voice cracked, self-loathing thick in her tone. “I slept next to him. I trusted him.”

Ari shifted slightly in her chair. “Again, that is not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Another bitter laugh. “I should have known. I should have seen it. I—I kept giving him the benefit of the doubt. I defended him.” Her breath hitched. “And all the while, he was killing people. He murdered innocent women. Angelo. Gemini.”

Ari gave her a moment before speaking again. “You didn’t know, Ivy. You weren’t the only one he deceived.”

Ivy clenched her jaw, forcing herself to breathe through the crippling guilt. She wanted to believe Ari. But how could she?

Her daughter’s father. Her best friend. Gone. Because of her stupidity.

The pain was unbearable.

And then—

“Can you talk to me about what he did to you in the basement?”

Everything inside Ivy recoiled. Her body went rigid, suddenly forgetting the simple function of breathing.

The basement…

Her mind fought against the flood of memories, but it was useless. The cold, the dark, the endless hours of terror. The feel of his hands on her body. His voice.

Ari’s voice remained gentle. “Ivy, the police confirmed that Roman ra—”

“I don’t wanna talk about it!”

The words came out too sharp, too loud in the quiet room. Her heart pounded, her vision hazing at the edges.

Ari didn’t flinch. She simply nodded. “Okay. We don’t have to—not until you’re ready.”

Ivy sucked in a trembling breath, but it felt like she couldn’t get enough air.

Dr. Ari leaned forward slightly, her voice steady yet soft, like she was trying to anchor Ivy to the present. “But I need you to understand something. Your trauma...It won’t just go away on its own. You’ve survived something unimaginable. You need to let yourself process it.”

Ivy barely heard her. The words echoed distantly, dull and meaningless, as if they belonged to someone else’s story.

She had uttered similar words before. Had stood at bedsides, held trembling hands, looked into the vacant eyes of survivors and tried to offer comfort wrapped in clinical certainty. She had repeated the script so many times, assuring patients that healing was possible, that time and therapy would mend what had been broken.

But never—never—had she imagined those words would be spoken to her.

And just like all the patients she had treated, she didn’t believe them.

Because how could anyone come back from this? How did she process something that had gutted her, left her hollowed out and rotting from the inside? Roman had taken everything from her; her safety, her body, her trust. The horrors lurked stubbornly just behind her eyelids, shadows of memories she wasn’t ready to face.

After another long pause, Ari spoke again. “Avoidance won’t make them go away, Ivy. They’ll fester.”

Ivy swallowed hard. “I don’t care.”

“I think you do.”

“I just wanna go home. I wanna be with my daughter.”

Ari studied her carefully. “Zaia needs you to heal, Ivy.”

Her eyes stung. She looked away, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sleeves.

“I can’t,” she whispered. “I can’t do this!”

“You can,” Ari insisted, firmly but kindly. “And you don’t have to do it alone.”

Ivy’s shoulders trembled.

Ari didn’t say anything else. She just let Ivy sit there, let her hold onto the silence like a fragile thread keeping her together.

And then, without warning, the dam broke.

A sob tore from Ivy’s throat, raw and gut-wrenching. She folded in on herself, shaking, gasping for breath between broken cries. The pain, the guilt, the fear—it all crashed over her at once.

Ari moved from her chair, settling beside her on the couch. She didn’t speak. She didn’t try to quiet her. She just sat there, her presence solid and unwavering as her patient let it all out.

Minutes passed before Ivy could calm down. She swiped at her tear-streaked face, her body exhausted from the weight of it all.

Ari handed her a tissue, waiting as she wiped at her swollen eyes.

“Same time next week?” Ari asked softly.

Ivy hesitated. The thought of doing this again, of dredging up more of the darkness, made her stomach churn.

But she had no choice.

She nodded weakly. “Yeah.”

Ari gave her a small, reassuring smile. “We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Ivy didn’t answer. She stared down at the crumpled tissue in her hands, her fingers tightening around it as if she could squeeze the pain out of herself.

One step at a time.

The words felt meaningless.

How could she take another step forward when every part of her felt shattered beyond repair?

As she stood on shaky legs and left Ari’s office, the world outside felt too bright, too normal.

And Ivy…

Ivy wasn’t normal anymore.

She wasn’t sure she ever would be again.

The sky hung low and gray, thick with the weight of a late November chill as Gemini’s funeral unfolded. The world seemed to mourn with them, the clouds heavy, threatening snow but offering nothing—just the quiet, biting wind that cut through coats and scarves. It was the week before Thanksgiving, but there was no warmth, no gratitude. Only grief.

This was the second funeral Ivy had attended in the span of a few months, and her heart could hardly withstand another. First Angelo, now Gemini. Two people who had meant the world to her. It felt unbearable, cruel. She had no more tears to cry, yet they still came, silent and unrelenting, as she clutched Zaia’s small, gloved hand in hers. Her daughter had barely recovered from burying her father, and now she was here, standing beside another fresh grave, saying goodbye to another adult who had loved her.

Gemini’s funeral was private, yet the quiet opulence of her family still bled into the event. The headstones surrounding her final resting place were regal, etched with gold, the markers of a family that had always carried itself with elegance. She was being laid to rest between her parents, a cruel sort of symmetry. Gemini had always missed them, always longed for them, and now, she would be with them forever.

Nearby, Raquel and Kelani, her colleagues and friends, stood, shoulders shaking, their eyes rimmed red from an endless flow of tears. They weren’t just coworkers; they were her sisters, her allies in a field dominated by men, who had loved and respected her fiercely. It was impossible to imagine their firm without her bold voice ringing through the halls, her confidence filling every room, her laughter turning the most grueling days into something bearable.

For three years, Gemini had been a constant in Ivy’s life; a force of nature, vibrant and unstoppable. She was the life of every party, the loudest voice in the room, the kind of friend who made the impossible feel within reach. Ivy had not imagined a world without her in a long, long time.

And yet, here she was.

Watching helplessly as Gemini was lowered into the cold ground, her laughter silenced, her light extinguished forever.

Ivy’s breath hitched, her chest tightening with the unbearable truth. Gem had been more than a friend. She had been a lifeline, a sister in all the ways that mattered. And now, because of the choices Ivy had made, that lifeline had been severed.

She could do nothing but stand there, numb and broken, as the earth swallowed what remained of her best friend.

Beside Ivy, Leo Beaufort stood motionless, his broad frame rigid in a perfectly tailored black suit. His presence was unmistakable—tall, striking, and composed—but there was a weight to him now, a quiet devastation pressing into his shoulders.

Gemini’s twin brother was her mirror. The other half of her soul. Ivy had known him as long as she’d known his sister. She had seen him laugh, tease, argue with Gemini in the way only siblings could. But she had never seen him like this—silent, stripped of the easy confidence he always carried.

As Gemini’s casket sank lower into the earth, Ivy felt him exhale, a breath so shallow it barely existed. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, didn’t cry. But the grief radiating from him was as heavy as the sky pressing down on them.

As the final words faded into the cold afternoon air and mourners began to drift away, Ivy forced herself to look up at him.

Something inside her cracked at the look on his face. His expression was raw, anguished, the tears he'd been holding in finally spilling forth.

Without a word, she pulled him into a crushing embrace. She felt the tremor in his tall body, his pain pressing into her own, bleeding together in the worst way.

“I’m so sorry, Leo,” she murmured, heartbroken for him.

“I felt it that day. When she…went,” he whispered against her temple, his voice unsteady. “I was in Tokyo, and I felt it. Half of my soul—shattered.” A ragged breath. “I knew something was terribly wrong. I just couldn’t get to her fast enough.”

Ivy’s lungs tightened, shame sinking its claws into her. “I was awful to her before she passed,” she admitted, the confession digging into her like a knife to the heart. “We fought, and I…” Her voice broke. “I never got to make it right.”

Leo pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his touch startlingly gentle despite the storm inside him. His dark eyes, hollow with pain, burned with something else too—something resolute.

“Ivy, listen to me,” he said, steady and firm. “Gem knew you loved her. She loved you just as much. Whatever happened between you don’t change that.” His grip tightened, willing her to believe him. “This was not your fault. You gotta forgive yourself. Please. She’d want you to. I want you to.”

She wanted to. God, how she wanted to. But the weight of her regret felt immovable, crushing her beneath it. And maybe, deservedly so.

As Leo finally let her go, Ivy turned slightly, her gaze landing on another familiar figure standing just a few feet away.

Officer Hayes. Carmelo.

Equally lost. Equally broken.

The sharp, smooth, composed policeman was gone, replaced by a man drowning in grief. His sunglasses shielded his eyes, but they couldn’t hide the way his body shook, the way his shoulders curled inward, as if the magnitude of his sorrow was too much to bear.

Ivy took a slow step forward, then another, until she was standing beside him. A long, painful stretch of silence.

“I imagined a life with her,” he spoke up, his voice hoarse as he removed his sunglasses to wipe at his eyes. “Marriage. A family. I thought…I thought I had more time.” A sharp breath. “I didn’t do enough to stop this.”

Ivy turned to him, shaking her head. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t blame yourself.”

“How can I not?” His jaw clenched. “I never thought he was a threat. Never looked at him twice. And that’s the problem.” His voice wavered, thick with regret. “I should’ve dug deeper. Should’ve asked more questions. But I didn’t. I let him be around her—I let him be around all of us—and I didn’t see it.” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I should have known. I should have done more.”

Her chest tightened. She had no words, no reassurance that would make any of this easier. The what-ifs were stifling, an endless loop of blame and regret that neither of them could escape.

Carmelo let out a slow, unsteady breath. “I just wish I’d gotten to talk to her one last time,” he murmured. “Tell her how much I…” His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. “Just one more conversation, man. One more chance.”

Ivy squeezed his arm. “She knew, Melo. She knew.”

He gave a faint nod, but his hands clenched at his sides, as if holding onto something invisible, something slipping through his grasp.

After a beat, he exhaled and looked at her. “I’m happy you made it out,” he whispered. “I really am.”

Ivy blinked back fresh tears. “Thank you for taking care of Zaia,” she said. “She talks about you all the time, you know. Says you’re her hero.”

Something flickered in his expression—something softer, lighter, cutting through the thick haze of grief. His lips twitched, almost forming a smile, before it disappeared.

“Zaia’s a good kid,” he said, voice quieter now. “She’s been through enough. I just did what anyone would’ve.”

They stood in silence, side by side, staring down at the fresh mound of dirt that covered Gemini’s coffin. Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.

Because this—this was what devastation looked like.

Detective Rhodes stood outside the glass window of the hospital room, hands stuffed in his pockets, his frosty blue gaze locked onto the unconscious man inside.

Mateo Hobbs. Roman Reigns.

It didn’t matter what he called himself. He was nothing more than another psychotic criminal who had finally run out of places to run.

Two bullets. One from Ivy. One from him. And yet the bastard still lived.

He shouldn’t be surprised. Hobbs had slipped through his fingers too many times before, surviving when any other man would’ve been six feet under. But this time?

This time, there was no escape.

Behind him, the hesitant shuffle of footsteps drew his attention. Dr. Michael Cole, a wiry, nervous-looking man with thinning hair and thick glasses, cleared his throat. “Detective,” he greeted, voice just shy of a tremor.

“How long?” Cody didn’t bother with pleasantries. His cerulean orbs never left Hobbs’ prone form, watching his huge chest rise and fall steadily beneath the hospital sheets.

Cole wiped his hands on his coat. “A week. The bullets have been removed, but he needs time to recover before he can be transported.”

“A week?” Cody echoed, his jaw clenching. He wanted him gone now.

“It’s the best I can do,” Cole insisted, shifting uneasily under the weight of Cody’s chilling glare. “Moving him too soon could cause complications—”

“I don’t give a fuck about complications,” Rhodes cut him off coldly. His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “The second he’s stable, he’s out of here. You understand me?!”

Cole nodded hurriedly, clearly eager to be anywhere but in Cody’s presence.

Rhodes turned back to the window, his voice dropping to a low, venomous promise.

“You will never see the light of day again, Hobbs.”

A fortress of concrete and steel, Windham Federal Penitentiary sat deep in the wilderness in rural Montana, surrounded by endless miles of nothing. No roads. No civilization. Just mountains and forests stretching as far as the eye could see.

Maximum security.

No one had ever broken out. Many had tried. All had failed.

Guards patrolled the perimeter with semi-automatics. Watchtowers stood high, armed with snipers. The cells were reinforced, the walls impenetrable. A goddamn hellhole.

Exactly where Mateo Hobbs belonged.

But Rhodes made sure he wasn’t just another inmate. He had plans.

Sitting across from CO Strowman in a dimly lit break room, Cody laid it out. Strowman was a mountain of a man; six-foot-eight, built like a tank, with a shaved head, an unruly beard and a ghastly scar running down his cheek. A man whose presence alone made even the most dangerous inmate rethink their life choices.

Cody’s eyes locked on the grainy monitor displaying Roman…Mateo…sitting alone in his cell. Even injured, the bastard still carried that same quiet menace, his expression unreadable, his posture eerily composed.

“You watch him for me,” Cody said, his voice low, edged with something lethal. “I mean really watch him. Make his life a living hell. If he so much as breathes wrong, I wanna know.”

Strowman grunted, arms like tree trunks folding across his chest. “And if he steps outta line?”

Cody smirked. “Handle it.”

Strowman’s eyes gleamed with understanding.

Hobbs wasn’t getting out. And if Cody had his way…

He wouldn’t be getting out alive.

The drive across Hartford felt like a step toward something new—something better. Ivy’s grip on the steering wheel was firm as she navigated unfamiliar streets, her heart pounding in quiet anticipation. Moving again wasn’t ideal—twice in three years—but staying in that house, in that neighborhood, after everything that had happened? Impossible.

Was she running away? Again?

Or was it survival?

Maybe she was running. Maybe this was just another escape, another attempt to put distance between herself and the nightmare that had nearly swallowed her whole. But wasn’t that the point? To keep going, however slowly, however painfully, until the past loosened its grip? If this was running, then let it be. As long as it carried her toward something that had some fragile semblance of peace.

The house Angelo left her sat on a quiet street lined with towering trees, their bare branches dusted with the first hints of winter. It was beautiful. A two-story colonial with soft gray siding, black shutters, and a wide porch that wrapped around the front. The yard stretched out, perfect for a child to run through in the warmer months, and the crisp December air carried the scent of pine from the evergreens bordering the property.

It was a beautiful abode. Angelo had good taste.

As soon as Ivy parked, Zaia unbuckled herself and scrambled out of the car, her little sneakers crunching against the gravel driveway. “Mama, it’s so big!” she gasped, spinning in a circle. “We get to live here?”

Ivy stepped out, taking in the sight of it. “Yeah, baby,” she murmured, trying to push past the weight in her chest. “We do.”

Zaia grabbed her hand, practically bouncing on her toes. “Can we move in before my birthday?”

Ivy smiled, squeezing her fingers. “That’s the plan.”

It was good timing, really. A fresh start before Christmas. A new home, new memories—ones not tainted by fear and loss. Zaia would turn seven on Christmas Eve, and Ivy wanted her to wake up in a house that felt safe, filled with warmth instead of shadows.

To Zaia, this was all just an adventure. The idea of moving again didn’t phase her in the slightest. “I can decorate my room for Christmas, right?” she asked, eyes wide with excitement. “And can we get a big tree? Like, really big?”

Ivy laughed softly. “You can have the biggest tree we can fit.”

Zaia beamed. “And I can have a birthday party here?”

Ivy hesitated but nodded. “We’ll see what we can do.”

She wasn’t sure she had it in her to host a party, not after everything, but she wouldn’t take away Zaia’s excitement. Her daughter had been through enough.

Of course, not everyone was thrilled about the move.

“You’re taking my granddaughter even farther away from me?” Gloria, Angelo’s mother, snapped through the phone when Ivy finally broke the news.

Ivy let out a slow breath, already exhausted. “We’re moving, Gloria. That’s not up for discussion.”

“You expect me to drive all the way across town just to see her?”

“I expect you to figure it out if you actually want to see her.”

Gloria scoffed, muttering something under her breath. But Ivy hung up before she could utter another word. She didn’t care. She was done letting this woman dictate anything in her life. Gloria was not raising Zaia. She never had. And after everything Ivy had been through, she refused to let anyone—especially her ex’s bitter, spiteful mother—make her feel guilty for doing what was best for her daughter.

This was their life. And from now on, Ivy was going to live it on her terms.

For the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to believe that things could get better. That healing, no matter how long or winding the road, was possible.

Hope.

Maybe, just maybe, she still had some left.

In just a matter of weeks, Roman’s sprawling fortress across the street was reduced to rubble. Ivy stood by her window and watched as the demolition crew tore through it, their machines snarling as they ripped apart the walls that had once enclosed her in his deception. She had spent a lot more time than she wished to admit in that house, back when she had believed Roman was just a man, just her lover. They had cooked in that kitchen, their laughter filling the air between clinking wine glasses. They had curled up on that expensive leather couch, watching movies until she fell asleep against his chest. She had let him kiss her in that hallway, had given herself to him in that bedroom, tangled in silk sheets, never knowing that one day those same walls would close in on her, trapping her in the darkest nightmare of her life.

She thought its destruction would bring some kind of closure. Instead, she just felt hollow. The house was gone, but the memories remained, clawing at her, sinking their teeth into every quiet moment she tried to reclaim.

Therapy helped. Or at least, that’s what she told herself. Once a week, she sat across from Dr. Ari, picking at the edges of her pain, unraveling it thread by thread. But the nightmares didn’t care about therapy. They came regardless, slipping into her mind like a cruel whisper in the dark. She’d wake up gasping, her skin slick with sweat, the phantom weight of Roman’s body pressing her into the mattress, his voice dripping in her ears like poison.

Then, those “thoughts” began creeping in, without warning, without pity. One moment, she would be doing something mundane, like folding Zaia’s tiny clothes, the scent of lavender detergent clinging to the fabric. The next, the darkness would slither in, whispering insidiously:

You’re broken beyond repair. You’ll never get better. He took too much from you.

Ivy clenched her jaw, shaking her head as if that alone could banish the thoughts. But they didn’t need an invitation. They curled around her mind, wrapping tight like thorns, their voices gentle, persuasive.

You won’t have to wake up screaming anymore. You won’t have to see his face every time you close your eyes. You’ll finally be at peace.

Just do it.

End it all.

She had told Dr. Ari about those morbid thoughts; about the nights she lay awake, staring at the ceiling, the weight of exhaustion pressing her into the mattress, but sleep refusing to take her. About the moments when the idea of stepping further into the abyss felt less like surrender and more like relief.

Ari had nodded, unsurprised, unshaken. “These thoughts don’t mean you want to die, Ivy,” she had said softly, her gaze steady. “They mean you’re in pain. And pain needs to be acknowledged before it can heal.”

So she worked through it, piece by jagged piece. She wrote in a journal, even when the words felt too raw, too exposed. She let the music wash over her, heavy and loud, until the static in her mind quieted. She read the book Ari had given her, a guide for survivors, though some nights, she could only get through a paragraph before the words blurred.

And when the darkness became too much, when the past threatened to drag her under, she reminded herself why she kept fighting.

For Zaia. For the little girl who still looked at her like she was the safest place in the world.

For herself.

So she strapped up her boots, gritted her teeth, and moved forward. Even when it hurt. Even when it felt impossible.

She threw herself into packing up the house. It was something to do, something to keep her from drowning. Most people weren’t allowed past the front door anymore. The thought of letting anyone too close, of giving someone the chance to betray her trust again, made her chest tighten. The only exception was Carmelo. He came by often, checking in on Zaia, playing with her, making sure Ivy was eating, sleeping. Becky too, with her loud, unrelenting energy, forcing Ivy to exist in the world even when she didn’t want to.

Tonight, Ivy sat cross-legged on the living room floor, folding a pile of Zaia’s clothes into a suitcase. A few feet away, Zaia played with Duchess, the puppy’s tiny tail wagging as she chased a stuffed toy. Ivy allowed herself a small smile at the sight; at the simple, innocent joy of a child and her dog.

Then the news anchor’s voice cut through the background noise, sharp as a blade.

“Tonight, an in-depth look at the man who terrorized a quiet suburban neighborhood…”

Ivy’s heart lurched as his face filled the screen. Roman’s face. The familiar angles of his bearded jaw, the piercing eyes she had once loved.

Her breath hitched. Her vision blurred at the edges. The room tilted.

No. No, no, no.

She fumbled for the remote with trembling hands, her lungs tightening as if iron bands had cinched around her ribs. The words on the screen swam together; serial killer, rapist, sociopath; but all she could hear was his voice; feel his hands, his weight, his breath.

Her chest seized, air slipping from her grasp. Hyperventilating. She needed to breathe. She needed—

“You got it, Duchess, good girl!”

Zaia’s small voice cut through the haze of terror.

Ivy’s fingers finally found the power button. The TV snapped off, plunging the room into silence, save for the sound of Duchess’ soft panting and her own ragged breaths. She pressed a hand to her chest, grounding herself, forcing her lungs to expand.

She was safe. Roman was gone.

But the ghosts he left behind still refused to let her go.

The house buzzed with movement. The steady rip of packing tape. The shuffle of footsteps against hardwood. The low murmur of conversation between the movers as they carried out furniture. Ivy kneeled beside Zaia, supervising her as she carefully placed her toys into her toy box. Across the room, Carmelo grunted as he helped one of the movers lift the couch.

“Man, you got it?” he asked, adjusting his grip.

The mover huffed out a breath. “Yeah, yeah. Just a little heavier than I expected.”

Carmelo smirked. “You should hit the gym more.”

Becky laughed beside Ivy, shaking her head as she taped up a half-filled moving box. “Lyra’s gonna miss this one,” she said, pointing at Zaia. “She’s been talking about Zaia nonstop.”

Ivy smiled, warmth creeping into her chest. “We’ll visit. I promise.”

Zaia grinned, cradling her favorite plush bear. “I wanna see Lyra on my birthday!”

“Of course, baby,” Ivy murmured, reaching over to playfully tug her braid.

There was a knock at the door. More neighbors, coming to say goodbye. She had already cried too much today. Every hug, every well-wish, every we’ll miss you had threatened to break her all over again. She wasn’t sure she had any more tears left to give.

As she stood, Carmelo called out from across the room, rummaging through a half-packed box. “Yo, Ivy, you seen my sunglasses? I swear I left ‘em on the counter.”

Ivy sighed, brushing a stray loc from her face. “You mean the ones you lose every time you take them off?”

Carmelo scoffed. “Man, just tell me if you’ve seen ‘em!”

She smirked, shaking her head as she made her way toward the foyer. “Maybe check the top of your big ass head—”

She pulled the door open.

Her blood ran cold.

At the other end of her door, inexplicably, was Roman.

The side of his face was slick with blood, a deep gash splitting his temple. His shirt hung open, torn and stained, a bullet hole gaping through the fabric where she had shot him. But it was what he held in his left hand that sent the air wheezing from her lungs.

Angelo’s severed head. Gemini’s severed head. Their lifeless faces frozen in a final, gruesome scream.

Her knees locked, her breath catching in her throat.

Roman smiled, the evil glint in his eyes sending ice through her veins.

“Hey, baby girl.”

In his other hand, he lifted a gun. His gun.

The one she shot him with.

Pointing it right at her.

“No!”

BANG!

Ivy shot upright, a strangled gasp of terror ripping through her chest. The world spun around her. Her stomach twisted, bile rising fast and hot. She barely had time to throw off the covers before she was bolting to the bathroom, dropping to her knees in front of the toilet.

Her body lurched forward, her stomach twisting as she vomited. Her entire frame trembled, sweat clinging to her skin in a cold sheen, the contents of her stomach emptying in a grimy cascade.

Gasping for breath, she pushed herself upright, slow and unsteady, gripping the edges of the sink for support. She turned the faucet on, cupping cool water in her hands before rinsing her mouth, spitting out the lingering taste of bile. The cold water soothed the rawness in her throat, but it did nothing to calm the storm inside her.

The dream. The same damn dream. Over and over. It refused to let her go.

Why wouldn’t it let her go?

With a shaky breath, she turned and sank onto the closed toilet seat, pressing her palms over her face. Her pulse thundered in her ears. No matter how many times she woke up, no matter how many deep breaths she took, the fear never left. It was with a vice-like grip that simply refused to loosen.

“Mama?”

Jumping slightly, she wiped her mouth quickly, looking up to see Zaia standing in the doorway, rubbing her eyes. Without a word, she stretched out her arms, allowing her daughter to walk into her embrace. She tugged her into her lap, pressed her lips to the crown of her head and smoothed a trembling hand over her little bonnet.

Zaia hesitated, then nestled closer, her small fingers gripping Ivy’s nightgown tightly. “I have bad dreams too,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Ivy’s heart clenched. She shut her eyes for a moment, resting her head against her daughter’s. Just a child. She should’ve never had to know this kind of fear.

A lengthy moment of silence drifted between them before Zaia sighed. “I’m gonna miss my friends when we move,” she said, her voice small and wistful.

Grateful for the change in subject, Ivy nodded. “I know, baby. But we’ll make new memories. We’ll celebrate Christmas in our new home. It’s gonna be fun,” she promised.

Zaia yawned, her grip tightening around her mom’s waist. “Okay.”

Ivy held her baby close as she carried her back to the bedroom, grounding herself in her warmth. The nightmare still lingered in the back of her mind, but here, in this moment, she wasn’t drowning in it.

She was still here. Still fighting. And maybe…just maybe…things would get better.

Somehow.

Three Months Later

Windham Penitentiary had descended into absolute bedlam.

Smoke coiled through the air, thick and acrid, stinging the eyes and burning the lungs of anyone still breathing. The relentless screech of alarms blended with the chaotic roar of hundreds of men, their voices rising in a primal symphony of rage and freedom. Inmates swarmed every hallway, their movements frantic and violent, like a hive disturbed. Some were smashing light fixtures, the bulbs bursting in showers of glass, plunging sections of the prison into flickering darkness. Others ripped mattresses apart, their stuffing floating like snowfall in the destruction.

Blood gushed over the concrete floors, fresh boot prints trailing in every direction. The guards who had been unlucky enough to be caught in the initial frenzy now lay crumpled, unconscious, or worse, their bodies discarded against walls like broken furniture. Those still standing were fighting desperately, swinging batons, deploying tear gas, yelling orders that fell on deaf ears.

Somewhere in the chaos, a cluster of correctional officers sprinted toward a specific cell, their faces tight with dread. Their radios crackled with desperate voices, but no reinforcements were coming. Not tonight.

They skidded to a stop in front of the open cell.

Their worst fear materialized before their eyes.

Strowman lay on the floor, his huge neck twisted unnaturally, a deep crimson pool expanding beneath his throat. His keys, slick with blood, glinted in his rigid fingers. His expression was frozen in something caught between shock and agony, his eyes still open, staring vacantly at the ceiling.

There was no one else inside the cell.

Hobbs was gone.

A cold, crippling silence settled over the officers even as the riot raged on around them. The hairs on their arms rose as the weight of realization crashed down upon them like a massive boulder. This wasn’t just an escape.

The ghost had slipped through another pair of fingers.

Hundreds of miles away, Detective Cody Rhodes was wrecking his office.

“Fuck!”

He slammed his fists onto his desk so hard that the entire surface rattled, a stack of files toppling over the edge. His growls came in short, ragged bursts, his chest heaving with the sheer force of his rage. His eyes squeezed shut for half a second, then out came a guttural roar that burst from somewhere deep within his gut.

How? How had this motherfucker gotten away again?

He ran a shaking hand through his blond hair before gripping the edge of his desk and flipping it over with another roar, sending everything crashing to the floor. Papers, pens, his goddamn badge. None of it mattered.

Strowman was dead.

Hobbs was gone.

Again!

And he had nothing. Again!

With a furious snarl, he grabbed the nearest chair and launched it across the room. It crashed against the wall, splintering on impact, but the destruction did nothing to cool the fire burning through him. His vision blurred red, his thoughts a relentless cycle of curses and failures.

That bastard was out there.

Again!

And yet again, Cody had no fucking idea where.

The night stretched on, endless and black, swallowing the empty highway in both directions. The road was cracked and worn, long forgotten by civilization. There were no streetlights. No signs of life. Just the sound of wind scraping across the desolate land.

A lone, hulking figure moved through the darkness, blending with it as one, trudging along the side of the road.

He walked with an easy stride, his hood pulled low over his face, casting shadows where a beard once covered his jaw. Clean-shaven now, his features were different, altered just enough to make a second glance have doubts.

In one hand, he held a photograph. A woman with a little girl.

His thumb dragged over Ivy’s face, slow, thoughtful, lust-filled. Then Zaia’s. Fatherly, nurturing, comforting.

The low hum of an approaching vehicle broke the stillness. Headlights cut through the night, growing brighter, nearing fast.

Roman turned purposefully toward them, lifting his arm, extending his thumb. His grip tightened on the photograph.

As the car slowed to a stop beside him, his smirk widened.

She couldn’t breathe.

The bathroom felt smaller, much smaller. The walls were pressing in, trapping her in the harsh, artificial light. Her body trembled, still raw from retching, but the nausea wasn’t fading. Hadn’t faded for weeks, for one single horrifying reason. It wasn’t the nightmares. It wasn’t the stress.

It was something much more devastating.

Her fingers curled around the plastic white stick in her lap, the small screen glaring up at her. A single word. A simple, undeniable truth.

Her stomach lurched, and she barely managed to swallow down another wave of sickness. Her other hand clutched at the counter as she forced herself to look again, to see the second test beside it. The same positive result.

Oh god.

A strangled whimper broke from her throat as she stumbled backward, pressing herself against the cold tile as if she could shrink away from the reality in front of her. Her chest heaved, her pulse a frantic, erratic, unnatural rhythm in her ears.

This couldn’t be happening.

I will always be a part of you.

His words echoed in her skull, that dark, possessive whisper that had haunted her even in freedom. She had spent months trying to erase him, trying to cleanse herself of his touch, his presence.

Her hands shook violently as she clutched at her stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of her shirt. She wanted to reach into herself and tear it out, wanted to claw him out of her, wanted to make this not real.

But it was real.

Her red-rimmed vision blurred as the first sob broke free, then another, until she was on her knees, gasping, unraveling, drowning in a fresh, endless nightmare.

She had fought so hard to escape him. So, so hard.

But now, he was inside her.

Literally.

Still here. Still owning her. Still tethered to her like a parasite.

A parasite he’d put in her.

You ain’t never gon’ be free of me. You belong to me forever, baby girl.

He was right.

She was never going to be free.

THE END.

A/N: Let me start off by shouting out and sincerely thanking my partner in crime, @harmshake, for her genius. All the brainstorming on Google Docs and the email back and forths paid off. This would have NEVER happened without her, she kickstarted this and is this reason this story has been so epic. Love you, dear!

Another massive thank you to everyone who has read and commented and supplied so many theories and guesses. I loved reading and responding to every one of them and I appreciate you all!

This is also to confirm that this universe ends here. A Part 2 will be damn near impossible for me, as writing this was so emotionally and sometimes physically draining. Again, it's a psychological (erotic) thriller, and cliffhangers are a staple that I'm happily taking advantage of.

On the bright side, there will be a reimagining of the characters from this universe in another universe, coming soon.

Would love to know your thoughts on this final chapter!

Dr. Ari is played by @trippinsorrows

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld @trippinsorrows @herwickedlittlesins @jxtina-86 @wrestlingprincess80

@dreamsinfocus @fame-ass-ers @southerngirl41 @jeyusos-girl @romansthrone @wwecrazed2010 @sayyestoheav3nn @trentybenty

@purplehairgawdess @mohawkmama @po3ticb3auty @alyyaanna @murrylove @tribalhoochie @xbriexx @rollinssection @lovestoreadfiction

@papireigns-05 @vintage-pvssy @bebesobrielo @urasunflower @unfriendly–blvck–hottie @romanreignsbae

@theninthwonder @tabletheofhead @venusesworld @ariieeesworld @sassginaswanmills @prettyfilmz

@theglamclosetsl @empressdede @woahdude9481 @browngalmal @crxssjae @octaviastargirl @ashykneee

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@raya-hunter01 @lilucey @aisharmi @neverlookatthisblog @dayaimonee @nayys-world @kianaleani @shes2real @disc0fairy @paigereeder

@fearlesschimera @tshepisho @partypoison00 @originalgeezyy @muzaqueendom @naturally-nikkilynn

#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns imagine #roman reigns x black reader #tbnd #the boy next door #roman reigns angst #roman reigns imagines #harmshake

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egcdeath · 10 months ago

Text

never go to bed angry

pairing: patrick zweig x reader

summary: under the immense pressure of the suburbs, you and patrick deal with the fallout of an argument.

word count: 1.9k

warnings: domesticity, PTA, a little angst, mostly fluff, you have a (currently unnamed) child, you’re a little emotionally constipated

author’s note: shoutout to 🫀 anon for breaking my writers block and inspiring this fic! i’m thinking that this will be part of a series of vignettes so let me know if you’d like to be tagged in any future fics!

Every couple that had been married for a long time always gave you the same piece of advice: Never go to bed angry.

Though this advice seemed simple, it was much easier said than done. Since your move to suburbia, the den of your home had become somewhat of a second bedroom to Patrick, a place where he could retreat in the aftermath of your arguments.

While you hadn’t argued much while you were hopping from city to city, living out of hotel rooms with your daughter and your athlete husband, the pressure of your small town had changed that completely. Now, your Cold War style arguments felt commonplace, and often left you sleeping alone in a bed that felt far too big for one person.

Like many recent nights, tonight was one of those nights. You and Patrick had gotten into a small disagreement after he’d been much too outspoken at a PTA meeting, stirring up unnecessary drama with a few other parents for no real reason. That small disagreement spiraled while the two of you drove home, with Patrick insisting that his dispute at the meeting was completely necessary. You strongly disagreed.

Your disagreement wasn’t made any better once you arrived back at home. The minute you relieved the babysitter of her duties, Patrick went right back to insisting that he was in the right in a situation where he was very obviously in the wrong. He continued to bring this up as he cooked dinner, leaving you no other option but to remove yourself from the situation.

For the rest of the evening, you kept your negative thoughts to yourself. Clearly, your disagreement wasn’t very productive.

While you were technically still in an argument, it was by far one of the more tame arguments you’d been in—which was why it came as such a surprise when you stepped out of the shower to find Patrick’s side of the bed vacant and pillowless.

Disappointed, but not particularly surprised, you sat down in bed and patiently waited for sleep to take you under.

Turning to your side, you secretly hoped that your daughter would burst into the room, seeking solace in you and her father after having a bad dream. As much as you’d love her company, you knew that this outcome was unlikely, since your daughter was starting to grow out of her phase of coming to you after having a nightmare.

Part of you wished that Patrick would stroll right back in, ready to argue with you and plead for you to fight for your relationship. Though there was a time in your relationship where most of your arguments ended that way, Patrick hadn’t been doing much of that lately, realizing that you would rather ice him out than confront him with your feelings. With that in mind, you realized that you were likely on your own for the rest of the night.

You sighed as you curled further into yourself, missing the weight of Patrick’s muscular arm holding onto you possessively and the practically unbearable heat of his body behind you. Even if you ended up separating during the night, it was rare that the two of you didn’t start your bedtime routine with a romantic cuddle.

You glanced at the door to your bedroom, as if you could produce your husband from thinking about him hard enough. Despite your best efforts, Patrick did not come out to talk to you, nor did your daughter.

In an abrupt movement, you sat up and got out of bed. You hastily began to walk towards your door, knowing that if you thought too hard about your actions, you might end up backing out.

You shuffled out of your room, listening for the telltale sound of Patrick’s soft snores. When you didn’t hear them, you kept moving forward, passing your daughter’s bedroom and peeking into the room to find her sleeping peacefully. You reminded yourself that you weren’t just doing this for you, but for the sake of your family.

The den was your next stop, where Patrick was lounging on his makeshift bed for the night. He looked up at you from a book as if he was surprised, although he’d certainly heard the sound of you making your way through your home. Maybe he thought you were stopping by the fridge for a midnight snack after your tense dinner ended in neither of you eating much.

“Hey,” you greeted casually, as if you weren’t in the midst of a tense, domestic battle.

“Hi,” Patrick replied, setting his book down and blinking up at you. You knew him well enough to recognize his confusion. You were never the person to break the ice after an argument, so what you were doing now clearly took him by surprise.

“Can I sit?” you asked, feeling a little awkward standing above your husband. You slipped your hands into your pockets, hoping that having something to do with your hands would quell your anxieties.

“Of course,” he said, scooting over on the couch-turned-bed and patting the spot he made for you.

“I always forget how soft this is. We made a good furniture choice,” you commented as you sat, making polite small talk that easily danced around having to apologize or talk about your feelings.

“It’s like we picked it knowing that I’d be sleeping on it every other night,” Patrick joked, though you didn’t find it particularly funny. “Sorry,” he followed up once he noticed your lack of laughter.

“No, it was funny,” you assured him, not wanting to make things any worse. “It was just…” you trailed off.

“Too soon?” Patrick asked, picking right up where you left off. He always seemed to be better at expressing these things than you were. That was one of the many things you loved about him.

“Yeah. Are you staying out here tonight?” you asked, hoping your question would tell Patrick that you didn’t want him to sleep in the den without explicitly expressing it.

“Depends. Do you want me to?” he asked, leaning over and pushing a strand of hair back behind your ear. You leaned into his gentle act of affection.

“No?” you replied after a bit of hesitation. You didn’t want to pressure Patrick if he was angry enough with you to stay away from you, but you also didn’t want to be alone.

“Honey,” Patrick began softly. “Just be honest with me. Do you really want me to sleep in here or come back to our room?”

You blinked at him, unsure of why it was so difficult for you to just be forthcoming with your emotions. It was always so much easier to express yourself when Patrick anticipated your needs. Surely, he knew that you wanted to sleep next to him. You always did.

“You should come back. If you want,” you added the last part abruptly, hoping you weren’t pressuring him one way or another.

“What do you want?” he pressed you further.

Just as you opened your mouth to respond, you heard the familiar pitter-patter of your daughter’s feet. The two of you turned your attention to the girl, who was currently clutching a stuffed animal and rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

“Did you guys build a pillow fort without me?” she asked, sounding a little offended as she approached the two of you.

“Never! We were just about to invite you,” you lied easily, somewhat appreciative for the interruption in the midst of Patrick trying to teach you how to be direct.

“Uh-huh,” she said, unbelieving as she crawled into your lap. Even as young as she was, she’d already taken on her father’s sass.

“We’d never make a pillow fort without you, Bug,” Patrick told her, moving to sit next to the two of you.

“Clearly, you just did,” she said with a pout. Her theatrics reminded you of Patrick, and how he always seemed to have his emotions written all over his face. You broke into a soft smile as you thought about the resemblances between your beloved husband and daughter. “It’s not funny, mommy.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right, it’s not,” you assured her. “How about this: We can go back to sleep tonight, and tomorrow we’ll all work together and make the most amazing pillow fort ever. Deal?”

“Hmm…” she pondered, putting her hand to her chin as she pretended to think about it, though she’d already made up her mind. “Deal.”

As soon as you began to move your daughter off your lap, Patrick swooped in and grabbed her, picking her up and standing up at the same time. “You and Mr. Teddy are gonna have so much fun tomorrow,” he told her as he carried her to her room, your daughter giggling as Patrick booped her nose.

“What are we gonna do?” she asked.

“Maybe another tea party? What do you guys wanna do?” he asked, their voices fading as they made it back to her room.

You figured that you would take this opportunity to gather Patrick’s bedtime belongings back to your bedroom. If Patrick really wanted to know what you wanted, it couldn’t get more straightforward than you wordlessly moving all of his items.

As you walked back to your bedroom with blankets and pillows in hand, you caught a quick glimpse into your daughter’s room, where Patrick was quietly talking to your very sleepy child. You wanted to linger, to watch him and remind yourself of how special your family was, but you decided against staring for too long.

Still, it was an extremely cute sight. Overwhelmed with many emotions, you felt grateful that you picked Patrick to start a family with, despite some of the drama that the two of you stirred up.

When Patrick returned to your bedroom, you were fluffing out his pillow on his side of the bed. He opened his mouth to speak, surely preparing to ask you about his moved belongings. Not wanting to deal with that conversation, you beat him to the punch with a simple, “C’mere.”

He didn’t need to be told twice, as he obediently climbed into bed with you. He looked at you expectantly, as if he was waiting for the next directions that would leave your mouth. Unfortunately for him and fortunately for you, you weren’t in the mood for words.

You practically launched yourself at Patrick as you pulled him into a hug, tense PTA meeting, car ride, and dinner completely forgotten as you melted into his solid embrace. When the two of you slotted together like puzzle pieces, it was hard to remember why you were mad at him in the first place.

Maybe you should talk about your argument, or how difficult it was for you to talk about your feelings, or how your husband’s outspokenness at meetings was beginning to take a toll on some of your friendships with other moms in the neighborhood—but none of that really mattered to you once you were back in Patrick’s arms.

“I love you,” he told you as you buried your nose into your neck, soothed by his familiar scent and solid, comforting body.

It was exactly what you needed to hear, a reassurance that at the end of the day, he would still be by your side, no matter the antics you’d put each other through.

“I love you too.”

It wasn’t addressing the elephant in the room, but in that moment, it was enough.

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