#One day surely I will look into the eyes of another person and see a human being | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

rawflwrs · 1 day ago

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Can you pls write some more about terry ?

▐ sugardaddy!terryrichmond ୫ camgirl!reader

summary: after a long day of spending daddy’s money, you both decide to end the night giving your viewers a show.

writer’s notes: I tried my best with this, although it was rushed, so it’s definitely not my best work. I apologise if you don’t like it! I’ve just been busy with assignments, so I’ve been distracted. I also added visuals this time, so let me know if you guys enjoy them and want me to add them in future smut fics. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy and don’t forget to like, comment & reblog </3 !!

warnings: explicit language, begging, pet names (daddy, princess, etc) overstimulation, dacryphilia, clit slapping, bimbofication, finger sucking, choking, spanking, age gap relationship and praising — bratty!sub!reader & dom!terry

tags: @luvrsluxe @gardenof-venus @theogbadbitch @fairygoround @nayaesworld @catxo @withoutmusiclifewouldbflat @kenshisluvrgirl @bigjuiciisushii @todorokishoe24 @notapradagurl7 @writingsbytee

Terry knew you were high maintenance before he met you. The way your bedroom lit a soft shade of baby pink with gold and cheetah print accessories surrounding you, your nails and toes always freshly done, either in a sparkly baby pink or a basic french tip: you made sure you were put together. After all, all you did was dress up like a doll and men paid to witness it.

It was one of the few things Terry noticed about you. He never intended to come across you as he believed that watching porn or anything remotely related, wasn’t of any benefit to him, knowing that if he had any sexual needs, there were always a list of women who would be at his beck and call.

But before he knew it, Terry became one of your top contributors, starting off by sending you five thousand dollars in the first stream he joined and progressively adding another ten thousand for every stream after, just to hear you thank him as you pressed your toys into your glistening pink hole.

Terry loved the idea of spoiling a pretty girl like you, hearing your giggles as you repeatedly thanked him for sending you so many gifts or when you joked that you needed to see him in person to thank him properly: he knew that he needed you. When you had announced you were going to do private calls for your top contributors, Terry made sure he was number one on that list.

You were nervous. It was obvious that the person named ‘@/treatsfromterry’ was clearly obessessed with you and although you liked the idea of someone being so desperate for your attention that they would spend what felt like their lifesavings on you, you were also terrified that he would be some old creep.

You were so wrong. When a muscular caramel toned man, wearing thin rimmed glasses and a short sleeve black wife-beater popped onto your zoom call screen, you couldn’t believe your eyes. He was beautiful. You felt your mouth drop open slightly at the sight as his deep chuckle filled your ears. “You okay there, beautiful?” He questioned, fixing his camera position to ensure you can see him clearly. “Mhm” you trailed off, eyes lowering to his biceps. They were so big and soft: you wanted a bite.

“I need to hear you use your words, princess.” He sighed out, feeling himself harden at the sight of you wearing the lingerie he asked you to wear for this special occasion. “I’m fine, daddy. I just didn’t expect you to look so good.” You giggle, remembering that he asked you to only call him daddy. The name definitely fit the view you were seeing. “Thank you, baby. I appreciate you wearing that for me.” He smiled, motioning towards your lingerie.

You smiled. “I mean you spoil me so much, it’s the least I could do. Do I look pretty?” You moved closer to your laptop camera, purposely angling it to face your breasts as you slowly message them, circling your brown areole’s. “So fucking pretty, princess.” He groaned, the ache in his pants getting worse. You smiled, leaning back before thanking him again. “Is there anything specific you want me to do for you, daddy?” You asked.

Initially, Terry thought about asking you to masterbate on the call to watch you moan his name, but he realised that it would be better to see that in person. “No, I just want to ask you one question.” He leaned forward to look directly in your eyes. “Oh? Go ahead, but I’m just letting you know that if I feel uncomfortable, I won’t hesitate to block you.” You said softly, attempting to set your boundaries as clearly as possible.

“I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable, princess. Tell me if I’m going too far, okay?” He assured you while you simply nodded.

“Outside of this-” he started, gesturing towards the camera, insinuating that he was referring to you being a cam girl. “What is your goal? What job do you aspire to have?” He questioned and it caught you off guard. It’s not usual that one of your viewers even care to ask about how your day was, never mind what your aspirations are. “I want to be rich.” You answered, earning a deep chuckle from him. “What?! I’m serious. I don’t aspire to work. I just want to make money and be happy.” You said truthfully. He found your answer fascinating because it wasn’t one he was used to hearing.

“What if I can be the one to make you rich and happy?” He asked, his tongue swiping across his bottom lip, patiently waiting for your response. “Wh-what do you mean?” You questioned, feeling your body warming up from the tension. Although, he was miles away from you, he made his presence very known. “I’m an investor. I like to invest into businesses I know will be profitable and successful for me-” He started, before you cut him off, “you invest into people too?” You asked. “Not people. . . Just you.” He adjusted his glasses.

“I want you to be my sugar baby.” The comment had you puzzled. It wasn’t like people had never asked you to be their sugar baby, but it wasn’t normal for someone of his calibre to openly ask. “That means I get to spoil you and all I ask for in return is your time and attention.” He continued. You were still silent, debating on whether it would be a good idea as you only started your cam girl services to fund for your college tuition fees, not because you wanted to have close ties to the lifestyle long term. “You can continue your streaming services if you think that’s something I wouldn’t want you doing anymore. I just want you. I want to feel you and be close to you. That’s all I ask for, sweetheart.” He said as you thought deeply about the advantages of being a sugar baby.

“How do I know you’re really rich? You could just be lying to me to get me to meet you.” You pestered. He laughed before pulling out his phone, tapping a few buttons and showing you the amount of money he had in his bank account. You audibly gasped which caused him to laugh harder at the thought of you questioning his wealth. “Does that answer your question?” He asked. “I’ll do it. I’ll be your sugar baby.” You replied almost immediately. “Good girl.” He smiled once more. And with that, your relationship with Terry began.

Who would’ve thought that a year later, you would be walking around Chanel with a 6 ft 3 man, spending his money on whatever you touched. I mean, you had been in the store for less than hour and he already spent over twenty thousand dollars. Terry sat in the corner of the store, tapping away at his phone to handle some business dealings while keeping a close eye on you, knowing you get lost when you’re not in the right mind. “Daddy, come look at this.” You asked softly as he held one finger at you to tell you to wait a moment. “Just give me a minute, sweetheart.” He replied.

You hated when he wasn’t paying attention to you, especially because you knew that whatever he was looking at wasn’t more important than you. “Why do I even bother.” You pouted, grabbing your bags and attempting to leave the store without a second thought. Terry immediately followed after you and paused your movements, noticing your demeanour shift. “I’m here, princess. I’m sorry, you know how work is right now.” He grabbed your chin for you to look up at him. “You said you wanted my time and attention, whole time, you’re too busy on your stupid fucking phone!” You barked back, attempting to walk away before feeling your arm get yanked back.

“Who the fuck you talking to like that? I’ll fuck you up in front of everybody.” He started. “Tread lightly. This bratty attitude ain’t cutting it for me.” He warned. Yes, Terry was a sweet man who was never aggressive with you unless you asked him to be, he still would never tolerate disrespect and recently you’ve been having more bratty outbursts than usual. At first, he thought you were simply hormonal, but as it became consistently worse, he became more agitated that you thought your behaviour was acceptable. “Whatever.” You storm back into the store, ignoring glares from the workers and continue your shopping.

It wasn’t long before you were laying across Terry’s lap on your stomach with your camera angled just so your viewers can see his chest, but not his face as he spanked you in the room he dedicated in his house as your filming room, covered in Sanrio themed accessories after you told him you loved them. “You can take it, princess.” He spanked your plush ass again, watching it slowly bruise up as the live gained more traction with people sending more gifts and reactions. “M’ sor-so sorry, daddy! Please!” You pleaded, feeling yourself start to lose your vision as you stained your cheeks with wet hot tears.

“But you look so pretty like this, mama. Don’t y’all agree?” He questioned, almost taunting the viewers as he landed another harsh slap. Your live stream was gaining more views by the minute, but all you could think about was how much you needed his touch. “Pl-pleasee, daddy. Touch me- I want it so bad.” You cried out. “I nee-ed you.” You breathed out. “That’s all you had to say, princess.” He lifted you to straddle him, facing you towards the camera as he spread your legs open for them to see. “Look at how wet you are.” He slapped your clit harshly, causing you to yelp and jump forward from the impact.

You covered your mouth with your hand as he continued to slap your clit four more times, chuckling after each slap. “Dadd-ah pleasee!” You squealed, knowing your body was giving up on you. Terry used his left hand to grab you by your throat, applying a little bit of pressure to assert dominance. “You know I don’t like brats. Why do you keep playing with me?” He whispered in your ear, rubbing your clit in a circular motion, slowly. “M’ sor-” you were cut off by him applying more pressure to your throat. “You’re sorry? Were you sorry when you embarrassed me today?” He questioned, his grip on your throat getting tighter as he fastened the pace of rubbing your clit.

You couldn’t even respond due to the pressure he had on your throat. Terry moved his left hand up into your mouth as you attempted to catch a breath. He stuck his two fingers in your mouth, watching you suck them softly. He almost forgot you were on your live stream until he heard a ping from your computer which indicated you had reached over fifty thousand viewers: a new milestone. “People like seeing me use you, princess. Should we do this more often?” He asked, pushing his fingers further down your throat while you simply nodded.

He pulled his fingers out your mouth, watching closely as a string of your saliva creeped out. You coughed at the feeling of your airways being free. “You’re my filthy little slut. Aren’t you, angel?” He teased, using both of his hands to rub your clit aggressively. You gripped onto his biceps, your face contorting from the mixed pleasure that you were receiving. Your pussy ached from the heat and you felt yourself losing consciousness. “Aww, you gonna pass out on daddy? But I’m only just getting started, baby.” He cooed. “You can take it.” He bit your shoulder.

The lewd sounds of your pussy squelching, your inconsistent moans and your sweat dripping from all parts of your body made viewers wish they were Terry right now. It was fucking disgusting. You practically losing yourself and he hadn’t even fucked you yet? You were pathetic. He slowed down his pace when he saw you squirting and your juices nearly hitting your laptop camera: truly cinematic.

He groaned at the feeling of his cock aching just from the sight. Terry knew when you started squirting like this, you weren’t far from cumming. “You close, bunny?” He teased as your legs trembled in response. “M’ c-close, pa!” You squirmed, closing your eyes shut while he rubbed you gently, still ensuring his touch was firm. You felt yourself slipping away into your own headspace as you knew you would cum any moment now. That was until, he moved his hands away from you, earning a loud whine.

“You think I’d let you cum after how you acted today? Nah, get on all fours.” He pushed you off him, causing you to fall to the ground. Your legs were still wobbly, but you knew better than to argue with him. After all, it was your mouth that got you in this position in the first place. You sat up on the bed, getting into his preferred position. “Stretch that ass out.” He ordered, watching you spread your ass hole open, ready for him to stuff your ass, whole.

You knew you were in for a long night.

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ithilien-writes · 2 days ago

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ficlet prompt: buck having a bad chronic pain day in his leg :)

thanks for the prompt! i had fun with this one 🥰

(to anyone reading: this was written really quickly and without much editing, so please take it in that spirit. i'm past the block that sparked the original call for prompts, but you can still always feel free to send me some more!!)

---

Rotten Work [Buck/Eddie (Buck & Chris), G, ~800 words]

Chris knows instinctively what kind of day it's going to be from almost the moment he wakes up. Or, at least from the moment he walks into the living room and sees Buck sprawled out on the couch.

Just a few months ago, it wouldn't have been an odd sight - Buck used to stay over on their couch all the time. And it's not that he doesn't stay over now; if anything, he stays over way more. He's just... not exactly been sleeping on the couch these days.

"Hey Buck," Chris calls out, keeping his voice soft even though he's pretty sure Buck's awake.

Sure enough, Buck stirs at the greeting, craning his neck up to look over at Chris, but without moving his body at all. So that's definitely sign number two.

"Hey bud," Buck greets him back, just as softly.

"Cuttlefish day?" Chris asks, even though he's almost positive he already knows the answer.

Buck manages a small smile back at him.

"Cuttlefish day," he confirms.

It was something they'd started when Chris was still pretty little. Honestly, Chris isn't sure that he even really remembers the day it started, except that he's heard the story from Dad. Apparently, on one of the first truly bad pain days he'd had after his mom died, Chris had been so overwhelmed by everything that he'd had a full sobbing meltdown, and he'd told his dad in between his little hiccuping cries that he didn't even want to be a person anymore.

"What do you want to be instead?" Dad had asked, holding Chris to his chest and rubbing his legs soothingly.

Which- apparently the question had been enough to distract Chris from his meltdown, finally getting him to stop crying as he thought about it with all the seriousness that an eight year-old could muster for such an important question. And then, on a huge aquarium kick at the time, he'd eventually decided he'd rather be a cuttlefish.

So now, in the years since it had become a kind of shorthand in their house for a bad pain day - initially for Chris, but eventually for Buck too.

So Chris simply nods at Buck's confirmation, before slipping back into the hallway to grab the TENS machine out of the closet, bringing it out to Buck who gives him another grateful smile in return. Then while Buck begins placing the electrodes along his bad leg, Chris heads into the kitchen to grab a coffee for Buck and a bowl of cereal for himself.

When Dad finally wakes up and joins them about an hour later, they've already finished breakfast and are well into a documentary on rubik's cube championships - which are apparently a thing? - and Buck's looking markedly more relaxed than he was at the start of the morning.

Dad ruffles Chris's hair as he walks by - which Chris tries to dodge, unsuccessfully - and then he leans down over the back of the couch to press a kiss into Buck's hairline.

"Cuttlefish day?" he asks, and Buck hums an affirmative, even as he tilts his head back to smile up at Dad with the same goofy, besotted grin he always has for him.

"Chris has been taking such good care of me though, I think I might actually be a person again before dinner," he tells Dad.

Dad looks over at Chris and catches his eye, his expression soft and appreciative.

"Well, I'm glad someone was taking care of you," he says after a moment, looking back down at Buck, "since I was apparently sleeping on the job."

He says it in a teasing tone, but also with a subtle undercurrent of actual annoyance that no one woke him up. Chris rolls his eyes.

Buck seems to pick up on it too.

"Well you can go get me another cup of coffee while you're up," he offers magnanimously, "if it would make you feel better."

Dad huffs out a laugh, but dutifully grabs Buck's mug from the coffee table before heading towards the kitchen.

Buck picks up the remote to unpause the documentary, but then looks over towards Chris instead.

"Hey," he says softly. "I meant that, you know. Thank you for taking care of me this morning. I really am feeling a lot better."

Chris shrugs. It's not like Buck hasn't been on the other side of enough of Chris's own cuttlefish days. It's nice to be able to return the favor, honestly.

He doesn't actually say that out loud though, for some reason. But he thinks maybe Buck understands anyway.

"Even if you're feeling better, maybe we could still order take out tonight?" he suggests instead, and Buck laughs.

"Yeah okay," he agrees easily. "I think I might be able to convince your dad on that one."

And when Dad comes back in a few moments later, tucking himself against Buck's side on the couch and handing him his coffee, it turns out it's not even all that hard of a sell.

#fic prompts #like-icarus-burns #buddie #buddie fic #911 abc #laura writes

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resident-idiot-simp · 3 days ago

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Vanessa's co-workers POV

(x)

@shy-canadian-snowflake had somewhat similar conversation about this with him so kudos for that lol

Vanessa was well known at the office for being blunt and honest to the point of hilarity. She would tell you what she thought with no care of how you felt about it. She also had some borderline insane stories she would share that she didn't seem to think much about.

One off comment too that would bring people up short because….what?!

Things like getting kidnapped and held hostage by a maniac, or being shot and almost dying because she was with the wrong person.

She talked about hanging out with mutants which some people in the office had problems with. Vanessa just asked those who scoffed if they had an issue with it and to speak up if they did. Vanessa didn't take very kindly to anyone talking bad about mutants. People suspected it was probably a personal thing and wondered who exactly in her close family was one.

That question was answered one day if she was leaving with everyone else. A man in a hood and sunglasses was lingering around the exit and a lot of people were nervous. Vanessa wasn't however as she lit up when she saw the figure.

“Wade!” She called and the huge man looked up and smiled. His face was shadowed but from what they could see it was just scar tissue. Vanessa ran to the figure and the man opened his arms for her easily.

“Hey Nessa, how was work?” The man asked his voice chipper as he placed an obnoxious kiss on the top of her head which caused Vanessa to giggle. The other workers were just staring in confusion.

“Fine, I didn't know you would be here today.” Vanessa said with her hands on her hips after she pecked him on the cheek.

The man, Wade, sighed obnoxiously, “What, I can't surprise my best friend by walking her back to her apartment after treating her to dinner?” He asked, faking as much offense as he can manage.

“Just us?” She asked as she crossed her arms.

The others watched the interaction like a tennis match.

“Everyone else is busy besides we've not had dinner together in a while. Unless of course it offends your delicate sensibilities.” Wade shot back and Vanessa just laughed.

“Fine but I have to tell Dermot.” She says and the man shrugs easily, “Of course I'd be worried if I were him. Hell you know how I was with you, still am even.” He agreed.

“Oh I know I was engaged to you for a long time.” She shot back and he just laughed.

Everyone shared wide eyed looks at that. Vanessa had mentioned having an ex fiance and this was apparently him.

“Are you going to look like a creep the whole time?” She asked him as she pulled out her phone. He just shrugged, “Don't want to scare anyone.” He said softly and Vanessa rolled her eyes, “Yes because someone as big as you wearing what you are isn't terrifying.” She sassed back.

Wade just sighed dramatically and took off the glass and hood. “Happy?” He asked, his voice tense as he looked at the others still watching. He was covered in scars but that isn't what caused the others to come up short. No what caused that was the fact that was fucking Deadpool.

Everyone looked to one another alarmed but Deadpo-Wade just ignored them as he looked back at a smiling Vanessa. “There's the man I know, come on I'll call on the way, when are we eating?” She asked as she started walking and Wade hurried to catch up cursing as he went.

The next day the office was abuzzed with questions. She answered some of them and ignored others. She had been with Wade before he was Deadpool and then after. They had split on good terms and had just grown apart romantically, but she still said they considered themselves best friends.

Her new boyfriend didn't care they were close because he trusted her and also not that it mattered but Wade had another partner now anyways. They were really close sure, but they didn't have any romantic feelings.

When asked about Wade's new partner she just shrugged and said they'd meet them eventually.

It was a few weeks later when they did in fact meet the partner. They were all leaving and there was a motorcycle idling outside. A man was leaning next to it in flannel jeans and a leather jacket. Vanessa had just smiled when she saw him, “Logan good to see you.” She called as she walked over to him.

He smiled and showed off too sharp teeth, “Hey Ness.” He greets easily as he gives her a hug and rubs his face on her. She giggles and wacks him lightly, “That shit tickles asshole.” She grouches.

He rolls his eyes at that. Vanessa graciously ignores it, “How's Wade?” She asked and the man just groaned. “Obnoxious as always but fine, he's at Sister Margaret's collecting money for a job we did.” He explained as he took off his jacket and handed it to Vanessa who put it on.

It swallowed her completely but she didn't seem to mind. Logan got onto the motorcycle and Vanessa was quick to join him wrapping her arms around his waist. They were off moments later leaving the stunned group to share shock looks.

“W-was that the Wolverine?” Someone asked in complete shock. “I think it was.” Another answered in a whisper.

Vanessa had been questioned about Logan and had admitted that yes he was Wade's new partner. She didn't explain more than that no matter how many times they asked.

It was another month before anything else interesting happened. That being a young lady who showed up. She had asked for Vanessa and it didn't take long for Vanessa to come and see what she wanted.

“Laura hey I didn't expect to see you here. Are you okay? What happened?” Vanessa asked as she approached and looked the girl over. She allows Vanessa to look her over but reassures that she's fine and nothing happened.

“Just wanted to know if I could hang here until you get done. Papá and Pop are being obnoxious and are probably going to fight and I personally don't want to see the aftermath.” She explained and Vanessa had just laughed, “I'm sure it will be fine we've only got an hour left.” Vanessa told her.

A few people shared worried looks but figured if it was really bad they wouldn't be laughing about it. Laura was a kind young lady who seemed out of her depth with her sounding and stuck close to Vanessa. Laura looked almost identical to Logan which didn't go unnoticed but people refrained from commenting about it.

Laura didn't cause any issues and even helped Vanessa with a few things before the day's end. Vanessa thanked her for the help and she smiled happily showing off familiar too sharp teeth. They left together and it was Monday before they got answers.

As they suspected Laura was Logan's daughter and thus Wade's too. Vanessa explained she was really happy for Wade because he'd always wanted a kid. Apparently he was amazing with Laura which most people were dubious at but no one said anything.

Vanessa never became less mysterious if anything it was the opposite. The more they learn the more questions they had.

Tags: @twoarrsandonesea

Added stuff and posted it to ao3

#deadclaws #deadclaw #deadpool and wolverine #deadpool & wolverine #deadpool 3 #deadpool #deadpool x wolverine #wade wilson #wade x logan #logan howlett #wolverine #poolverine #laura kinney #x23 #vanessa carlysle #outsiders pov #pov outsider #resi's shorts

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msbigredmachine · 16 hours ago

Text

The Boy Next Door: Chapter Eight

MASTERLIST ✨ harmshake’s masterlist ✨ msbigredmachine’s masterlist

Word Count: 8.4k

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

A/N: Sorry in advance for any errors, I'm not feeling well rn

Sitting stiffly in the cramped office at the Hartford Police Precinct, Raquel’s hands gripped the edge of the chair so tightly that her knuckles were turning an ugly shade of white. Across from her, Officer Gable leaned forward, his elbows resting on the scratched desk between them. The overhead fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, casting harsh shadows over the stacks of paperwork and cluttered files. Raquel’s nerves were frayed, but she kept her composure—for now.

Beside her, her colleague, Kelani, was anything but composed. The young paralegal trembled, her hands clutching a crumpled tissue that she twisted mercilessly between her fingers. Her tear-streaked face was pale, and her wide eyes darted nervously around the room as though searching for answers on the scuffed walls.

“It’s been days, Officer,” Kelani said, her voice cracking under the weight of her fear. “Gemini hasn’t been at the office. She hasn’t answered her phone. This isn’t like her.”

Raquel cut in, her tone sharper but no less panicked. “She’s one of the most disciplined people I know. If she was going to be out, she would’ve let someone know. She’s not the type to just… disappear.”

Gable sat across from them, his notepad resting on the desk between them. His brow furrowed as he tapped the pen against the pad. “You’re sure you’ve checked everywhere? Friends, family? Places she frequents?”

Raquel let out a small, frustrated laugh. “Come on, Gable. She goes out like everyone else, but she doesn’t disappear like this. Everyone knows her—she’s reliable. This is different.”

Kelani, her voice trembling, added, “We’ve tried everything. Her phone’s been off since Friday. I…I can’t shake the feeling that something’s really wrong.” She pressed the tissue to her mouth as if stifling a sob.

Raquel reached over to squeeze her colleague’s hand, she herself barely keeping her emotions under control. “It’s not just us, Officer. I’m in the Neighborhood Watch, too. I know there’s been women going missing around here. We’re just scared that Gem could become another statistic.”

Officer Gable leaned back in his chair, exhaling heavily. He ran a hand through his short-cropped hair, his features softening slightly as he tried to reassure them. “Look, we all love Gemini, alright? We’ll do everything we can to find her. This precinct takes care of its own, and she’s part of this community.”

Raquel narrowed her eyes slightly, her sharp mind already making connections. “What about Carmelo?” she asked. “He’s her man. Does he know anything?”

Officer Gable shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the weight of her question evident in his expression. He glanced down at his notepad, then back at Raquel. “He’s aware of the situation,” he said carefully, choosing his words. “And, yeah, he and Gemini were seeing each other, but…he’s just as in the dark as the rest of us right now.”

Kelani let out a shaky breath, her voice thick with tears. “But if they're dating, shouldn’t he have some idea of where she might have gone? Or if something was wrong?”

Gable’s jaw tightened, a flicker of empathy softening his tone. “He’s been looking for her on his own, calling her, checking her place. Trust me, he’s worried too. This isn’t easy for him either.”

Raquel leaned forward, her gaze sharp. “Then why isn’t he here? Why isn’t he the one leading this investigation if it’s personal for him?”

Gable hesitated before replying, his voice low. “Because sometimes when it’s personal, it’s harder to see things clearly. Hayes is doing everything he can, but he knows this can’t just be about him. We’re all working to bring Gemini back safely, and that’s what matters.”

Kelani sniffled again, wiping at her eyes. “Please, just find her. We’re terrified something’s happened.”

Gable nodded solemnly. “I promise, we’ll do everything we can.”

Meanwhile, Officer Hayes sat alone in his office, the walls seemingly closing in around him as dread knotted his stomach. His desk phone and iPhone sat side by side, both useless. He’d called Gemini’s number so many times that her voicemail greeting was burned into his brain.

“Where the fuck are you, Gem?” he muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping anxiously on the desk.

He’d driven by her house three times over the past few days, each visit more nerve-wracking than the last. The curtains were drawn, the lights off. Her car sat in the driveway, but there was no sign of life. He’d even called Ivy, hoping she might have some answers, but her phone went straight to voicemail too.

“Damn it,” he hissed, leaning back in his chair. He didn’t believe in coincidences. Gemini and Ivy hadn’t been on speaking terms for weeks, but now both women were unreachable at the same time. Something was wrong. And he had no idea where next to look.

A knock at his door interrupted his spiraling thoughts. Carmelo sat up as the door opened to reveal a red-haired woman with a concerned expression. She hesitated for a moment before stepping inside.

“Officer Hayes?” she asked.

“That’s me,” he said, studying her. He didn’t recognize her, but her anxious energy put him on edge.

“I’m Becky,” she introduced herself. “I need to file a report about my friend, Ivy Jones.”

Carmelo’s heart sank. “Take a seat,” he prodded, drawing out the chair opposite his desk for her.

Becky sat down, clasping her hands together tightly. “Ivy’s little girl, Zaia, came to my house for a slumber party with my daughter, Lyra, over the weekend. Ivy was supposed to pick her up on Sunday, but she never showed.”

“Never showed?” Carmelo repeated, as he grabbed a pen and a notepad.

Becky shook her head. “I tried taking Zaia back to her house, but the doors were locked, and it didn’t seem like anyone was home. I called Ivy’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. I’ve tried every day since. Nothing.” Her voice cracked slightly as she added, “Zaia is still at my house. She keeps asking for her mom, and I don’t know what to tell her.”

“Jesus,” Carmelo muttered, running a hand over his face. Poor girl. “When did you say you last saw her?”

“Friday,” Becky answered. “That’s when she dropped Zaia off. She seemed fine—completely normal. But now…I’m not so sure.” She let out a heavy sigh, her shoulders slumping. “My husband, Seth, pushed me to come here. He thinks that if Ivy still isn’t answering, something’s seriously wrong.” Becky leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper, eyes wide with worry. “He’s even starting to say it might be…kidnapping.”

Carmelo shook his head grimly, his gut churning with worry. “We don’t know that yet, but you did the right thing coming in,” he told her. “I’ll make sure this gets priority. In the meantime, keep Zaia safe. Don’t let her out of your sight.”

Becky nodded, though her worry was evident. “Please find Ivy. Zaia needs her.”

“I will,” Carmelo promised, though the words felt hollow.

As Becky left, he sat back heavily in his chair, his mind racing. His chest felt tight, his breathing uneven. The crime rate in this town was starting to climb. Three women in total were now missing, two of them connected to him in some way. And then there was Rhea, the pregnant girl who’d turned up dead weeks, her body dumped in the woods, the case still unresolved. Surely this had to be some kind of coincidence.

Right?

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, slamming his fist against the desk.

The door opened again, and Officer Gable stepped inside. “You good, bro?” he asked, noticing his partner’s agitation.

Carmelo glanced up, his jaw clenched. “How can I be good? Gemini’s missing. Ivy’s missing. The Belair lady, too. Something’s happening in Hartford, and we’re not catching it fast enough.”

Gable frowned, sitting down across from him. “You think this is connected to that girl, Rhea?”

“I don’t know,” Carmelo admitted. “But it’s not random. Too many women are disappearing or turning up dead, and now it’s hitting close to home.”

Gable nodded slowly, his expression serious. “This is personal for you, isn’t it?”

“Damn fucking right it’s personal,” Carmelo snapped. “Gemini’s my girl. I’m not losing her.”

Gable hesitated before replying, “We’ll figure this out, Hayes. But you need to keep a clear head. If you get too close—”

“I don’t give a fuck how close I get,” Carmelo interrupted, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m gon’ find her, and I’m gonna figure out who’s behind this. Whoever they are, they’re not walking away from this.”

Gable didn’t argue, though his concern was evident. As the two officers sat in tense silence, the weight of the situation pressed down on them both.

Hartford wasn’t safe anymore.

Her body throbbed with pain, every muscle screaming, every bone she owned weighed down by exhaustion.

Ivy had no idea how long she’d been trapped in this nightmare. Days? Weeks? Time blurred into an endless abyss of suffering. There were no windows, no clocks—nothing to anchor her to reality. Only the suffocating darkness, the damp concrete walls, and the slow, agonizing creak of the heavy door whenever he came.

Roman.

No. Mateo Hobbs.

The air mattress he had given her to be sleeping on was a mockery of comfort. She was too drained to move, too hollowed out to cry, but sleep was impossible. Every time her eyes drifted shut, she saw him. Felt him.

Instead, she tried to think of Zaia.

Was she still at Becky’s house? Had Becky noticed something was wrong? Or had Roman dispatched Becky too before she could get the chance?

The thought made Ivy sick.

Because she knew what he was capable of now.

She had learned the truth in the most horrifying way possible—his real name, his real face beneath the mask of charm and seduction. Mateo Hobbs.

He wasn’t just a liar. He was a monster. He had slithered into her life, invaded her bed, whispered sweet words in her ear while his hands were already stained with the blood of the people she loved.

Angelo. The father of her child. Murdered. By him.

Gemini. Her best friend. Murdered. By him.

He had pretended to comfort Ivy when Angelo died, holding her close as she wept, whispering lies while the blood on his hands had barely dried. He had stroked her hair, murmured reassurances, all while knowing he was the reason Angelo was gone. And when she had sobbed in his kitchen over Gemini’s disappearance, wracked with guilt and fear, he had watched in silence—because he already knew Gemini wasn’t missing. She was dead, buried just feet below, her screams long since silenced by the same hands that caressed Ivy with twisted affection.

How many more had there been? How many innocent lives had he taken before he turned his sights on Ivy?

Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting into her palms so hard it hurt. Every nerve in her body screamed for release—for something, anything, to make this torment stop. She wanted to tear him apart, to claw at her own skin until every trace of him was gone. But it wouldn’t matter. No matter how much she raged, no matter how deep she bled, she would still be here. Trapped, with escape slipping further and further out of reach.

Twice a day, he came.

Bringing food.

Bathing her like she was his doll.

And then violating her.

He treated her as if they were lovers, whispering sweet nothings against her skin, kissing her tenderly while he took what he wanted. Each time, he made sure she climaxed, as if that made it okay. As if that erased the horror, the utter disgust of every moment he touched her.

He fed her himself now, having stripped away any semblance of autonomy after her failed attempt to stab him with a spoon. There were no utensils anymore—just his hands, his dominance. He pressed the food against her lips, his grip unyielding. When she resisted, his patience thinned, fingers tightening at her jaw until she had no choice but to open her mouth. Chew. Swallow. Submit. His to control.

“You need to eat,” he said, voice low, as if he were speaking to a frightened animal.

And today, when she stirred from a restless, hollow sleep, she knew before she even opened her eyes that something was wrong.

She wasn’t alone.

A breath ghosted over her skin. The weight of a presence beside her, unmoving, watching.

Her eyes snapped open, her body jerking in terror.

Roman was lying next to her, propped on one elbow, studying her with quiet fascination.

“Morning, my love,” he murmured, voice thick with satisfaction.

Ivy’s stomach clenched with revulsion. She scrambled back, breath hitching, but there was nowhere to go. The wall pressed against her spine, cold and taunting.

He didn’t react to her fear. If anything, he looked amused.

Then he reached for her, his grip unrelenting as he pulled her up and guided her toward the small bathroom. She tried to push him away, her hands weak against his chest, but he barely noticed. He was so strong. Unshakable. No matter how much she resisted, he always won.

She didn’t speak. Couldn’t.

She was breaking.

He was breaking her.

The water ran warm, and he bathed her with careful, practiced hands. He touched her, dragging his fingers over her skin, washing her hair, his touch sickeningly tender. He acted as if she belonged to him, as if this was routine, as if she wanted this.

Ivy stared blankly at the tiled wall, emotionless, frozen beneath his hands.

When he was finished, he dried her off and dressed her. A neat pile of fresh clothes and underwear sat in a corner.

Her fresh clothes and underwear.

Meaning he had been inside her house. Again.

Obviously he’d been there before. More than once. So he knew how to get in. Where to go.

But now, he was an uninvited guest, walking through her rooms. Opening her drawers. Touching her belongings. Breathing her in.

She felt violated all over again.

He hummed under his breath, brushing her hair with slow, gentle strokes. His fingers grazed her scalp, gentle, affectionate. A mockery of care.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered, tilting her chin so their eyes met. “Just like you always do.”

Ivy wanted to shatter into a million pieces.

Then, he reached for a paper bag, pulling out a wrapped breakfast burrito.

Her stomach twisted violently.

“Bacon and scrambled eggs,” he said, his smile almost warm. “Just how you like it. Because you’ve been such a good girl.”

It made her sick how stupid she’d been. Allowing this man to learn these details about her through their time together—casually, effortlessly, during the months he had spent pretending to be the perfect man.

And now, he was using it against her.

Her throat burned with bile.

She couldn’t do anything. Couldn’t scream. Couldn’t fight.

So she sat in silence.

Trapped.

Hopeless.

Drowning in this unimaginable nightmare.

Officer Hayes stepped out of the squad car, his dark eyes scanning the modest suburban neighborhood through his Aviators as he adjusted his holster. It was a crisp, gray morning, the kind where clouds seemed heavy with the promise of rain. He glanced at Officer Gable, who shut his car door and motioned toward the house a few feet ahead. The house was pristine—sharp lines, expansive glass windows, and a driveway that looked like it had been freshly hosed down that morning.

“Finance guy, no priors,” Gable muttered, looking through his notes as they approached the door. “Don’t see how he’s involved in any of this.”

Hayes nodded, his face unreadable. “Maybe. We met him at Gem’s Halloween party, remember?”

“Yeah,” Gable said, frowning as he adjusted his badge. “Big Aquaman dude, long hair, quiet type. Nothing that raises any alarm bells.”

Hayes hesitated, the memory of that party resurfacing in his mind. Roman had been polite, almost overly so, but there had been a moment—just a flicker—when Hayes had noticed tension between him and Gemini. He’d dismissed it at the time, chalking it up to a personal disagreement, but now? With Gemini missing, that moment gnawed at him.

“Something felt… off,” Hayes admitted. “I didn’t think much of it then, but now I’m not so sure.”

Gable shrugged. “Let’s see what he has to say.”

Hayes rang the doorbell, the chime barely audible from the outside. A few moments later, the door opened to reveal Roman. He was as imposing as Hayes remembered—tall, muscular and broad-shouldered. His dark hair was tied back neatly, and he wore a black sweater that clung to his huge frame and dark jeans that seemed effortlessly stylish.

Roman’s expression oozed with polite curiosity as he took in the two cops. “Officers,” he greeted, his deep voice smooth but carrying a hint of confusion. “What’s going on? Everything okay?”

Carmelo offered a small nod, his tone calm but professional. “How’s it going, Roman? Sorry to drop by unannounced, but we need to ask you a few questions. Hope this isn’t a bad time.”

Roman tilted his head, his brows furrowing with what appeared to be genuine confusion. “Questions? What’s this about?”

“We’ll cut to the chase to avoid wasting time. When’s the last time you heard from Ivy?” Gable asked.

Roman’s face softened into concern as he exhaled deeply. Tiredly. “Ivy? The last time we spoke was a couple of days ago. She seemed…distant, distracted even. She told me she needed some space, so I didn’t push.”

His answer rolled off his tongue with practiced ease, his tone smooth and sincere.

“Well,” Gable said, his gaze sharp, “no one can seem to find her or reach her. She and Gemini are both missing.”

Roman’s brows shot up, his expression shifting seamlessly to shock. “Missing?” he repeated, his voice low and steady. “Hold up…That…that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, Ivy’s been under a lot of pressure, but Gemini too? I—this is the first I’m hearing of it.” He trailed off, his jaw tightening as if he were processing the news. He shook his head, his voice filled with what sounded like genuine worry.

“When was the last time you saw them both?” Hayes asked, watching Roman closely.

Roman exhaled slowly, running a hand over his face. “Ivy was a few days ago. She’s been under a lot of stress. She hasn’t really been the same since Angelo’s death, it’s been so hard for her. And Gemini…I haven’t seen her since last week.” He paused, his gaze lowering. “God, this is awful. I care about both of them. What can I do to help?”

Hayes exchanged a glance with Gable before pressing further. “Speaking of Angelo, we heard you and he had some disagreements before his death.”

Roman looked up sharply, his expression briefly guarded before softening into something more regretful. “Angelo and I… yes, we had a disagreement. Just one. It was stupid, really, a misunderstanding. We hashed it out the next day, and that was that.” He sighed deeply, his tone lowering. “He was a good man, and what happened to him was tragic. A car accident…it still doesn’t feel real.”

Hayes studied Roman’s face, his smooth answers and calm demeanor making it difficult to gauge anything beyond what the man wanted them to see.

“Angelo was a great dad,” Roman continued, his voice thick with emotion. “Zaia adored him. This must be so hard on her. Where is she?”

The question came out casually enough, but something in the way Roman asked it made Carmelo pause.

“She’s safe,” he informed, his instincts urging him to keep it vague.

Roman nodded slowly, though his jaw clenched almost imperceptibly. “That’s good. She’s a sweet kid. I’d hate for her to be caught up in all of this. If it helps, I’d be happy to take her in while you figure things out. She knows me; I can keep her comfortable.”

His voice was calm, measured, but Hayes detected the faintest hint of desperation beneath the surface. Roman’s mask was flawless, but something about the offer didn’t sit right.

“That won’t be necessary,” Hayes said evenly. “We’ll make sure Zaia’s taken care of.”

Roman gave a tight-lipped smile, his eyes lingering on Hayes for a moment longer than was comfortable. “Of course. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

Gable nodded, stepping back slightly. “We’ll keep you in the loop.”

Roman watched them retreat, his expression unreadable. “Thank you, officers. Be safe out there.”

As the door closed, Hayes felt a wave of unease settle over him. Gable glanced at him as they walked back to the car.

“Well, he’s convincing,” Gable said.

Hayes didn’t respond immediately. He glanced back at the house, his instincts buzzing. Roman’s answers had been smooth—too smooth.

“Yeah,” Hayes muttered, sliding into the car. “Maybe a little too convincing.”

As they pulled away, Hayes couldn’t shake the feeling that Roman knew far more than he was letting on. But he had no proof.

Over the days, Roman spoke to Ivy with a chilling casualness, recounting his killing sprees as if reliving fond memories. Antonia. Elesha. The two murders in Hartford’s neighboring counties. Rhea. Bianca. Each name was another knot in Ivy’s stomach, another weight pressing against her lungs.

He pointed at the second barrel beside the one he had stuffed Gemini into. “That’s where Bianca is,” he said, his voice devoid of remorse. “I killed her because I could.”

A silent sob wracked Ivy’s body, hot tears streaking down her face. He had no reason. No twisted justification. Just power—the pleasure of taking a life simply because it was his to take.

But she was starting to see the pattern. The obsession. Roman needed control over the women in his life. He demanded devotion, compliance. When he felt disrespected, when they defied him, he ended them. And then, he moved on to the next.

“Those bitches got what was coming to them,” he muttered, referring to Antonia and Elesha, his voice as steady as if he were discussing the weather. “I moved heaven and earth for them, and still, they decided it wasn’t enough.” He smiled. “But it’s all good. I got you now.”

Ivy swallowed the bile rising in her throat.

It always came back to betrayal for him. He had been cheated on. Lied to. Abandoned. From his mother, who picked the lifestyle of a mob boss’ wife over nurturing her son, to Antonia, who left him for her college professor. And Elesha…his wife, the woman he had vowed to cherish, had been carrying another man’s child. His own cousin’s child.

Everything she heard made her physically ill.

He spoke of the future as if it were inevitable, as if she had a choice. “Once everything settles down, once them cops get off my back, I’m taking you out of this town,” he murmured one night, his fingers brushing damp strands of hair from her face with eerie tenderness. “We’ll go somewhere far away, somewhere quiet. Where no one can find us.”

Oh god.

“But what about Zaia?” Her voice cracked. “I need my baby, Roman. Please.”

Roman didn’t hesitate. “She’ll come with us, of course,” he said smoothly, “Once I convince those two idiot cops that I can take her.”

Desperation clawed at her chest, her mind a whirl of frantic thoughts. She couldn’t let that happen. Couldn’t let Roman get his hands on her baby. Couldn’t let Roman take both of them away. But what could she do now that she was stuck here?

One evening, he entered the room, the scent of warm food trailing behind him like a ghost of normalcy. But there was something off—something in the way he moved, the unsettling lightness in his step. Ivy tensed, her unease sharpening as he set the food in front of her, his gaze locked onto hers, unblinking. Then, gently, deliberately, his hand dipped into his pocket.

The air seemed to thin as he withdrew a small velvet box. Ivy’s breath caught and not in the romantic way, her stomach twisting into a tight, suffocating knot. Roman flipped open the box, the diamond ring catching the dim light like a cruel joke.

“I’ve been waiting for this moment since I first met you,” he murmured, his deep voice rich with certainty. “We belong together, Ivy. I want you to marry me.”

The walls seemed to close in, pressing in on her. Her pulse hammered in her ears as her gaze locked onto the ring.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

Roman tilted his head, studying her reaction. Then, with a slow, sly smirk, he said, “It was Elesha’s.”

The words hit her like a blow.

He let the silence stretch before adding, almost casually, “I pried it off her fingers after she died.”

He had kept it. All this time. After he killed her.

Revulsion burned through her like acid. Her vision blurred, a red haze creeping in at the edges.

“What—” Her voice broke, strangled with horror. “What is wrong with you?”

Roman watched her, calm as ever. Like this was nothing. Like he hadn’t just confessed to something monstrous.

Her entire body trembled. The walls felt like they were closing in. The ring—the proof of his cruelty—gleamed in its velvet jail, a sickening symbol of everything she wanted to escape.

“I can’t marry you,” she choked out, shaking her head. “I won’t.”

Roman stilled. Blinked, as if processing an impossible concept. The warmth in his eyes flickered out like a candle snuffed by the wind.

“You don’t mean that,” he said, stepping toward her.

She lurched back, chest heaving. Her voice cracked, raw and ragged. “Yes, I do! You—you killed her! You kept her ring like some kind of trophy, and you expect me to wear it?”

Roman exhaled slowly, his grip tightening around the box before he snapped it shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the suffocating silence.

“Ivy,” he said, voice low, warning. “You need to calm down.”

She let out a hysterical laugh, hands shaking as she raked them through her hair. “Calm down? You’re insane!”

His jaw clenched. “I love you.”

She shook her head, chest burning with fear, anger—despair. “No! You don’t know what love is! I’m sorry, but I’m not marrying you. Period.”

Something flashed in his eyes—something dangerous. Then, his jaw tensed, his fingers tightening around the box. His eyes turned cold, lethal.

The transformation was terrifying.

His voice dropped into a low, guttural snarl.

“If I can’t have you…then no one else will.”

Before she could comprehend what was happening, Roman grabbed her, dragging her to the far corner of the room. Her heart sank as she realized he was taking her to the trapdoor, the heavy metal latch gleaming ominously.

“Roman, no!” she cried, her voice raw with terror. She clawed at his arms, kicked her legs, anything to break free, but he was too strong.

He yanked the door open with a deafening creak, revealing the gaping black pit beneath, where Gemini had laid dead. Ivy’s blood turned to ice.

“No! Please!” she sobbed, her voice breaking. “Don’t put me in there! I’ll do whatever you want! Just don’t—”

Her words were cut off as Roman shoved her forward. She screamed, her nails scraping against the edge of the trapdoor as she tried to stop herself, but it was no use. She fell, hard, her scream piercing the air as she tumbled into the darkness.

Roman slammed the trapdoor shut, her cries muffled but still audible through the thick metal. He stood there for a moment, his chest heaving as he stared at the closed door.

Then, without a second glance, he turned and walked out of the basement, Ivy’s screams fading behind him.

The search for Ivy and Gemini had consumed the town. Days had passed since they were declared missing, and the air had become thick with desperation. Everywhere you turned, there were posters of their faces—on lampposts, in store windows, on every corner of the neighborhood. The words MISSING screamed in bold red ink, and beneath them, the faces of two women who had been loved by the entire community. It was all hands on deck now: the local Neighborhood Watch, volunteers, and the police were combing through every lead, no matter how small. Still, no trace. No sign. Nothing.

Officer Gable walked into Carmelo’s office with a grim expression, holding a manila folder in one hand, his other hand pressed against his forehead as if trying to hold back the weight of the investigation.

“Anything?” Carmelo asked, glancing up from the pile of papers on his desk. His eyes were bloodshot from sleepless nights.

Gable dropped the folder onto the desk with a heavy sigh. “We’re running out of places to look, but we’ve got more volunteers. The whole town’s on it. People are offering tips, though some are…fucking useless.”

Carmelo rubbed his eyes, the exhaustion evident in his every movement. He leaned back in his chair. “Any solid leads?”

Before Gable could respond, the door to his office opened, and in walked Becky and her husband Seth. Both of them looked like they hadn’t slept in days, their faces drawn with worry. Holding Becky’s hand was Zaia, whose tear-streaked face registered the chaos that had plagued her young life.

Zaia’s sniffle shattered the heavy silence, her small voice trembling. “Where’s Mama?” Her wide, confused eyes darted around the office, searching, desperate, as if expecting Ivy to walk through the door at any second. “Is Mama here?”

Becky knelt beside her, tucking a stray curl behind Zaia’s ear, though her hands were shaking. “Sweetheart, we’re looking for her, okay? We’re gonna find her.” She forced a smile, but her voice wavered, betraying the fear she was trying so hard to hide. “She’s gonna be alright.”

Zaia swallowed hard, blinking up at Becky. “And Duchess?” she whispered. “Mama said she’d pick her up from the groomer.”

Becky’s breath caught. She glanced at Seth, whose jaw clenched as he looked away.

Carmelo stepped forward, his expression carefully measured. He had seen this before—too many times. A child clinging to hope that might not exist. “Thank you for bringing her,” he murmured to the couple before crouching down to Zaia’s level, his voice turning soft. “Hey, sweetie. You wanna take a seat? I just wanna ask you a few questions, okay?”

Zaia hesitated before climbing onto the chair, swinging her legs slightly. Carmelo exhaled, steadying himself. “Zaia, do you remember the last time you saw your mama?”

A slow nod. Her bottom lip quivered, and she clutched the hem of her t-shirt. “She took me to Lyra’s house for our slumber party.”

Carmelo nodded. “Okay…Do you remember anything else about that day? Did you see anyone you didn’t know that could have been following you?”

Zaia sniffled again, her voice growing even smaller. “I remember…Roman was with us.”

“Roman? Your neighbor?” Gable prodded gently.

Zaia nodded. “He’s Mama’s boyfriend. He drove us to Lyra’s house.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I like Roman. He’s nice. He buys me toys. But…” Her fingers curled into the fabric of her t-shirt, gripping tight. “He yelled at me.”

Carmelo exchanged a glance with Gable, something unspoken passing between them. A shift. A new crack in the picture. And this one? It felt important.

“He yelled at you? Why did he yell? What happened?” asked Carmelo.

Zaia hesitated, looking down at her shoes. “I was playing my music, but I kept playing the same song over and over. He didn’t like it. He got real mad. Told me to shut it off.” Her eyes filled with tears again, her voice small and unsure. “I didn’t like it. It made me upset.”

Carmelo exchanged a quick glance with Gable. There was something cold about Roman’s behavior. That wasn’t just yelling. That was control.

Hayes knelt in front of Zaia, his voice gentle but stern. “Zaia, I want you to listen to me. No one’s gonna yell at you again, okay?”

Zaia nodded, though the sadness in her eyes was still there. Then, in a voice so small it nearly broke all their hearts, she murmured, “I just want my Mama…and Duchess.” Her lip quivered. “I wanna go home. Can we go home? Maybe they’re back.”

Carmelo stepped forward, placing a hand gently on her small shoulder. “You might be right. Ya know what? I will take you home. Hopefully she’s returned, just like you said. Is that okay?”

Zaia nodded eagerly, hope brimming in her eyes.

Becky looked to Carmelo, uncertainty swimming in hers. “Are you sure? Can you…can you make sure she’s safe?”

Carmelo nodded, his expression hardening. “I’ll make sure. I won’t let anything happen to her. I’ll take Gable with me. If we get there and she hasn’t returned, we’ll bring her right back to yours.” He gave a small, reassuring smile as he crouched beside Zaia. “We’ll bring her back. I promise.”

When Becky and Seth left, Carmelo pulled Gable aside, his jaw set with determination. “We’re checking Ivy’s house again. Top to bottom. Then, Reigns’ place.” His eyes darkened, his voice edged with certainty. “That guy is bullshittin’ us. I can feel it.”

The dark had weight. It pressed against her skin, thick and cloying, seeping into her lungs like smoke. There was no beginning, no end—just the pit, just the silence, just the endless, gnawing void.

She’d stopped counting the hours. Time wasn’t real down here. Only hunger, only cold, only the bruises blooming along her limbs from when he threw her down and locked the world away. She had lost count of the minutes, the silence pressing in on her like a living thing. Roman had thrown her down here like she was nothing, like she was his to punish. And for what? Because she wouldn’t marry him? Because she wouldn’t legitimize his sexual violence?

The whispers began.

At first, they were soft, curling around the edges of her consciousness like a song half-remembered. They spoke in fragments—slippery syllables, broken thoughts.

Then they grew bolder.

They spoke Zaia’s name.

Whispers in the dark, so faint she almost missed it.

She pressed a trembling hand to her ears. No, no, this wasn’t real. Just exhaustion. Fear and loneliness stretching itself thin.

But then—

Zaia…

Her daughter’s name, floating up from the depths, whispered with the same gentle cadence Ivy used when tucking her in at night.

She swallowed hard, squeezing her eyes shut. This was the trap. This was how the dark got inside you—by making you believe.

But the dark was patient. It slithered into her bones, weaving its way into the fabric of her mind. She felt it shifting in the walls, crawling beneath her skin, threading itself through the marrow of her ribs.

She started muttering to herself, rocking slightly, her voice hoarse and uneven. Zaia. Zaia. Her baby, her anchor. If she said it enough, maybe she wouldn’t lose herself to madness.

Maybe.

The walls whispered—no, breathed—around her. Shapes slithered in the black, shifting in the corners of her vision. Shadows with no bodies. Voices with no mouths.

Then, suddenly—light.

Ivy gasped, her eyes flying open as the trapdoor groaned above, spilling a blinding light into her prison. The sharp contrast burned, sending white-hot pain lancing through her skull. She flinched, but her body barely moved, too weak, too stiff.

And then he was there. A figure in the light, his shadow swallowing her whole. Roman. She blinked, but he didn’t change. He loomed above like an eclipse, food in tow.

Her gaze drifted up to him, unfocused. Wide, hollow eyes stared at something only she could see. The ghosts that had kept her company in the pitch darkness.

She flinched when he reached for her, but didn’t resist as he dragged her out of the pit, her limbs limp and useless. The world tilted, and suddenly she was back on the mattress. A flash of panic engulfed her, praying he wouldn’t touch her this time.

Roman remained silent, choosing to stand there quietly and observe her, jaw clenched as he set the tray of food between them. “You should eat.”

Ivy said nothing, merely drew her knees to her chest and slowly rocked herself back and forth.

Roman dipped a piece of bread into the thick bowl of soup, swirling it around. “So…have you had time to think about my proposal?” he said.

She tilted her head at him. Slow. Mechanical. Then—

A sharp, breathless laugh.

Roman’s expression hardened. “Ivy?”

She didn’t answer. Just lifted a hand, her index finger tracing something unseen in the air.

“The walls are breathing,” she murmured. “Did you notice?”

A pause. Then, softly,

“They don’t like you.”

His eyes narrowed. Suspicion. “What are you doing?”

“Listening to the voices, silly.” Ivy shifted, her body folding in on itself, arms wrapped tight like she was holding herself together. “They don’t like me either, but you? Ooh, they hate your guts, homie.”

Silence.

She let it stretch. Let it coil between them like a living thing. Then, she shivered, rubbing her arms, fingers twitching like she could feel something crawling beneath her skin.

“They move in the dark,” she whispered. “I hear them when I’m sleep. You shouldn’t have put me in there, Roman. Now I’ll never be free of them.”

Roman exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. Frustration. But underneath it—hesitation.

He chose not to feed her this time, leaving her and walking out of the basement to fend for herself.

By evening time, she was singing.

Soft melodies, eerie and wordless, weaving through the dark, cold basement like something ancient, something wrong. Sometimes she hummed lullabies, sometimes she whispered nonsense, with Zaia’s name woven between.

Roman ignored her, continued his routine with her, seemingly unfazed.

The next day, she was clawing at the walls, nails dragging slow, deliberate lines through the concrete ground.

Roman watched her, the concern starting to emerge, lining his sharp features.

She gasped—sharp, wild—and her eyes locked onto his with something close to delight.

“They’re in the walls,” she whispered, pointing. “I feel them.”

His breath hitched. Just for a second.

Her grin was wide and content.

Later that night, when he showed up to violate her, Ivy was laid in the fetal position, her back to him.

Roman sighed heavily and stood over her. “Ivy! What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Rolling into a seated position, she blinked up at him.

Then, out of nowhere, she sobbed.

Guttural. Anguished.

Loud.

She collapsed against him.

Fingers clutching his shirt, burying her face against his chest, body trembling like something fragile, something broken.

“I can’t,” she whispered, her soft voice fractured, splintered at the edges. “I can’t…they won’t let me sleep…I can’t—I can’t—”

She looked up at him, tear-streaked eyes wide, pleading. “Please stay with me. Please, baby. Just for one night. Stay with me. Don’t leave me alone again.”

Visibly taken aback, his hands hovered. Then, slowly—hesitantly—he gripped her shoulders. Just for a moment.

“Try to get some sleep,” he muttered. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Another morning, another sign that Ivy was having a breakdown.

This time, when Roman appeared in the basement, there was utter silence from her. Not a word, not a sound. Just her, lying on the mattress, staring at the ceiling. Roman set the tray of food down carefully, the way someone might lay an offering before an altar. A steaming bowl of chicken soup.

Ivy didn’t move. She just stared.

Roman sighed, raking a hand through his long hair. There was something else in his eyes today; something softer, vulnerable.

“You must be hungry.”

Again. Silence. Then, her breath caught, her lips parting.

“You threw me in that pit like I was nothing.”

Roman didn’t respond.

Ivy let out another shuddering exhale. Her fingers curled inward, like she was afraid to touch the bowl, like she thought it would vanish.

Her voice broke. “You hate me, don’t you?”

A flicker in his eyes. Guilt? “You know that’s not true,” he murmured.

Ivy let out a soft, breathy laugh. “Liar.”

Her fingers skimmed the edge of the tray, staring at it as though deep in thought.

“Roman…” Her voice was smaller now, softer. Frightened. “I…” Her throat tightened, and then she laughed again. Quiet. Fractured. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

She watched the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes searched hers.

“You need to eat,” he said.

Ivy looked away, as if she couldn’t bear the sight of him.

Settling down quietly beside her, Roman’s hands rested on his thighs as he studied her for a long moment. “I’m sorry I put you in there,” he murmured, reaching out to tuck a strand of disheveled hair behind her ear. “I did it because I love you, Ivy. I just needed you to understand, to see sense.”

She exhaled shakily, allowing herself to tremble under his touch. “I was scared…at first,” she whispered, eyes welling with tears as she leaned closer to him. “But now that I’ve had time to think, I—maybe I understand now.”

His gaze darkened, but the doubt still lingered in his eyes. He felt her breath against his lips before she kissed him—slowly, hungrily. He felt her melt into him, felt her surrender, her fingers cupping his jaw to hold him close as their mouths moved together. And for a moment, just a moment, all felt right with the world again.

Then, she pulled away. Just a fraction. Just enough to whisper, “I think I’m hungry now.”

Roman nodded, placing the tray in her lap. The steam curled up between them as she wrapped her fingers around the warm ceramic bowl. She lifted it toward her lips, breathing in the rich scent.

Then, in one swift motion, she hurled the scalding soup into his face.

Roman roared, staggering back, hands flying to his burning skin. She didn’t hesitate—she smashed the bowl against his head, the ceramic shattering on impact. It knocked him off the mattress with a groan, dazed. He was still moving, still too strong, so she grabbed the tray and swung it with all the strength she had left.

The metal cracked against his skull.

He went down. Collapsed like a rag doll. His huge body going stock-still.

For a horrifying second, Ivy just stared at his unmoving body, chest heaving. Then survival instincts kicked in. She dropped to her knees, hands shaking as she frantically searched his pockets. He always kept the keys on him—she had watched him, studied him, memorized the little habits that he thought went unnoticed.

Her fingers found the cool metal. Heard the faint jangle.

Yes!

She limped towards the basement door as fast as her bare feet could carry her, forcing the key into the lock with clumsy, trembling hands. The mechanism clicked, and she wrenched it open, stumbling up the stairs. Her bare feet barely registered the pain as she reached the second door, fumbling with the lock.

“Come on,” she breathed, turning the key desperately.

The lock gave.

She shoved the door open and sprinted out of the basement, breathing in the air of his home. She knew she wasn’t safe yet. Not until she had Duchess.

Duchess.

Panic seized her chest. Where could she be?

Almost on cue, a faint whimper reached her ears, and she turned toward the sound, dread curling in her stomach.

The laundry room.

She ran, bursting into the small space and nearly sobbing when she saw the kennel tucked in the corner. Duchess was inside, her tiny body unnaturally still, a muzzle strapped around her snout to silence her cries. But the second she laid eyes on Ivy, the whimpering turned frantic.

“I’m here,” Ivy gasped, falling to her knees and wrestling with the latch. “I’ve got you, baby, I’ve got you.”

The moment the latch opened, Duchess tumbled into her arms, barely able to stand on her own. Quickly relieving the puppy of the muzzle, Ivy cradled her close, pressing kisses to the soft fur on her head.

“I’m getting us out of here,” she swore, holding Duchess protectively as she staggered toward the front door, her heart hammering.

The police cruiser sped down the quiet street, its tires humming against the asphalt. In the back seat, Zaia pressed her small hands against the window, wide eyes scanning the darkness, hoping—praying—to see her mother. Every shadow, every movement made her heart lurch.

In the front, Carmelo’s phone vibrated against the dashboard. Without missing a beat, Gable snatched it up, glancing at the screen.

"FaceTime," Gable muttered. "The number’s from Florida."

Carmelo frowned. "Answer it."

Gable swiped the screen, and the call connected. A sharp-jawed man with piercing blue eyes appeared on the display.

"Officer Hayes?" His tone was clipped, urgent, with an edge to it. "I’m Detective Cody Rhodes from Orlando PD. You don’t know me, but I know what’s been happening in your town."

Carmelo tightened his grip on the wheel. "The hell is this about?"

Cody exhaled sharply. "I need your help. I’ve been tracking a man—Mateo Hobbs—for over a year now. He’s responsible for multiple murders and disappearances down south. And I just found out he's in your neck of the woods, Hartford."

Gable shot a glance at Carmelo. "Never heard of him."

"You have," Cody corrected. He angled his phone, showing a grainy photo of a man with long, dark hair, piercing eyes, and a sharp, calculating expression. "You know him as Roman Reigns."

The car went dead silent.

From the back seat, Zaia let out a small gasp. "Officer, that’s Roman!"

A chill slithered down Carmelo’s spine. He felt his pulse hammer in his throat as he exchanged a look with Gable.

"Son of a bitch," Gable gaped. “It is Reigns!”

Cody continued, his voice edged with urgency. "Me and my partner, Lieutenant Cargill, just landed in Hartford. You’re gonna need backup before you move in on him. He’s dangerous as hell, and if the woman you’re looking for was taken by him, she’s in immediate danger."

Carmelo’s jaw locked. There was no doubt in his mind now—Roman had everything to do with Ivy’s disappearance. Maybe Gemini’s, too.

"We’re headed there already," he said firmly. "There’s no time to waste. We’ll send you the location. Meet us there."

“Wait! Hayes, don’t—”

Gable hung up abruptly, and Carmelo slammed his foot on the gas. The cruiser lurched forward, sirens off, the tires screeching as the cop’s mind raced. It was more and more evident that they were about to step into the heart of something far darker than they’d imagined.

As they reached Roman’s house, Carmelo slowed the car, his mind sharpening into focus. He looked over his shoulder at Zaia, who was still staring out the window.

“Zaia, stay in the car, okay? Don’t move unless I tell you to,” Carmelo said gently, his voice full of a calm he didn’t feel.

Zaia nodded, though the fear in her eyes was unmistakable.

Gable was already out of the car, his gun drawn, his movements sharp and precise. Carmelo followed suit, every muscle in his body taut with readiness. The air simmered with tension as they moved toward the house. They weren’t just confronting some local thug. For all intents and purposes, they were dealing with a predator.

As they neared his front yard, the door swung open.

Ivy staggered out, clutching Duchess tightly to her chest. She looked ragged, her hair disheveled, her face drawn and bruised, eyes wild with desperation. Her breath expelled in short, frantic gasps as her eyes darted wildly around the street.

Then she saw Hayes and Gable.

But even more importantly, across the street, inside the police cruiser, was her daughter.

Her baby.

Her little face, pressed against the window, wide-eyed and terrified, her tiny hands splayed against the glass.

"Zaia?!" Ivy screamed, her voice ripping from her throat like it was torn from her very soul. "Baby!"

Zaia’s eyes snapped to her, her face lighting up with unbridled excitement. Without thinking, she fumbled with the door handle, trying to push it open.

“Mama!”

Carmelo’s heart slammed in his chest. “Zaia! Wait!”

Zaia bolted out of the back seat, running toward her mother. "Mama!"

Desperation surged through Ivy like a tidal wave. Her feet stumbled forward, every instinct in her body commanding her to run. To reach her baby. To wrap her arms around her and never let go.

"Zaia, no!" Carmelo lunged forward, grabbing her just in time.

At the same time, Gable rushed toward Ivy and Duchess. "Come on, we got you—"

A gunshot split the air.

A sickening crack rang out as the bullet ripped through Gable’s skull. Blood and brain matter splattered the green grass below. His body went limp, crumpling on Roman’s front lawn.

Ivy let out a piercing scream.

Behind her, Roman stood, gun raised, eyes wild. The side of his head was dripping with blood from where Ivy had struck him, but he didn’t seem to care. His breath was ragged, unhinged. He looked deranged.

Carmelo’s stomach dropped.

"Fuck," he hissed, yanking Zaia against him, shielding her small frame with his body.

Roman didn’t hesitate. He fired again, bullet after bullet.

Carmelo ducked, his arms tightening around Zaia as he carried her behind the police car. "Shots fired, officer down!" he roared into his radio. "We need backup now!"

"Zaia!" Ivy barely had time to take a step forward before Roman’s huge bicep wrapped around her throat, constricting her airflow. She fought against his grip, kicking, gasping for air. But Roman didn’t let go. He yanked her back across his yard, ignoring the pain of her fingers desperately clawing at his grip.

“Mama!” a despondent Zaia wailed, struggling in Carmelo’s arms. “Let me go, I have to help her! Mamaaaa!”

In all of the chaos, Ivy managed one final act of defiance—she released Duchess. The injured puppy stumbled to the ground, whimpering as she limped down the yard, across the street, moving toward Zaia before collapsing into the little girl’s lap.

“Get your ass inside! Now!” Roman’s voice was wild, manic. He dragged Ivy through the door, slamming it behind him with a force that rattled the house. Inside, he shoved her to the floor of the foyer. She hit the ground hard, her body numbing with shock.

“You fucking monster,” she spat, “you psycho!”

Roman wiped the blood from his face, breathing heavily, his countenance even more unstable. He spun around and trudged through his house, bolting every possible entryway, locking it all down and sealing them inside, as if preparing for a siege.

"I knew I shouldn't have trusted you," he muttered when he was finished, shaking his head. "Well played, baby girl. Well played."

Ivy stared up at him in horror as he stepped back, chest rising and falling erratically. Then he gave a slow, twisted smile.

The next words he uttered sent Ivy’s heart plummeting into the abyss.

"Fine," he said, his voice was a deranged whisper. "Ya know what? Fuck it. I’ll push the ‘wedding’ forward. We’re getting married right now."

2 chapters to go.

Your comments and reblogs are so much appreciated! Please keep your Asks coming, we’re loving all the theories!

Please remember that this is FICTION and nothing more. Thank you so much for understanding!

🏷️: @harmshake @cyberdejos2 @thesamoanqueen @vebner37 @thewarlordsworld

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#roman reigns #roman reigns fanfiction #roman reigns smut #roman reigns fanfic #roman reigns imagine #the boy next door #roman reigns x black oc

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wyattjohnston · 3 days ago

Text

just between you and me - cole caufield

summary: you return to montreal after some time abroad and it unleashes a whole new slew of questions.

word count: 3,325

note: this is for @lam-ila for The Winter Fic Exchange 2k25! i hope you like it maleeha <3 thank you to @comphy-and-cozy and for all your help!!

main character: feminine reader insert

The windowpane offers a nice reprieve from the chaotic warmth being produced by seemingly everybody you’ve ever known being invited to your welcome back party. It’s well below freezing which isn’t at all unusual for Montreal, and—you’ll never admit this out loud—sitting next to the window is the closest you’re going to get to outside. Belgium had been utterly tropical in comparison and you’re ashamed by how quickly the Montreal weather became too much. The crowd of people sitting on the balcony are, quite frankly, out of their minds.

“Don’t think you should be sitting over here by yourself.”

You move your attention from the group outside to the person who just joined you, smiling gently when you realise who it is followed by a just as gentle, “Hi, Cole.”

The confusion across his face is clear and it lasts longer than just a passing second, before he’s saying your name back to you in such a questioning manner that you start to wonder if you’ve somehow been wrong all these years.

He shuffles further into the booth opposite you, leaning all his body weight onto his forearms and the table between them, and says emphatically, “No fucking way.”

You understand his reaction somewhat, knowing that the semester spent in Belgium had been eye opening and experimental, but you can only shrug at him because visibly all that’s changed about you that night is that you’ve put on some makeup and worn something a little tighter than you used to.

“You look—” he pauses, and you sigh to yourself because you know what’s coming next. “You look great. Belgium really did a number on you, eh?”

“Sure, you could put it that way.”

The compliment is nice, regardless, so you take it at face value and put your own arms on the table, leaning in towards him. He grins, toothy and all encompassing, and you’re shunted back to the small crush you’ve always had on him. It’s not anything that takes over your life; sometimes you’re not even sure it’s anything more than the thought that he’s available, but it’s enough to send butterflies into your stomach.

He tells you to stay put, and you do as you’re told even if you’re contorting yourself in your seat to see exactly where he’s gone and what he’s up to. The drink he brings back to you is what he knows as your favourite; you thank him for the soft drink, even if that’s also something that changed while you were away.

You can’t say you’re surprised when, a couple days later, you get a text from Cole asking when you’re next free which is quickly followed by another text with the days he’s free that week.

Hanging out with Cole wasn’t uncommon, though it was typically part of a larger group. It’s not explicit that this is one-on-one in any way other than Cole being the one to initiate and organise; he always left that to someone else and just showed up wherever the people were.

You leave them on your Lock Screen for most of the day and wait until the Habs game is over that night to text him back—whilst you wouldn’t give him the quick response he was undoubtedly after, there’s no way you’re going to put yourself in the position to wait by texting him mid-game.

The text you send reads “that depends what we’re doing” and it’s not until the read receipt pops up and you read it back that you realise it probably sounds quite flirty. It’s not not the message you were trying to convey but your palms get a little sweaty when it really kicks in that the flood gates have just been opened.

Cole’s unbridled joy is conveyed through his texts—the win probably doing some heavy lifting there—and the abundance of exclamation marks. Though, truthfully, they might not be that uncommon for Cole.

“We can go bowling!! Or ice skating!! Or you can come over??!!”

It’s endearing if not a little overwhelming.

Ice skating is the pick, and you can’t help but laugh at the idea of him using his day off to do more skating. It was his suggestion, and he doesn’t seem bothered by it, so you don’t bring it up at all.

He helps with your skates even though you’re more than capable; he just kneels down in front of you and starts lacing them up before you can even begin to tighten them yourself. He does look cute when he smiles up at you proudly, so you don’t have it in you to fight it.

Cole is holding your hand the moment you’re stepping onto the ice. You know how to skate and he knows you know how, so it’s not a tight, steadying grip. In fact, it’s having the opposite effect as your knees get weak because even through two pairs of thick, winter gloves you can feel every part of his hand against yours.

On the ice you can hear a guy yapping at his poor date about how good he was at hockey, how he could have gone pro, but he decided it was better for him to go to university and get a real job because of some made up reason that trailed off before he really finished his sentence. You couldn’t hide your laugh at it all, a full-bodied snort that drew the attention of the couple, so you curled into Cole to try and pretend it was something he’d said.

It did end up being Cole who was making you laugh, when he leant in closer whilst he kept you moving across the ice to repeat the guy’s ridiculous claims. The hockey bro voice he was putting on—or maybe just playing up—really sent you over the edge, and you had to hold onto him to keep upright as your laughter got to a point where breathing was problematic.

Being pulled effortlessly around the rink by Cole was something. It certainly wasn’t making it any easier to breathe, and even less so when you were able to gather some bearings and make eye contact with him. You weren’t sure anyone had ever looked at you with such softness and sincerity; you had to look away.

It’s so cliché when you step off the ice to get hot chocolate that you have no choice but to sit opposite him and ask him a question that’s been on your mind all day.

“Is this your go-to first date?”

“It’s…” he pauses briefly, sheepish. “It’s in the rotation, yeah. Seasonal. You’re my favourite.”

You avert eye contact, staring at your hands where they’re wrapped around the source of warmth that is your cup. Cole’s foot nudging against yours doesn’t do a lot to help keep your voice steady because your mind has conjured up an image of Cole and the poor date from earlier. She’s stunning, exactly the type of woman who would make a perfect WAG—no amount of makeup or otherwise traditionally feminine behaviour would ever make you feel like you could match her.

It’s with a weak voice you say, “You probably say that to all the girls.”

“No.” Cole doesn’t miss a beat. “Just you.”

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you’re filled with so much emotion that you screw your eyes shut because you don’t want to see the face he makes at your delirious smile.

Before you leave, the wannabe hockey player catches up with you and asks Cole for an autograph and a photo which are happily provided. He tells his date, before you and Cole can even get out of earshot, that he was a better player than Cole has ever been and would have gone higher in the draft had he kept up with hockey.

“Can’t believe the world doesn’t get to see the next Gretzky play just because he wants to…” he trails off into unintelligible mumbling.

The number of dates you’ve been on—and they are dates, Cole has made that exceedingly clear—is quite frankly outstanding for it having been two weeks. It feels like every day he’s free, and you don’t have classes, you’re together. It’s a lot, to be honest, but it’s not bad.

It’s not like you’ve never gone to a nice restaurant before—your parents were fans of the finer things in life, and you and your friends liked to treat yourselves on your birthdays—it’s just not something you ever pictured yourself doing with Cole. Though, to be fair, you hadn’t thought about doing much with Cole until he’d suddenly started showing interest.

The maître d’ knows Cole and you’re not so sure whether it’s because Cole is a regular or because he plays for the Habs. It’s likely both.

You don’t feel like you fit, despite any sudden interest in fashion and skincare you’ve developed—when you went out with your friends in Belgium, it was always met with judgemental, and disbelieving looks that you belonged.

You push down your discomfort and let Cole order your dinner because the menu is intimidating. He asks the waiter to bring the wine that pairs best with each course, and then turns to you and says, “Pop?”

“Just seltzer, please,” you say to Cole before turning to the waiter with a timid smile. “Thank you.”

When you turn your attention back to Cole, he’s visibly confused—his eyebrows pulled together, and his mouth pulled tight. You tilt your head, confused by his confusion but he doesn’t say anything to you.

“I don’t drink soft drinks anymore,” you explain. It doesn’t clear his confusion. “Just trying to take better care of my teeth. That seems to be the change that’s got you the most.”

“Just surprised. It’s not a bad thing.”

You tilt your head at him again, waiting for him to elaborate, but the waiter returns with your drinks and Cole easily shifts the conversation to his brother, Brock.

At the next table there’s a couple, probably in their early 50s, who are absolutely besotted with each other. You catch yourself staring at them a lot throughout the evening, hoping to learn what really makes a relationship perfect. Cole notices, too, though he stares far less at them than he does at you. When you catch him staring, the heart eyes he’s developed are enough to make your heart swell.

“You look really nice tonight,” he says after one of the times he gets caught, as if it’s not what he said the second he laid eyes on you at your front door.

The compliments have come through thick and fast since Cole came back into your life. You’re not mad about them, really, and you’re proud of what you’re now able to do with your makeup and the outfits you’re able to put together so that they are outfits and not just pants and a top, but every time he says something nice you’re reminded of the years where he said nothing of the sort—when you were just another person in the same room.

It comes out of nowhere, is much of the problem. It’s been a month, maybe two, of thoughts running through your head, of what you and Cole are and what he really thinks about you—about anything—and you’ve not asked. You probably should have because it’s not an inconsistent thought in your head about what any of this even means.

You and Cole are sitting on his couch, watching a 90s teen romcom, not having said a word for half an hour, when you sit up straight and stare at him.

He looks put out by having lost your body heat, instantly reaching out to pull you back, but you can’t get over Laney Boggs’ sudden transformation into a Prom Queen and so you start spilling a months’ worth of thoughts to him.

“I can’t keep this up, Cole,” you say with all the dramatics of the main character of a romcom.

It sort of feels like he’s in a constant state of confusion when you’re around and it adds to all the thoughts running through your head because what could he possibly see in you when he doesn’t ever seem to know what to expect next.

He asks, “Keep what up?”

“Pretending that it doesn’t kill me that you’re only interested in me now that I’m more of a girly girl.”

There’s a beat, where he stares at you, and you stare back, and his face screws up and your heart does the same, but you bite your lip because really, you need to hear something from him, anything.

“What?” he says—it’s less of a question than a silence filler. “No. No that’s—”

“But it is, though, isn’t it?” You cut him off before he can stumble over any more words. “Because you weren’t taking me on dates or showing any interest when I was drinking nothing but pop and wearing nothing but sports merch but put me in a dress with a boring water in my hand and all of a sudden you can’t get enough of me.”

“I didn’t… I don’t… I don’t care about water,” he says, staring at you like you’ve grown three heads. Maybe you have. You’re not sure exactly what you look like at that moment. Promptly more unkempt than when you showed up, maybe a little crazier in the eyes—maybe doing a reverse She’s All That while the end of the movie plays behind you.

“You can’t even deny it,” you argue back, sitting further back against the arm of the couch and putting more space between you and Cole. He’s listening to every word you say, rolling them all through his mind one by one. “I thought I was alright with it, but I can’t stop thinking about it. Would you have ever looked at me that way if everything about me hadn’t changed?”

Cole’s face changes even more at that point, the confusion morphing into something a little pained and that makes sense to you if he feels like he’s been called out. He leans forward, trying to close some of the space you’ve created, but pulls back a little when you show any sign of helping the space disappear.

His shoulders fall and he says confidently, “I’m into you, babe. Just you.”

There’s part of you that wonders why he hasn’t made a move. There have been makeouts and cuddling but nothing more and you’re not mad about that at all, you’re quite happy that the pace has been slow in that respect, but the fact that it hasn’t come up at all has been playing on your mind because is he into you? Any version of you?

It’s not the most burning question in your mind right then, though, and you manage to get out, “But would you have ever asked me out the way I was before Belgium?”

“I didn’t…” All his confidence is gone. “I didn’t think of you that way before.”

You nod and stand, knowing that staying in that room is going to hurt even more than the conversation you’ve just had. So you say, “Okay,” as you’re walking to the door and following it up with, “That’s all I needed to know,” when you’re turning the doorknob.

Cole is standing, too, though he’s not moving towards you. He’s standing by the couch, looking small and curled in on himself. Your heart breaks just a little bit more when he asks, “Are we—Are we breaking up?”

Despite all the dates and the time you’ve been spending together, you’re not even sure that you’re at a point where you can ‘break up’. There’s been no conversation about what you are outside of calling the time you’re spending together dates.

“I don’t know what we are, Cole,” you say, tired and desperate to get out of his house and be alone. “I just need some time to think.”

You can hear your roommate open the front door, immediately telling whoever is there that you don’t want to see them. It’s not hard to connect the dots. Especially not when they line up perfectly with the Habs returning from a road trip.

Cole is talking before your roommate has even finished speaking, hurriedly trying to say he just wants to talk to you, and nothing else, and he has to explain things and the more the talks the faster he gets, and your roommate is trying to get a word in but Cole isn’t letting her.

It’s not anybody else’s job to be your bodyguard, so you prepare yourself mentally to rescue her from his rapid-fire speech. There’s no physical effort to put in, especially not when you putting in effort is what caused all your problems to begin with, so you step into the hall wearing a two-sizes-too-large Habs shirt with a hole in each armpit and the shorts made of sweatpants material that haven’t been seen outside your house since prior to you leaving for Belgium. Your skincare routine may or may not have been neglected in the last 48 hours, you don’t actually remember. The spots brewing suggest it’s more like in the may not column.

Yet, despite that, Cole’s eyes are on you the second you’re in his line of sight, and the relief rolling off him is palpable. He stops talking, finally taking a breath, and you just nod at your roommate when she silently asks if you actually want to do this. She takes a deep breath, waits half a second for you to change your mind, and then leaves you and Cole standing in your small entry hall.

“Sorry about the road trip,” you say, suddenly struck by his silence after how fast his mouth had been moving before you were standing in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” He sounds desperate, even more so than when he was begging to see you. “I—I’m into you. I don’t want whatever you think I think to get in the way of that.”

“But you weren’t into before I looked different.”

“You don’t look that different,” he counters. “I don’t think you’re wearing any make up right now and I am still really into you.”

Your cheeks warm, and you struggle to get out anything because you truthfully don’t have a lot of will to argue with him if he’s into you. You do manage, “You never showed any interest before,” which is just a repeat of everything you’ve already said.

“Then you disappeared for months, and I realised I missed you. The timing isn’t great for whatever you think is going on, but I promise I like you. A lot. And I want to keep going on dates and hanging out and all of that stuff. You can wear whatever you want or don’t want, it makes no difference to me.”

“Why didn’t you say any of that last week?”

He laughs, a snort which is largely self-deprecating, “I couldn’t wrap my head around what you were saying because it didn’t make sense to me. Kind of put me on the spot there, babe. Also felt like a bit of a trap with the movie if we’re being honest with each other.”

You sigh, “The movie was an accident. It did, uh, cause everything to kind of burst, though.”

“Can we go back to hanging out? To dating? The last week’s sucked sorta hard.”

You can’t disagree that it’s sucked sorta hard. Despite needing the time to think about it, the absence of Cole’s silly texts throughout the day or his random minute-long phone calls because his thought was too much for a text had left a huge gap in your day that you hadn’t even realised he’d been filling.

It’s easy, then, to move towards him and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close.

#cole caufield fic #cole caufield imagine #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey imagine #hockey fic #homemade fic #the winter fic exchange 2k25

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yanderecrazysie · 2 days ago

Text

Humiliate Part 3 (Yandere Kuroo)

Thank you so much for the commission! I really hope you enjoy!

Title: Humiliate (Part 3)

Pairings: Kuroo Tetsurou x Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, NSFW, NON-CON

Part 1: here

humiliate

/verb/

make (someone) feel ashamed and foolish by injuring their dignity and self-respect, especially publicly:

Kuroo slowly untied you from your chair, a gentle smile on his face. You flexed your wrists as soon as they were released, trying not to show how eager you were to be released for the day.

You started to stand up, but your captor pushed you back down. “What do we say?”

“Thank you…” you murmured, hating the way you bowed to his will just for a few hours of freedom.

Kuroo chuckled and ruffled your hair. You felt like an obedient pet. “Good girl. See? You’re learning.”

You swallowed back an outburst, keeping your expression as neutral as possible. Fighting would get you right back in the chair, you had learned that the hard way.

His fingers trailed along your jawline, “I hate letting you walk around, you know. It’s risky,” he sighed dramatically, “But I’m not an unreasonable man. I know you need to stretch your legs.”

You ignored him and merely squeezed past him, heading for your living room. It was sad how unfamiliar your home had become. The little knick knacks and decorations seemed out of place- too happy for a prison.

Your gaze fell on the door and you bit back a sigh. If only Kuroo’s allowance extended to the outside world. When was the last time you’d seen another human being in person? Or felt the fresh air on your skin?

“Careful now, sweetheart,” Kuroo snickered, “Or I may just think you’re being ungrateful.”

“Sorry…” you said automatically.

Kuroo watched you carefully as you took a seat on the couch and began flipping through the channels. You picked the food network channel and laid down on the couch, your head resting on the arm rest like a pillow.

This was the only time you could sleep, since the chair was so uncomfortable. Sure, you were plagued by nightmares, but sleep was sleep.

“Tired already?” Kuroo asked, “I just let you go, kitten.”

You ignored him, eyes on the screen even as your eyelids began to flutter. The chef on TV was explaining a recipe, his voice soothing and drowning out Kuroo’s presence.

Kuroo kneeled by the side of the couch, fingers brushing over your cheek. You flinched, but he was as gentle as ever, like you were a porcelain doll. “You look so cute like this, almost makes me forget you’re so stubborn.”

You closed your eyes, trying desperately to ignore him.

“Why don’t you sleep in our bed tonight?” he offered, “It’s much more comfortable.”

Our bed? You gritted your teeth. He really had made himself at home in your own house. It was downright insulting.

“I’m fine,” you turned your gaze back to the TV, pretending you were engrossed in the cooking show.

Kuroo sighed again, “Suit yourself.” His fingers slipped away and he stood back up. You could hear him heading into the kitchen and the hustle and bustle of him putting together a meal for you when you woke.

Your eyelids, though heavy, refused to completely close. Instead, you found your gaze locked on the front door.

You sat up, hypnotized by the idea of a possible escape. You got to your feet, creeping towards the door in slow motion.

Then, overwhelmed by the possibilities, you broke out into a run. You knew your feet were slamming against the floor noisily, but you were desperate to get out. Your hands seized the doorknob and pulled.

Locked. You quickly moved to unlock the door.

Too late.

Kuroo slammed your body against the door, ignoring your scream of frustration as he pinned you to the wood. You let out an awful sound, a wail that had never come out of your mouth before.

You were so disappointed- it had been so close. You had been so close. And now? Now, you were back to square one.

Kuroo’s body suddenly felt too hot against yours and you became acutely aware of a hardness pressing against your lower back. He rolled his hips into yours experimentally.

“Aw, kitten, looks like you’ve gotten me all riled up.”

Tears rolled down your face and your breath caught in your throat. “No, no, no, no, no…”

“That’s the most you’ve spoken to me in months,” Kuroo sighed, hooking his fingers into your pants’ waistband. Slowly, slowly, he slid them down.

You struggled against his grip, but your movements only served to grind against his hard-on, making it harder by the minute. Kuroo finally pulled you away from the door, walked over to the couch, and threw you down on it.

Kuroo pulled his shirt off, revealing his muscular torso to you. You looked away in embarrassment, then let out a screech as he forcibly pulled your shirt off too.

You closed your eyes, trying to drown out what was happening to you. You cringed when you heard the awful sound of a belt buckle clinking as he undressed the rest of himself fully.

He didn’t bother to unbuckle your bra, merely grabbing each side and pulling downwards until your breasts popped out with a single, rough bounce. You twisted around onto your belly to hide your nudity, but he was pulling your panties to the side and lifted your ass into the air before you knew it.

His member radiated heat as it prodded against your unguarded entrance. You whimpered as it began to push inside you.

“Please! Kuroo stop!” you begged.

“There’s no way I’m stopping now,” Kuroo growled, voice husky with lust, “Not when you’re dripping for me.”

Embarrassingly, you realized he was correct. Your pussy was drooling for his cock, despite your terror. Even so, his dick was so girthy that the stretch of it entering you was extremely painful.

He forced inch after inch inside of you while you wailed like a banshee. Finally, he bottomed out, tip pressing against your cervix. He gave you barely a moment to adjust before he started to thrust.

It wasn’t the fast and rough thrusts you were expecting, but slow and deliberate. Each thrust sent shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You could feel every vein and ridge of his cock as it slid in and out of you and, before long, your body fully adjusted to the intrusion.

As Kuroo picked up the pace, you laid still on the couch, forcing yourself not to push back against his hips in time to his thrusts. It felt so good, but it was so, so wrong.

Suddenly, Kuroo pulled out of you. Before you could celebrate or protest, he flipped you onto your back and spread your legs, eyes dark with lust.

“You’re mine,” he growled, “All fucking mine.”

With that, he plunged back into you and you let out a scream of surprise and pleasure as his cock slammed into your g-spot and sent you over the edge. Wave after wave of pleasure made your body convulse with the force of your orgasm.

Kuroo didn’t stop or even slow down. He continued to pound into you until you were seeing stars. You were building up to another orgasm already, still panting and dizzy from the previous one. As if reading your mind, Kuroo reached around and rubbed your clit. The stimulation was too much and you came hard on his cock.

He followed quickly after, his cock twitching as ropes of white cum filled you to the brim. Tears slipped down your cheeks again, the shame and guilt hitting you all at once.

One thing was for sure. You’d never be able to sleep on your couch ever again.

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere one shot #one shot #yandere haikyuu #haikyuu!!#tw noncon #yandere kuroo #kuroo tetsurou

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eldritch-spouse · 3 days ago

Note

Is there magic I could learn to make myself into a plushie/doll for Zizz to carry around? I’d also love to make it a game with Zizz of hide-and-seek. One day I’m a doll…another day I’m a plushie…the next I’m a different looking doll. Would he be into that? Or would that be more of a panic/nuisance for him?

The first person you approached about this was Tristalis, naturally. The monster has a peculiar magic that makes plushies come to life, so surely, he can make you into a sentient plush, right?

No, disappointingly. The starbeast kept shaking his heads when he understood what you wanted. He makes familiar-like entities, minions and servants born of yarn and some DNA of their masters. He could never turn you into a plush.

Though, when he sees the deepening frown in your face, Tristalis very hesitantly suggests the contact of a being beyond him in terms of power. A being that he stresses you should exert caution dealing with. A fae. They can make your wish come true, but you will have to make it worth their consideration.

And, well, don't tell King Zizz that Tristalis said this.

To no one's surprise, this fae is none other than Mooncalf, who has taken a fancy to Tristalis, in the same way a stray cat occasionally checks on a human that once fed it. Mooncalf is more than intrigued by your request, but he frames the terms in a way that sound eerie, if you squint. Nevertheless, should you let him "help" you, you'll be granted with the ability to periodically turn into a doll or plush of your choosing to play this game with Zizz.

He's not initially into this.

It's horrifying to the King that you've been having contact with a being like that without his knowledge, he's scared for you and very antsy when you turn into a doll, even if the chase to find you is a fun premise. You're beautiful and comfortable and the King never lets go of you in this form, but he's panicked.

Because some parts of you have stopped being human altogether.

He noticed it around the third time you played this game, after you transformed back into your regular self. Something about your hair felt propped, the way it curled and seemed to stay in place even after he threaded his fingers through it. An artificial blush seems to be taking over your cheeks. What he once mistook for sudden dimples appear to be stitch marks at the edges of your smile. Your eyes shine a little birghter, bigger. Even the way you walk has a little pep now.

You're adorable, Zizz has to admit. He really can't keep his claws off you anymore- Not that he didn't struggle before.

But he knows you're not fully human anymore, and he's scared you might actually become inanimate one day.

#Zizz oc #Tristalis oc #Mooncalf oc

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red-riot-unbreakable-heart · 22 hours ago

Text

Shoto's First Kiss Chapter 9 Update

Okay so Shoto's First Kiss Chapter 9 is almosttttt done! I've just about finished writing it out but it's gonna need hella edits, so expect it to drop next weekend or Valentine's day weekend? Thanks for your patience here all! It will be a 40-50 page chapter. There's a lot to cover!!!

Posting a snippet of Chapter 9 below as a holdover - the plot is ofc subject to change! But want you to enjoy a lil dramaaaa while you wait! :)

“Well…” Toru says nervously into the phone.

“What?” Hitoshi says blankly, turning to you for an explanation about your friend’s uneasiness with that piece of the plan.

“So. Um. Mineta didn’t volunteer to be our distraction out of the kindness of his heart.” You say awkwardly as Hitoshi’s tired eyes bore into your own. “We promised him that he’d get to kiss me in exchange for his services as bait for Mr. Vlad.”

“Damn. Offering sexual favors in exchange for services rendered? You guys are way more hardcore than I thought.” Hitoshi actually looks impressed. “So hopefully Mineta didn’t say anything about that fun little bargain to Mr. King after he got caught. Sexual Quid Pro Quo is definitely grounds for some kind of legal action or punishment.”

The blood in your veins goes cold. Shit.

“But it was his idea!” Mina shrieks through the phone’s tiny speakers. You wince at the sound. You feel shaky like you might start crying again.

“Yeah but you all agreed to it. And Mineta held up his end of the bargain. This could be really bad if the school found out about it.”

Neito mouths something angrily on the screen and the corner of Hitoshi’s mouth quirks upwards fondly.

“Neito…you’re on mute, babe.” He says in that gravely voice of his.

Monoma quickly unmutes himself and repeats what he was saying:

“But it’s only a kiss! It’s not like we promised Y/N would sleep with him or anything!” He says, gesturing wildly. His face is a bit pink in response to Hitoshi’s using such an unexpected term of endearment.

“It doesn’t matter…you still made a trade of a physical favor for a service. I don’t know what kind of punishment they’d slap you with, but this sort of thing would definitely rub the UA administration the wrong way if they found out about it. Let’s just hope Mineta didn’t say anything too incriminating. I can stop by his dorm and ask him before I got to bed, if you’d like.” Hitoshi smirks. “I think he’s afraid of me, so I’d probably be the best person to do it.”

“Could you, please?” You say in a strained voice. Hitoshi looks over and sees how pale you’ve gone, he awkwardly pats your shoulder in what he must think is a reassuring way.

“Yeah, for sure. It’ll be fine. You’ll see.” He retracts his hand from your shoulder and gives you a thumbs up.

“Alright. I think we’ve mostly got our story straight. Don’t mention the alcohol. Don’t mention me needing to kiss Mineta. Don’t mention Hatsume. Don’t mention Spin The Bottle. Say we wanted to throw a game night to promote unity and bonding between Classes A and B. We good?” You quickly recap, counting off your fingers as you make each statement. “Dang, that’s a lot to keep track of.”

Everyone nods to confirm that they’re aligned (Toru doesn’t say anything to indicate that she’s not aligned, so you assume she’s invisibly nodding).

A message appears at the top of your phone screen from Shoto, a tiny preview of his text reads out in a bubble:

Shoto: You doing alright?

You quickly move to swipe the bubble away, hyperaware that Hitoshi can see any message that flashes across your screen. You quickly remind yourself that it’s not weird for your classmates to check up on you - you’re one of the party ringmasters, after all! And the message Shoto had sent was completely innocent, so…

Another message from Shoto scrolls across the screen as Toru rattles off a list of questions for Hitoshi to ask Mineta. You try to swipe the message away but you accidentally pull up the text screen over your friend’s FaceTime faces.

Shoto: This sounds awful to say, but getting to sneak away with you to the janitor’s closet almost makes getting caught worth it.

You swipe desperately to get the text screen to disappear and after a moment succeed. Toru is still speaking, saying something about Hatsume’s drones. You throw a terrified glance at Hitoshi’s direction. He’s looking at you, violet eyes wide with shock. His eyebrows are comically far up his forehead.

Oh yeah, he definitely just got a glance at Shoto’s text.

Oh God. Now he knows.

“Alright, Hagakure.” Hitoshi quickly turns back to the screen and nods in agreement at whatever your friend is saying. His facial expression instantly falls back to neutral –his eyebrows relaxing and his eyes narrowing back to their usual lazy squint. You stare straight ahead and try to keep all of your blood from rushing to your face. You feel hot all over but in a bad way. You don’t know Hitoshi super well, but you know he’s a good person. He wouldn’t spill your biggest secret to the world, right?

Hitoshi seemingly ignores you as he continues talking into the FaceTime. “Yeah, that’s a good idea. Alright, I’ll ask him all of that. I think we’re all on the same page – get a good night’s sleep everyone.”

Good nights are exchanged, and one by one your friends drop off the call. Hitoshi clicks off your phone so that the screen goes back. He slowly turns to you, his expression still uncharacteristically surprised.

His voice is as even and measured as ever when he says:

“Holy shit, Y/N. How long have you been fucking Shoto Todoroki?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

HAHAHAHAA Okay so yeah that's part of Chapter 9! I'll keep plugging away and hopefully will have it your way soon! For now, here's the rest of the series to catch up on <3

Shoto's First Kiss Series so far:

Part 1: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋

Part 2: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 2

Part 3: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 3

Part 4: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 4

Part 5: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 5

Part 6: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 6

Part 7: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 7

Part 8: Shoto Todoroki x Reader | First Kiss ❄️🔥💋 PART 8

XOXO,

Red Riot Unbreakable Heart ❤️

P.S. Here's the link to my 🔥Master List! 🔥 I just posted a new story feat. a super hot and mushy Touya Todoroki if you're into that sort of thing: Touya Todoroki: Sexy Uber Driver!? | Touya x Reader AU Imagine 🌶 💕

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ellesthots · 3 days ago

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XLIV. “trailhead”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce is on your trail, making things that much more complicated.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, spoilers for The Penguin (2024), mention of murder, missing person, yearning/pining

words: 7.7k

a/n: i love the little subtle moments i included in this chapter, they’re down Atrocious but they gotta get some work done, why must falling in love bring such insistent feelings?? how cruel ;)

You’d hardly seen eyes so wary, almost pleading. You tucked your hands between your thighs to warm them, his icy blues chilling the tension. After this you needed to steel yourself to their charms; you feared it was beginning to be a slippery slope. “Sure.”

“Do you know anything about the mob families here?”

You shook your head and leaned in slightly when he took a deep breath. “There were two major ones: the Falcones and Maronis. They ran some drug operations, have money in different parts of the city.”

How could he possibly distill a city’s entire criminal underworld into a few sentences?

“Oz Cobb, he’s sometimes called ‘Penguin’. Was the driver for the Falcones, mostly their daughter. Seemed to be on good terms until Falcone’s arrest. When Falcone died, Oz took over his operations, took out the Maronis.” He took great care to keep his voice leveled and calm, though even mentioning the Penguin in your presence felt like a violation to the point he could hardly think.

He gathered the bowls and they clinked in the sink. “After that I couldn’t keep track of him. Second I’d catch him, send him in for another murder, bombing, didn’t matter: released same day.” He grimaced when he tried to gauge your unreadable response. He continued, desperate to get the information downloaded into you so the conversation could be over with. “Doesn’t matter about proof. Oz could walk into a courtroom, shoot the judge, and get away with it.”

Your brow furrowed. “If he really turns on anyone, how does he have that much power? Wouldn’t no one trust him?”

He paused, very glad he’d brought this up if you were already confused. “That’s it: do what he says or get killed.” He hesitated, a sudden meekness affecting his posture. “That’s why I was worried you met with him. He’d shoot you before you realized what was happening.”

You didn’t doubt he was right, but you hadn’t met anyone who seemed like a kingpin, let alone anyone who set off alarm bells… outside of Dr. Crane and the dude walking out of there.

“If he’s on your trail we can’t be seen together. Could use you as leverage.”

“Is he trying to get at you?”

Bruce shot you a knowing look, then spoke like the words hurt him. “I’m a Wayne. If he finds a weak point, he’s exploiting it.”

“And I’m the weak point?”

“Before the interview, the only public association I had was my parents. I don’t even think anyone knows about Alfred.”

Your palms sweated. Ah, fuck. “You can’t tell anyone this. It could literally kill people.”

His teeth dug into his tongue, nervous. “Promise.”

You launched into a brief explanation of what the journalist told you. What you knew of them, what they knew of you, and that they said you needed to leave Gotham while you still could. Watching Bruce's reaction showed his poker face was practiced. You didn’t know what he might say until he gave a slow nod.

“I agree.”

Of course he wants me to leave. “I thought you could help me look into it.”

“You’ve already been a target just from interviewing me. If you’ve run into Oz since city hall, chances are it’s not by accident.”

“If there are journalists disappearing or getting murdered, I want to see where it leads.”

He stared at you blankly, voice flat. “You’re a journalist.”

Silence rotted the air as you stood at a standstill. Your next sentence was muttered against stifled morale. “I guarantee you no one else had Bruce Wayne and Batman at their disposal.”

He resisted the overwhelming urge to curse and shove his head in his hands, instead channeling his frustration to the inside of his cheek. You had him backed into a corner; it had been disastrous every time he prized an argument over putting you in danger. “I don’t know.” But he did—he did know, and playing along wasn’t right.

He chanced a look from across the kitchen island. The edge that longed to bleed into his voice softened at your guardedness. “I think you need to leave.”

The worst part of this was that he wasn’t wrong. What’s leaving a few days early? The safest thing would be to go home and keep your head down a little while, and you could. Bruce having paid your family’s debt would lower the stress of getting into a career straightaway…

He fell in thought with you, each passing second settling more anxiety into your sentiment: you thought you were safe because you had him. His fallibility hadn’t ever bothered him—if he died fighting some criminals, at least he went down swinging. But for you to say it brought his insecurities to the forefront like an impenetrable slab of concrete. If you were correct, and he existed as a forcefield when he was around you, he still couldn’t be 24/7. “What’s to stop them hitting your apartment next?”

“… I don’t know.”

He drank you in with a longing glance. “You need to go.”

“Tons of new journalism students are here because of me. I can’t let them into a trap and go home.” You were strained, weary, with a hint of desperation to your voice.

“It wasn’t you. Vry pressured both of us.”

“And I could’ve said no. I was already home.”

“If you leave, I can look into things. Report back.” Your face didn’t shift from its stressed clench. If only you’d told him about the meeting; he could’ve outfit you with the earpiece at the very least, be able to know precisely what they said rather than paraphrased muck. He sensed something you weren’t telling him.

“What if they track me home? They said I needed to hope it was far enough.”

That wasn’t it.

“And that it might be protective I’m associated with you. Said they target people coming here for scholarships. People without any associations, let alone a billionaire. Probably make me less easy to kill.”

That wasn’t it either, though his mind began to wander fretfully at the prospect of your murder. You’d made half a point, because most people tended to go for the easier victim—but they also went for the enticing one. What was more enticing than managing to snipe (god, he could vomit) an associate of the Waynes?

But Oz targeting you was a different crowd, pushing the edges in your favor. The man had contacted him a half-dozen times since the flooding to get drinks, visit a club, ‘talk business’. For all of Oz’s criminal behavior, and how much he demanded of everyone else in the city, he was never anything but polite towards Mr. Wayne.

Your gaze was insistent, and he relented. Oh, he hated having to acquiesce. “Who knows you live in this apartment?”

You lit up. “Just Mar. And her friend Gianna who picks her up sometimes.”

“Are your paychecks mailed?”

Your eyes dropped to skim the table. “I guess GU has me in their system.”

He ran his hands through his wet hair, thinly veiling his frustration. “You can’t stay here.”

“If I change apartments I’m in the same situation.”

“I’ll get another one for you through the election if we find anything.”

More than anything else, his going along convinced you that the Penguin was an absolute terror. You worried your bottom lip as you rethought the entire affair.

“Same complex, different floor. If anyone is tracking you, you’ll be entering the same building.”

Had he done this before? “They’ll see me coming in and leaving, they’ll know exactly how to track me.”

“They’ll find out wherever you are if it’s that crowd. This way draws less suspicion. Makes it seem like you aren’t onto them.”

“What about the journalists?”

“I can look into that.” He grabbed his keys from the counter.

“I need to help.”

He knew you wouldn’t drop this. Knew it would be another argument. Knew you had a point about the new students. Fuck. “We have to be careful. Neither of us can be in the field.” He grimly referred to his alter ego. “Only him.”

“Thank you.”

He walked to his bag and tucked in what had tumbled out. He felt your eyes on him like a brand. Thanking him for putting you in harm’s way…

“I thought you’d be more angry.”

He paused his walk to the door; your timid, grateful voice penetrated him like a velvet knife. “I meant what I said. I won’t talk to you like that again.”

And you stood like that for a beat, grinning at his back. “Where do we start? Google some things?”

“We can go to my place and see where it leads.” He hiked the bag’s handles over his wrist. “That journalist could’ve been wrong.”

“How late?”

“However long you want to stay.”

Alfred greeted you with a soft hello while you climbed the stairs to discard your things. Your sweats felt tight, baggy, and sweaty in all the wrong places, so you shimmied out of them into some old spandex. You rummaged around your bag to look for a hair tie and changed into a baggier top that didn’t feel constricting.

Having left at nine, you packed an overnight bag. Your toothbrush was gingerly packed in a side pocket without a travel case, a deodorant rattled against your wallet at the bottom, and you grabbed the perfume you’d tossed on top of everything at the last second. Your fingers brushed some decommissioned lingerie before you left your apartment, evoking memories of wearing it under a flirty dress for an ungrateful boyfriend a few Valentines’ ago. You’d nearly relegated yourself to a potato sack as penance for the split second you considered packing it for Bruce. You made a mental note to burn the offending items on your return.

Short shorts and an oversized tee so long he had to sneak a double glance to see if you had pants on as you moved through the kitchen. He stepped to the side for you to sidle in, mind in a modest frenzy over how the moonlight draped across your face on approach.

As he leaned forward to press DOWN, you couldn’t help but juxtapose to the last time you’d been in here. Picking lint off his shoulder, concerned that he might beat you up or otherwise throw you to the wolves. Now you fantasized about the force of his hands if he pushed you against its walls and regularly meandered up to the room you considered your own.

Bruce followed the doors as they slid shut, considering which program would be best to—oh. His eyes fell shut as his mouth flooded with saliva. Long, slow breaths through his nose fluttered his lashes and nearly convinced him to press STOP. Whatever perfume you had on was more delicious than every one previous, combined. Why didn’t…

It felt like a million years ago at this point. Why didn’t he just kiss you yesterday? It would’ve been so easy to whisper it into your ear, he was already right there. What would he do now? Have to turn and face you, stand with his heavy hands limp at his sides, muster the courage to look right into your eyes while he asked? No, no way.

“What’s going on?”

He was breathing too fast now, and you could tell. You could always tell. His hands flexed at his waist. A desperate part of him wanted you to see through him and do something about it so he could say whatever happened wasn’t his fault. Pretend these feelings weren’t real.

“The elevator isn’t moving.” Your brow cocked, and he swallowed thickly.

“Must be locked.” He fished keys out of his pocket, struggling to grasp the smallest one with tingly, clammy fingers. He slipped it into the lock, twisted, and the signature creak sounded the descent.

Luckily the trip was short, because the elevator wasn’t air-tight. The subtle bursts of air from some chips in the siding wafted more of your scent right over him. Through him, more like. What was he, a fucking animal? This was ridiculous. Stupid. It was no different than lighting a candle.

Maybe if he acknowledged it. Took its power away and normalized it. The doors opened and you stepped out. His head pounded as he said it like admitting a dirty secret. “I like your perfume.”

You spun around, unable to hear him over the doors clicking into place. “Hmm?”

Shit. He cleared his throat and made a beeline for his desk, holding his breath as he walked past you. “Didn’t say anything.”

You pulled up the only other stool in the place close enough your shoulders touched. He gripped his thigh as that warm, sweet scent enveloped him, snaring his throat shut. While he booted up the monitor, you glanced around the room. Times like these it was easy to see why he didn’t behave like the stereotypical billionaire; rusted old work lamps scuffed marks into his aged metal desk, endless crates situated below it with various notebooks and files somehow scrupulously organized and in disarray. Something nested in the rafters, cobwebs hanging high above them; if you took out some of the tech, it could pass for any old man’s work area in the countryside.

You asked him for a notebook and pen, and he slipped one to you without thinking. The page you opened to had your name. Friday, May 31st. My identity has officially been compromised by... seeing your full name in his handwriting made you dizzy and you couldn’t read further, utterly transfixed.

Bruce’s eyes bulged out of his head when he realized his mistake. “I uh, I was trying to make sense of things.” He peeked over your shoulder to remind himself of what he had written, praying it wasn’t horrendously mean—that week was a bleary streak in his memory—but you flipped to a clean sheet without fanfare.

“At least I’ll have some notoriety in your memoir.” You gestured toward the monitor and he clicked around, head thrumming. You followed the clip of his fingers on the keyboard, mind dancing with possibilities.

His building arousal mistroked keys and stuttered on backspaces. It was inappropriate, filthy even, given the circumstance. Normally he could easily get desire out of his system by himself, but not with you; each time seemed to only amplify it. He’d never felt so compelled to be intimate with someone. Like his body pleaded to be given a voice, needing to say things that couldn’t be expressed any other way.

You clenched the pen until your knuckles bloomed light from the tension. The cognitive dissonance was brutal; being horny around him was ego-dystonic enough, but while delving into research about missing journalists? Cruel and unusual punishment.

“Found something.” Bruce pulled up a photo from a GU article in 2022. You were jolted back to reality looking at a blue-eyed blonde with shoulder-length curls. She couldn’t be older than twenty. “Kendall Brandy. Reported missing in the flood. Body never recovered.”

“Were all bodies recovered though?” You jotted down her name and a few details.

Bruce shook his head. “But look.”

The screen filled with a court record. A cease and desist filed against her from Arkham. “Two weeks before the flood.” The title of the article to be removed from her devices and all publishing plans was: Undercover: Arkham State Hospital Negligence.

He clicked another tab over while you bullet-pointed beneath her name. How had he managed to gather this in two minutes? “She volunteered there over the summer.”

“Jesus…” you mulled it over for a moment. Bruce wrote something down on a notepad. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Why not?” He kept writing.

“What could’ve made Arkham look worse than it already does? Enough to kill someone over?” You’d heard endless jokes on Scypher about how shitty the hospital was, and how much of a ‘lost cause’ their patients were. You’d been surprised they hadn’t cared when Bella was seizing, but that was hardly reason to kill. “Have they had shitty audits?”

Bruce resumed typing, pulling up Arkham’s entire registry in seconds. “Already been through them for other cases. Nothing out of the ordinary. Especially for the city.”

“What if the auditor was paid off?”

“Could be.”

His computer started to resemble an oracle. “Can you find out?”

He got to clicking, and typing, and you followed his pupils darting across the screen. You were mesmerized by his efficiency. How many days, weeks, months of his life had been spent honing his craft? Not five minutes later he pushed his notebook to you.

He’d listed incredibly intricate details ranging from the year the auditor graduated, his major, his family relations (including his favored breed of dog), their lengthy history with the Falcones and Maronis, eventually landing him a job performing audits on various institutions around the city. Apparently his entire family had died in the flood. “There’s autopsy documents. None for Brandy.”

“But wasn’t the flood connected to one guy? Who already said why he did it?”

“Edward Nashton.” Bruce grit his teeth as he said the guy’s name. “Nothing more to get out of him. Already tried.”

“And if the mob families are dead,”

“Most of them.” He put down the pen. “Sofia Falcone’s still alive.”

You dragged his keyboard toward you and looked her up. Seemingly endless articles cropped up detailing the murders committed a decade ago, nestled next to ones directly proceeding the flooding. Gassing her loved ones, murdering a journalist from the Gazette when they tried to bring justice to her previous victims… your tone was slightly sarcastic as the depth of the situation rang a quiet alarm. “If she murdered her family, probably means she doesn’t like them.”

“Or she wanted it for herself.” You were funny, and he might’ve played along if the stakes were any lower.

“Have you met with her?”

“They don’t let her take visitors.”

“Has that stopped you before?”

Bruce shut his notebook with a snap and killed the monitor. “That’s enough for tonight.”

“It’s been like half an hour,”

“And you’re already talking about breaking into Arkham. Speaking to a Falcone.”

You reached around the back of the screen where he had, unable to find the ON switch. “If people have been funneling money to Arkham,”

“How do you know that?” Your slip of the tongue caught his attention. You blurted what the journalist had told you about Bella Reál, and his brow furrowed. “I looked into her disappearance, couldn’t find anything.”

He turned the screen on and worked through more tabs. He didn’t write anything down this time. When he eventually sat with his head in his hands, studiously thinking, you searched for Oz Cobb. The man from Arkham stared back at you. “Him?”

He measured his tone, curious about your strong response. “From City Hall, yeah.”

And Arkham. “What’s his deal?”

“Runs a few clubs downtown. Pushes Drops. Seems to be it… at least that’s all I can find on him.” He moved something from the desk to his Batmobile. His voice echoed. “Took over the mob’s business. Moved his operation into their neighborhoods.”

If there was any time to tell him, it was now. When at the very least you could throw his apology in his face if he got mad. “I visited Bella earlier.” Not saying how much earlier, or how I was summoned. “Ran into Oz there. He was headed out.”

“Did you hear anything?” He walked toward you with his signature scrunched, concentrated expression. It made it a little easier to tell him these things when he looked so cute. And when he wasn't screeching at you in an alleyway. You shook your head.

“He asked me how I was, then he left.”

Bruce went still. “Didn’t try to rope you into anything?”

“No. Just left.”

“What did Reál say?”

“I guess I tried to visit.” It was crucial you stopped talking as soon as possible.

“Arkham…” Gears were turning behind his eyes, and regret slammed the back of your throat. He’d managed to unearth the full medical history of strangers in minutes, he could certainly rifle through a call log from the head of psychiatry. He sat back on the stool and changed tabs. Please don’t, please don’t…

He loaded up the staff page of Arkham, sorted alphabetically, and you twitched when he clicked the first result: Crane. “I don’t know,”

He jotted some things down. What things is he writing?

“Maybe we could check if there are any other missing journalists? Maybe it was just a one-off.” One-off? Someone was murdered and they’re covering it up. You were too anxious by this point though, concerned with a strange sense of self-preservation that took up all remaining brain power. “Arkham seems like a really difficult place to start,”

“I think you’re onto something.” He scribbled something more. What am I onto? What is he onto? “I didn’t know that about Reál.” Every strike of his pen made you vibrate.

“I don’t know if we can even trust that person; I mean, meeting me in the middle of the night, being weird and cryptic.”

“Crane was there when I met with Vry about graduation…” he bulleted more notes in his slanted handwriting you couldn’t decipher from this angle. He was connecting dots. Dots that couldn’t be connected yet.

“Bruce,”

He focused intently between the screen and his notepad. More scribbles.

“What are you writing?”

“I’ll show you in a minute.”

You couldn’t survive a minute. You bit your tongue and looked around, pretending to be bored, yawning to pretend you weren’t wired, anything to stop every etch of his pen striking the paper from peeling your skin. “Want to watch a movie?”

He didn’t hear you, too busy writing.

You noticed tools on the ground by his vehicle. “What’s wrong with the car?”

“Brake pads.” He kept writing. Opened a new tab to research Jonathan Crane.

It was a matter of days, maybe weeks, before he found you out. How would he take it? Would he do something drastic? Undo all his progress? Hurt himself again? You felt like crying. Even if he didn’t find you out—which you were certain he would at this point—you’d created an environment where he was suspicious of his care team. Dangerous territory.

“I need to set up a meeting with him.”

You choked on the spit that had accumulated on your tongue. “But he’s your doctor,”

“Exactly. Inconspicuous.” He flipped his notepad closed. You stared at it like a grenade. “A follow-up appointment will give me access—”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

Picking your nails, biting your cheek. He discovered a new tell: bouncing your leg. You were a ball of anxiety. “Then we can get in. Search around.” He thought it would calm you that he’d found a starting place. Maybe rev you up, get you excitedly asking a million more questions. Was nothing he said coming out right?

You sounded frail, beaten. “Mixing the two when you’re so early into treatment, I don’t…”

In these moments two polarizing emotions struck each half of his body in equal measure: defensiveness and accommodation. He tried not to show that he was deflating like a punctured balloon. It didn’t feel like being early; it felt like a month of getting used to taking a medication that made him nauseous every morning and nights spent staring at the ceiling in agony, wondering when or if his mind would slip again. Living in a constant state of uncertainty he kept trying to bury. Your brows knit together. “Please.”

He nodded after noticing your shaking hands, setting aside a snarky, insecure comment about being infantilized. “Okay.”

You averted your eyes, the argument you thought you’d have choking out your throat. Your eyes wet knowing in a week’s time you’d be gone and he’d find out, spending the rest of his life hating you. Such a sure future made the present feel flimsy and fake, each kindness afforded by him landing like a gut-punch.

“We could search for more journalists.” Bruce was quiet, his tone almost restrained.

“I don’t know how you even found Kendall.” You’d misjudged his talents, leaving you feeling like dead weight even without the guilt scarring your stomach lining. You searched the code scrawled across the screen, the mysterious buttons scattered around the desk, and sat back on the stool in defeat. Your limbs felt lead-lined.

Bruce moved slowly to his seat as the room’s tension rose. “It’s easier than it looks.” A sideways glance at your dejected face, then a pause. “Here.”

He spent the next half hour depreciating his expertise, pulling up various softwares and programs that he assured did the brunt of his bidding. The one in the top left corner of his desktop cross-referenced this database, the one in the bottom right did another, and one in the middle synthesized the two. One button limited to the Gotham area and related publications, the other was nationwide. Often, he explained, a missing person’s report would be filed in the home state of the potential victim. He demonstrated by walking through what he’d done for Kendall.

You wrote notes for it all, but he was flying through it. Going through various directories, filtering by major, pasting groups of names, plugging cross-referenced photos into facial recognition from surveillance cameras throughout the city, and following the rabbit hole that took him down. Your head spun.

“Do the police have this tech too?”

His eyes shimmered with something like mischief. “It’s not exactly legal.”

“Right.” Your eyes skimmed the room full of armor and gadgets, and back to the man notating beside you in your hoodie. A watery grin painted your lips. “Unlike being a vigilante.”

It got a low chuckle out of him. He pasted a mile-long list of student’s names into one of the programs.

“What do you like about doing this?”

He hesitated, a bit remorseful. What he did was intrusive and illegal, and he was keenly aware it appeared to be a moral inconsistency. “It's the way I know how to help. Utilizing what I’ve been given.” He grinned, barely. “Like you said. Not everyone has the time.”

He typed something you couldn’t be bothered to divert your attention to, soaking him up. He was so good. “Thought you just liked puzzles or something.”

He teased you back as he wrote names on a sticky note. “Not as shallow as you think.”

“Now you’re posturing.”

“Here’s the time-consuming part.” Bruce stood and rolled his shoulders back, cricking his neck. The screen loaded something at a snail’s pace. “It hits all the cameras in the city. Could take a couple hours with this many photos.”

“You found posters?” In his speedy tutorial, he’d shown you how he matched names to missing person’s reports, then their posters, scraping their photos to plug into recognition tech.

“A few dozen.”

“That many missing journalists?”

“Never know how many match, could be zero.” He motioned upstairs. “Hungry?”

Your mind immediately shot to Rai’s; particularly how you’d never get to see him again in just a few days, and how much you’d neglected him spending so much time with Bruce. You opened your phone to check the time. A late-night trip hadn’t happened in ages now, only when you were with Mar. It suddenly felt like a bucket-list item.

Your attention caught on a motorbike parked to the right of the desk. “Can we get takeout?”

You shouldn’t have gotten takeout. Rai’s food was good, but it wasn’t worth this.

Turned out his bike was single-occupant; after forcing you to wear the only helmet he owned, interrupting your plans for the wind to zip through your hair and sting your cheeks, you found yourself sitting on his lap with his hands over yours to steer. You tried not to think about the ride.

Immediately he knew the bike was a mistake. A horrible, horrible mistake. Feeling the weight of you spread across his thighs was a constant threat. He wouldn’t let himself think about what would happen if he weren’t using ninety percent of his energy to dissociate from his physical form.

The electricity of being flush with him, his frame encompassing yours in a way that felt devastatingly consuming, feeling every twitch of his hands as he worked Gotham’s back streets. The ride was only five minutes, but your mind had slipped to how accessible you both were twice as many times. How the only thing separating you wasn’t distance or position, but thin—and in your case, embarrassingly thin—layers of clothing.

A pothole virtually succeeded in the final unraveling; if you hadn’t drowned the other out by reacting at the same time, and the wind been any less loud, he would’ve heard your yelp and you his gasp as your ass bounced hard against him.

As it stood, the rest of the trip was spent still as statues, both of you holding your breath. It was hell on the dismount, having to scoot across his crotch to gain footing. You bit your cheek as penance for sneaking a glance at the dark sweatpants that left things a disappointing mystery. He readjusted his sunglasses and cinched the hood.

The city pulsed silently around both of you, present but unobtrusive; he hardly registered the veils of black between streetlights as you led him toward the mystery shop. His focus was tethered tightly to you, caught up in your lively intonation breaking the traffic noise.

You skipped across a stray plastic bag and the momentum caught the wind in your hair, its shine slipping the lights. Palpitations fluttered beneath your sweatshirt he hadn’t yet replaced and didn’t want to; you looked over your shoulder and mimed for him to keep up. With no one around he could feel the wind on his skin, on parts of his body that never felt it this late in the day. Feelings like this made everything complicated.

Walking at night was always terrifying, but not with him. There was a freedom to his presence that raced the cool air straight to the bottom of your lungs. Without thinking, you reached for his arm to pull him faster. By the time you’d gripped his wrist and a rod of unbearable tenderness leapt through you, you couldn’t very well drop him. “Slowpoke.”

Soft bells chimed as you pushed through the deli door, threading him through in the same motion. A teenager holding a massive fountain drink nearly toppled into you, and a giggle bubbled up as you swerved. You blinked to orient your eyes to the bright overheads just as Rai entered your vision. He was the only Gothamite who could make you break contact with Bruce, and you launched into a hug.

A tight embrace, toothy smiles, and immediate prattling. His eyes narrowed, shared happiness and a jealous knot fighting for dominance. He clasped his hands.

“This is Rai.” You laughed and gestured toward him. Bruce bristled, but stepped forward with a rehearsed grin.

“Pleasure.”

Rai nodded at him, refusing further acknowledgement. He winked at you and Bruce felt faint. “Baby, you gotta keep your location on being out this late.”

Baby?

You slugged the man’s arm and laughed. Bruce’s gut cinched tighter than he thought possible; tight enough it scared him. You wandered down the nearest aisle. He grit his teeth and followed, body vibrating.

You never mentioned a boyfriend, but he’d never asked. Though—you called him, not the boyfriend, when you needed help. Odd. You rifled through some chips while he debated whether to mention it.

“How long have you been together?” Casual. No big deal.

You chuckled again, and moved to the next aisle. His brow furrowed. Starting to feel like a big deal.

You acted as though he hadn’t said anything, directing attention to which bag of candy he preferred. He would’ve eaten a pound of raw meat if you only answered; this limbo was physical pain.

Was it weeks? Months? He picked out a seasonal redbull for his contribution and tossed it into the small basket you handed him between the snack and drink aisles. A few years?

Somehow he had braved the store and handed the cash to your boyfriend without passing out. He’d seen the man before, but couldn’t place him. Dark hair, darker eyes. He thought of how pale and washed-out his were in comparison. At the least, he’d never run into the guy on patrol. Someone who kept his head down.

You said something to the object of your affection and reached over the counter for another hug. He kissed the side of your cheek closest to your ear. Bruce’s flushed pink. Wasn’t this good? Normal, yeah? Even his internal monologue was going pitchy.

The boyfriend pulled out a bag and Bruce flinched. “We don’t need one.”

He watched your eyes flit to the pile of snacks that definitely needed a bag, but he was already scooping it into his arms. You said goodbye and held the door open. Officially out in the open air, he had no idea what possessed him to want to balance ten items while steering a motorbike.

You razzed him once the door closed. His cheeks burned.

“We have a running joke.” You skipped ahead, then folded back when you remembered he was juggling a basket’s worth of goods. “Whenever I come in with a strange man, Rai pretends to be my boyfriend. Safety thing.”

Your hands swung at your side from the residual momentum, not seeming to need all the caffeine you’d loaded into the cart. He stared at you. “I’m not mad.”

“Why would you be?”

Backtrack! Redirect!! “I’m a strange man?”

“Absolutely.” You gave his anonymous frame a once-over.

Thankfully you steered the conversation from there, his pulse hammering in his temples as he processed his relief. Bruce wasn’t keen to know what situation had prompted such protocol, but it was nice of your friend. He’d been convincing enough.

“He’s great. Used to hang there all the time. His cooking is absolutely incredible, shocked his store isn’t always packed.”

The memory crept to him. “Think he catered a meeting once.”

You laughed again. You laughed a lot when talking about that guy. Your hair fell into your face with a particularly harsh gust of wind and he felt an instinct to push it back, but his hands were tied. These feelings were foreign and bizarre.

“That’s actually what made me want to interview you. His sister was working the place, said Bruce Wayne gave them a bonus.” You whispered his name like there was anyone else on the block.

“You’d never heard my name before then?” ‘Bruce’ sounded like honey on your lips; Christ, he loved hearing you say it and could never let you know.

You shrugged, making your case as you reached the crosswalk. “I was desperate for a topic and that meant you’d probably be there.”

“So you tackled me.”

“Those steps are steep, man.”

You both giggled waiting for the traffic to change. How many nights would end like this, and how many more could he squeeze in before you left and took the light with you?

“Speaking of,” the signal changed to WALK. He mirrored your pace, shortening his strides. The drinks jostled together with each step. “What are your plans through the election?”

You wrapped your arms around your chest in a makeshift hug as you scurried to the sidewalk. Nerves dampened your volume. “What do you mean?”

“If you want to keep working on things, we could do every Thursday. Tuesday and Thursday, maybe. I’m meeting with March this Wednesday, could pick you up after?” Could it come out any clunkier?

“Maybe.”

“Or whatever works with your schedule. No pressure.”

You could’ve laughed at the irony of him quite literally being your schedule if you weren’t so pathetically guilty. You meditated on the jagged cracks in the sidewalk slipping below your feet.

“Something going on?”

“No.”

Half a block passed before he broke the silence. “What do you want to do when we get back, while we wait?” He counted almost a minute more before throwing a bone. “Watch something, eat some snacks,”

“I’m actually, I’m tired. I think I’ll tuck home.” You cleared your throat and anxiously raked your fingers through your still-damp hair.

“Sure, I’ll drop you off.” He was off-kilter today and kept missing your cues. Did you not want to hang out with him? He glanced at the two teas you’d grabbed for the evening and decided making it personal was stupid. You wouldn’t have brought a bag and got snacks if you planned to ditch.

“I’m sorry.” You bit the inside of your lip until it bled.

“Don’t be.” Quick glances revealed a tense, stressed face, and the glaze in your eyes said you were half present. He mulled over questions to get to the bottom of things, but they all felt ill-timed.

The silence continued until Bruce couldn’t take it anymore. Seconds passed like hours as he struggled to comprehend how to help. He couldn’t very well put his arm around you, hug you, and—god forbid—kiss your head, like he’d seen his dad do. What else did he do for her that actually helped? The memories grew blurrier by the day.

Maybe you required reassurance, ah! He looked to you with a charitable grin. “There’s always next week, week after. Whenever.”

You made the brutal mistake of peeking at him and you practically broke in two. You held it together for three more cracks in the cement before your lip warbled and a sob slipped out. He couldn’t smile like that, not at you. You crouched and bent your body as compact as possible, a single spider’s web straining to contain your guilt. You had to tell him, rip this lie from your bone marrow.

Dr. Crane’s heavy presence slammed on your back when Bruce’s gentle hand touched your shoulder. “Don’t feel bad. We have time.”

His hand was strong and reassuring, warming a wide swath of your back. You wanted to scream, and angrily wiped tears with the arm of your shirt. Your sniffles echoed off the brick to your right.

“Are you okay?”

“I just don’t feel good.” Fuck. Fuck! Your legs shook when you stood tall, shoving toward the bike.

“Do you need anything? I could run back in.”

You wouldn’t let it out on him again. You faced him to make it harder—stood wearing your outfit, albeit the longest, baggiest ones, all the goods in his arms slanted to his left to free up his right hand. Reflected in his glasses was the state of you; disheveled, puffy-faced, and bare-legged, barely containing a sentence that would shatter everything.

In through the nose, out through the mouth.

He wondered if you were still having nightmares because of him. The headaches, turning in early, emotional cycling. Iris once told him—or rather, Alfred—that any unexpected burst of emotion was to be expected in times like ‘these’. He’d hated Alfred for years for his inability to leave him alone, but he was beginning to understand. He didn’t want you to isolate either.

You stared at the bike like it was a torture device, though the alternative wasn’t a drastic improvement; he managed to stuff the snacks into bulging pockets, and you shut your eyes as you climbed on top of him. You kept them shut and hummed a song to yourself to distract, trying to convince your body it was perhaps floating and this was a strange dream. The helmet smelled like him; now less focused on his muscular thighs, it was an all-consuming scent.

He hadn’t yet come to a complete stop when you started to slide off, yanking the helmet off and plunking it onto his lap. Distracted and desperate to escape before you cried again, the lobby door’s closing reminded that you hadn’t said goodbye, running off in a blink.

This distraction kept you unable to think facing your locked door. A neighbor stumbled a few doors down and unlocked via the hotel-style card gifted at signing. You popped off the back of your phone case and heaved a sigh as you beeped yourself in.

Against what felt like a hesitant conscience but could’ve been better judgement, you dialed Dr. Crane the minute the door locked behind you. It rang twice; not enough time to remedy the tears streaming in protest and shame down the round edges of your cheeks.

“Good evening, Ms. Y/L/N.” There was something soothing about hearing a man’s voice that wasn’t Bruce’s. You choked out that he’d been fine tonight, to which he responded he was ‘glad’ to hear it. You tightened your grip on the phone.

“So next weekend I’m free to go?”

The psychiatrist readily picked up on your nerves. “Do you have concerns?”

“No. Not really.”

“Does he have a packed schedule next week?”

He was frustratingly nonchalant. “Just the rally and weekly meeting.”

“Right then.”

Rubbing between your eyes and pinching the nose bridge was only making things worse. Bodies weren’t meant to hold this much tension. “Oh, and meeting with one of the candidates on Wednesday. Lincoln March.”

You pulled back your phone to make sure the line was connected following an extended pause. “Philanthropist like his father.”

“Wants to make the city better I think.”

“Ah.” Another pause. “Does he talk to you about his plans? Politics?”

“A bit, yeah.”

“A bit?”

“More than anyone else.”

Shuffling broke the line slightly, muffling his end. “Very well. Nice to know he has someone he can trust.”

“Actually I do have something.”

“Yes?”

Holding your breath kept your tears inaudible. “When can I tell him?”

“He has his pickup scheduled Thursday afternoon. Friday should work. Gives time for your absence to settle in without rumination.” Now you knew what the shuffling was—he was snapping something into a clipboard, writing something down with a clicky pen.

“I mean, when can I tell him that I wasn’t the witness?”

The silence that followed was cold, like you’d broken some sacred code. “Never. The spiral it would send him down would be catastrophic.”

Your heart fluttered, petrified by the chance you truly would never be able to get it off your chest. Would you have to carry this weight forever? “Even now that he’s doing better?”

“Especially so.”

Every time you saw his name, anytime anyone talked about him, anytime you saw his photos in magazines, news articles, or posts online. No heavenly release, no damnation to hell. An endless purgatory.

He rubbed salt in the wound with his clarity. “Let me be clear: to tell a patient who suffers with paranoia and delusions that the circumstances surrounding their crisis was in any part fabricated is perilous.

As I said before: this is a secret you must keep.”

You mustered a goodbye and crumbled to your knees.

Bruce had just stepped into the kitchen when Alfred arrived. “Where’s the young lady?”

“Went home.” He dumped the snacks on the counter and roughly categorized them, feeling the nagging pull of the old man’s silence. God, he was plotting.

“Are the two of you… going out?”

He slammed the drinks in the fridge and considered putting a bell on the man’s shoes. “No.” He huffed past, noting Alfred peering at him over his glasses. “Don’t know why you’re confused.”

“Even me being in hospital couldn’t keep you from your duties.”

Bruce had half a mind to never bring you back here, and an even pettier urge to start responding to such inquiries as if you’d never existed. What ‘young lady’? Alfred, you must’ve seen a ghost. “The signal hasn’t been lit.”

“I was unaware your patrols were so exclusive.”

He grit his teeth. “What is this?”

“Only checking in, Bruce.” His unhurried gait brought him to his tea kettle; Bruce was so used to its scream he’d nearly forgotten the thing’s purpose. He used to take his bedtime tea at eleven, but it crept closer to twilight with each passing year. “You used to tell me things before I asked, you know.”

“Fine.” His arms slapped to his sides, stalled in the foyer. “I like her. That good enough for you?”

Alfred’s eyes sparkled, the corners of his mouth turning up. He hadn’t anticipated an easy reveal, but he couldn’t say he was surprised. “Quite.”

Bruce scoffed, taking the steps three at a time. He waited on his floor before climbing the additional levels to the theater room. Your blanket—his blanket—was folded neatly on the arm of the couch. Dory’s meticulous presence was additionally noted by the lack of fingerprints on the smooth black remote; he turned it over in his palm, not totally believing he’d spoken it out loud. Alfred wouldn’t dare tell, would he? He glanced again at the blanket. Only Dory, probably.

His phone buzzed.

Forgot to thank you for the ride.

No problem. When do you want your bag?

You texted plenty over the weekend; you rationalized it by saying it would help him acclimate to your physical absence and serve as a transition piece. Topics never strayed from small talk, which you were grateful for. Messages about the weather, chancing the occasional meme off Scypher (his reactions had evolved from ‘ha’ to ‘lol!’, which you were ridiculously proud of), and inconsequential updates on the research. You contemplated staying in touch with him this way and not having a hard break, but couldn’t parse whether it was more for you or him.

By the weekend’s end, plane tickets were booked and Mar had claimed most of your apartment’s furniture via FaceTime. You’d sent an email to Dr. Vry about your impending absence, letting her know you’d turn in supplies and the final column by end of day Friday. More and more minutes passed staring out the window with a discordant longing.

Bruce lit up your phone as you dug into Phish Food for dinner. “What’s up?��

“Hey.” Keys clacked in the background. “Might’ve found something worth looking into.”

“Like what?” Swirls of fluffy marshmallow caught your spoon. Perhaps you could sneak him a pint as a parting gift at City Hall.

“Have you ever worn contacts?”

43 notes · View notes

allthingsfangirl101 · 13 hours ago

Text

My Archenemy – Tyler Owens

All anyone can talk about is Tyler Owens. My students are obsessed with his videos. They idolize him.

I, on the other hand, would love to go a day without someone bringing him up. After high school, I stayed in town and went to the nearby college. I remained here and ended up teaching science at my old high school. Tyler only reappeared when tornados came to town.

I tried not to think about him. I didn't want to. We were childhood archenemies. Tyler and I were constantly competing. From spelling tests to reading competitions to science fairs. I was better at biology. Tyler was better at environmental science. We were always going head-to-head.

Whenever one of us won something, the other jumped up and won at the next thing. It got tiresome for me, but Tyler loved the competition.

After a long day at work, I stopped at the grocery store on my way home. I roamed the aisles, grabbing things here and there. I let out a sigh of relief when I saw that there was still one box of my favorite granola bars left. I went to grab it but someone had the same idea.

"Oh. I'm sorry. . . I was just. . . Tyler Owens?"

"Well, I'll be," he chuckled, instantly smirking his famous smirk. "If it isn't little Y/F/N Y/L/N."

"I'm surprised to see you back in town," I said, resisting the urge to look him up and down.

"Did you miss me?" He smirked.

"No," I didn't hesitate. "But now I miss the peace that was here when you weren't."

I started to reach for the box of granola bars, but Tyler snatched it. "Really?" I mumbled under my breath.

"I seem to remember you always had several of these in your backpack in high school," he chuckled as he pretended to read the nutritional facts. He smirked at me before dropping it into his handbasket.

"And something tells me you're not going to give me the last box," I scoffed, grabbed my shopping cart, and started walking the other way.

"We could make an exchange," Tyler said after he jogged to catch up with me.

"You have nothing I would want," I scoffed.

"Not even in exchange for the only food I've ever seen you eat?" He chuckled.

"Nope," I said, grabbing some cereal.

"You're no fun," he pouted.

"Yep."

"You haven't changed, have you, Y/L/N?"

"You shouldn't change perfection, Owens."

* * * * *

After my weird run-in with Tyler, I went home and instantly ordered my favorite granola bars on Amazon. I then used a bottle of wine to help me forget about our town's hero.

When I went to work the next day, the students were all buzzed. I had no idea why until I heard a certain conversation.

"Can you believe he's here?" One of my female students giggled.

"Isn't he from here?" Her friend asked.

"He is!" Another one of their friends added. He did a video a few years ago, and they talked about how he grew up here and even went to this school!"

"Wait," the first girl said, "didn't Ms. Y/L/N go to this school when she was our age?"

I kept my focus on my computer, hoping they wouldn't do what I thought they were about to do.

They did.

"Ms. Y/L/N, we have a question."

"What's up, girls?" I asked.

"Is it true that you went to school here?" They started with a warm-up question. They did this all the time.

"I did," I nodded, leaning back in my chair and embracing myself for the question they really wanted to ask me.

"Is it true that Tyler Owens, the Tornado Wrangler, went to school with you?"

"He did," I sighed. I resisted the urge to roll my eyes when they squealed.

"We know he's gorgeous, but what was he like in person?"

"Is he sweet?"

"Is he funny?"

"Was he always the 'risk his life to save others' type?"

"He is basically the town's hero! Did he ever save you?"

"Girls," I cut them off, "I'll answer your questions if you answer mine."

"Sure!"

"Have you finished your assignment?" I smirked when they looked at each other. I almost laughed when they sighed and walked back to their desks. Luckily, the bell rang before they could come back and ask me those questions.

At the end of the day, I finished a few things before heading out. By then, it was raining. I pulled my jacket over my head and ran to my car. As I got in, I debated whether driving home in this weather could be unsafe, but there was no sign of it letting up.

My need for comfy clothes and a glass of wine convinced me to risk it. I carefully pulled out of the staff parking lot and headed home. I got to a red light and looked at the clouds, wondering if this would turn into a Tyler Owen's Worthy Storm. When the light turned green, I didn't hesitate to go.

I should've hesitated.

Right as I went through the intersection, another car ran the red light. I didn't have time to react before they hit my back tire. My car started spinning but there was nothing I could do to get out of it. Suddenly, I heard a large bang and my car stopped spinning.

I looked around but nothing made sense. I couldn't recognize any landmarks. I couldn't even remember what light I was at when I got hit.

"Y/N?!"

I couldn't respond. My head was spinning too much. I reached up, gasping in pain when I touched something wet.

"Y/N, are you alright?"

When I brought my hand back down, there was blood on my fingers. I leaned my head against the headrest, waiting for the spinning to stop.

"Shit, you're bleeding," the voice said. "Y/N, unlock the door."

I could feel my hand shaking as I hit the unlock button. As soon as I did, the door swung open. Someone knelt next to me, gently putting their wet hand on my knee. I could feel the rain hitting my face.

"Y/N," they said, their voice softer this time. "Look at me. Please?"

When I did, it took a second before I realized who it was. "Tyler?" I stuttered.

"Oh good," he joked. "You didn't hit your head so hard that you forgot about me."

"I wish I had," I mumbled as I looked away.

"You wanna know something, Y/L/N?" He chuckled. "I don't think you actually hate me. I think you pretend to hate me so I don't find out that you have a crush on me."

"You wanna know something, Owens?" I repeated his question, slowly lifting my head and looking at him. "I would. . ."

I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against the headrest when it got too painful to try and focus on his face.

"We can bicker later," he said lightly. "Right now, let's get you some help. He grabbed my hand as he stayed squatting down but called 911.

Tyler stayed with me the whole time. He was right by my side, getting soaked in the rain, as we waited for the ambulance. Even as they put me in the back and took me to the hospital, Tyler stayed in the rain, watching.

* * * * *

I was only in the hospital for a night. I called the school and let them know what happened. They didn't hesitate to cover my classes for me and reassure me that they could handle things until I was better.

When I got home, I instantly collapsed on the couch. I put on a show I was binging before the accident and soon fell asleep on the couch. I woke up about an hour later to someone knocking.

"Tyler," I gasped when I opened the door. I subconsciously wrapped my cardigan tighter around me. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard you were released from the hospital earlier this morning and I wanted to see how you were feeling," he said, shoving his hands into his back pockets.

"I'm fine," I sighed.

"Are you sure? It was a bad accident," he shrugged. Something in his eyes changed. "Your car spun out and you ended up hitting. . ."

"I know," I cut him off, looking away from his weirdly soft eyes. "It was just a concussion."

"But it must've been scary," he said softly. I looked back at him, my heart feeling like it was in my throat.

"I don't remember it much," I mumbled.

"You don't?" He asked, taking a small step toward me.

"I remember my car spinning out," I recalled slowly. "And trying to turn out of it. Then. . . nothing."

"Y/N," he said softly.

"What are you doing?" I snapped, breaking this weird tension.

"What do you mean?" He chuckled.

"This," I said, gesturing between him and me. "You coming and checking on me. Being sweet. Saving me."

"Y/N," he gently cut me off. "Do you really think I'm the kind of guy who'd watch you get in a car accident and not help you?"

"You did it in high school," I said, dropping my voice.

As I stared at him, I remembered the day in high school when I got rear-ended on my way home from school. I still remember being on the phone, waiting for my dad to answer, and seeing Tyler drive by in his truck.

"Y/N. . ." He stuttered.

"Thank you for checking on me," I said, clearing my throat, "but I'm fine. In fact, I should probably get some rest."

Before he could say anything else, I shut the door.

* * * * *

A few hours later, I sighed when there was a knock on the door. I stood up but had to stop because I felt dizzy. When it passed, I slowly made my way to the door.

"Tyler," I stuttered. "What are you doing here? Again?"

"I wanted to apologize," he said. "I know we had our weird back-and-forth growing up, but I want you to know that I didn't hate you when we were younger. I've never hated you, Y/N."

I smirked as I folded my arms and leaned against the doorframe. "So the time you stole my science notes and spilled soda all over them? Or the time you wrote swear words on my notecard for our biology exam? Or the time you almost tripped me at graduation?"

"Don't you notice flirting when you see it?"

"Bullshit," I scoffed a little too soon.

I saw the look on his face drop. Only for a second though. He quickly recovered his annoying smirk. My heart jumped into my throat when he took a step closer, instantly feeling like he was towering over me.

"Clearly, I need to take a more direct approach."

"Direct approach?" I repeated. "Tyler, what are you. . ."

He cut me off by grabbing my face and pressing his lips to mine. I wasn't sure what to do. My mind was racing and all I could focus on, besides Tyler's surprisingly soft hands holding my face, was the feeling of his lips on mine. Sooner than I would've liked, he broke the kiss.

"I may not have stayed," he whispered, "but I called the police."

"What are you talking about?" I asked, matching his tone.

"That day," he continued, dropping his hands from my face, "in high school. When you got into your crash, I froze. I kept driving because I didn't know what to do. When I got home, I instantly called the cops. I didn't even tell my mom until after I had gotten off the phone."

"Why are you telling me this?" My voice was now under my breath.

"Because when I saw your accident yesterday, I didn't freeze," he said gently. "I knew I had to do something. And fast. I couldn't drive away again."

"I shouldn't have brought that up," I stuttered.

"No, it's okay," he cut me off. "I was wrong not to do anything in high school. I should've stayed around. I should've helped you."

"You did tonight," I said, my voice dropping again. I couldn't help but smile when I thought about the girls in my class the other day.

"What?" He asked, his playful smirk returning.

"It's something my students said the day of the accident."

Tyler smiled as he reached up and moved some hair out of my face, his hand lingering on my face. "What did they say, Ms. Y/L/N?" He lightly teased.

"You really are this town's hero."

Tyler laughed, slightly shaking his head. "I only care about being one person's hero," he said, slowly leaning in.

"Who's?" I couldn't help but ask.

"Yours."

He leaned in and pressed his lips to mine. I ignored all the doubts that flooded my brain as our lips started moving in sync. I grabbed the front of his flannel, pulling him closer to me. He responded by wrapping his arms around my waist.

"Oh!" He broke the kiss suddenly. "I almost forgot."

Confusion flooded me as Tyler stepped slightly out my front door and grabbed something from the ground. When he turned back toward me, he was holding a box of my favorite granola bars.

"I believe I owe you these."

#tyler owens #twisters #tyler owens imagine #twisters imagine #tyler owens fanfi #twisters fanfic #glen powell #glen powell imagine #glen powell fanfic

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offensiunculaee · 1 day ago

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eddie helps you through the worst migraine you've ever had

part two of my mini migraine series!

cw: migraines (duh), crying, hospital mention

author's note: this is a retelling of the worst migraine I ever had. I'm thankful that I wrote it all down for my neurologist because those notes really helped me. And again, thank you @munson-blurbs and @corroded-hellfire for reading this through and telling me how it looked.

For all things considered, your day had started off pretty good.

It was the first real spring day so you both decided to take a walk around town and did some shopping. Eddie stopped at the local game shop and picked up some new miniatures for Hellfire and you grabbed a new pair of dice, a beautiful set with koi fish that caught your eye immediately. Yogi almost knocked over a display with his tail from how hard he was wagging it. After that you all got lunch and ate outside, enjoying the buzz of the downtown area. The weather was perfect, allowing you to finally go out without a sweatshirt and all the trees and flowers were blooming.

On the way home, you stopped by the local dog park and let Yogi off his leash to really tire him out. You and Eddie sat down on a bench and watched him run around in circles and play with other dogs. There were multiple times where the dog would run over to you with a tennis ball in his mouth. You weren’t sure where he got it from but you still threw it for him. Other times he’d just come over and jump up on either one of you to get some love from you guys. Soon he would be too big to comfortably hold on your lap so it was important to cherish these little moments while you still could. Once Yogi jumped off and ran to chase another dog, Eddie leaned over to whisper, “He’s definitely your kid, he always needs attention” into your ear. You turn to him and scoff before punching him in the arm.

“Shut up! He’s my kid? He’s got your energy levels and chaotic personality!” Your boyfriend leans back in with a chuckle to wrap an arm around you, rubbing one of your arms to stave off the chill that hit you both from the breeze. The wind was blowing Eddie’s hair around and the afternoon sun was starting to shine onto both of you, making his beautiful brown eyes almost glow.

Eddie stops to think for a moment before responding, “Well, he snores like you.”

You raise your eyebrows at the accusation but immediately hit back with, “Ok well he has your eyes and hair color. Can’t deny that, can we?” The metalhead sits there for a moment in contemplation, trying to come up with some witty response that could surely beat yours. His eyebrows are knitted and his mouth tightens into a thin line.

The barking from all the dogs around fills the silence as Eddie spends a solid ten or fifteen seconds thinking before he replies, “Ok, you got me there… but he’s still your son! You’re the one who brought him home!”

A hand reaches up to scratch at his head after you roll your eyes and he just rests his head on your shoulder. You all spend a total of 45 minutes there, just enjoying each other's company like you always do and letting Yogi exhaust himself. He sends a video of Yogi play-fighting with a much larger German Shepherd to Uncle Wayne with the caption ‘your grand-nephew’, earning a laugh from both of you when he promptly replies ‘that child is 100% yours’.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walk home wasn’t too difficult apart from a faint throbbing on the right side of your head - it’s not entirely unusual but it’s still uncomfortable.. You attribute the pain to the sun that was shining in your face for the better part of an hour and possible dehydration so Eddie graciously lends you his sunglasses, seeing as you left yours at home and, in his words, “They look much better on you anyway.” He takes note of your change in behavior, initially seeming very upbeat and talkative, but you get more quiet as the walk goes on. Fifteen minutes and two Excedrin later, you two finally arrive home and Yogi jumps onto the couch for his much-needed afternoon nap. Eddie is hanging up the dog’s leash after opening some of the windows to let in some fresh air. While he’s doing that, you shuffle past him and go into your bedroom and into the top drawer of your bedside table. He hears you moving bottles around until you pull out the large bottle of Advil to pop two blue pills into your mouth followed by a gulp of water. The pain has intensified and spread from beyond the side of your head and down to your forehead. It’s also making you feel lightheaded so you decide it’s best to just lay down for a bit before it gets any worse. You silently approach him from behind, the sound of your slippered feet the only sign of your approach and as you place a light kiss on his cheek. He instinctively turns around to look at you, smiling at first until he gets a good look at your face. He sees one of your eyes has begun to droop and you seem less lively than before, only giving him a forced smile that he has learned to see right through. His hands cradle your face, his own now marred with concern. You break the silence with a strained, “I’m going to go lay down for a while, I’m not feeling good.” Eddie nods in understanding and follows you to the bedroom where you’ve already drawn the blackout curtains shut.

The first thing you do is change out of your clothes and once you’ve climbed back into bed you take another pill, something much stronger that you tend to reserve for your more intense episodes. Eddie is standing there at the foot of the bed and asks, “Do you want to be alone or do you want me to stay with you?” If this were earlier on in your relationship, Eddie might assume you wanted him there with him because you’d asked him previously, but he learned that sometimes you’d rather be alone while you wait for the attack to subside. It was nothing against him, it was just that you weren’t feeling good and didn’t want him to see you in that state all the time. This time you shake your head no and put your head down on the pillow. You’re suddenly hit with the scent of Eddie, a mix of his sandalwood scented shampoo, his cologne, and even a little bit of his aftershave. It’s the perfect combination of scents that always put you at ease so you scoot closer to his side of the bed to take it all in.

Thirty minutes pass and you aren’t feeling any better. In fact, you’re starting to feel worse. The pain has increased to the point that you’re now hyperventilating and whimpering. The pain is less throbbing and more of a sharp, stabbing sensation. You remember a headache that made you shoot out of bed and almost scream, feeling like someone just took an icepick and shoved it into the front of your head. It lasted maybe 15 seconds but you had never felt pain like that before. Your doctor said you should have gone to the hospital for that, claiming it could have been a possible aneurysm. Well, this migraine was somehow worse than that. Your whimpering soon turned to crying. It’s quiet at first, inaudible to Eddie reading over in the living room with Yogi’s head on his lap. You’re about an hour and a half into the attack where you can no longer take the pain alone and call out, “Eddie?”, but the closed door prevents him from hearing it. You try again, this time louder and trembling, “EDDIE PLEASE I NEED YOU”.

Eddie jumps up out of his place on the couch, accidentally waking the slumbering dog up in the process. His book is abandoned as he rushes into the bedroom and over to your trembling form. Your eyes are wide open with tears. You’re laying on your side in the fetal position, clutching at the bedsheets. Your boyfriend crawls onto the bed so he’s hovering over you. You don’t move your head but at least you make eye contact with him, your voice still quivering and still increasing in volume as you beg him to make the pain stop. Eddie is shushing you and attempting to get you to control your breathing and eventually calm down, but that only turns into you hyperventilating more. The hyperventilating only makes the pain worse which in turn makes you cry again which makes your head throb even more. It’s an endless cycle which neither of you know how to stop. The bed creaks as Eddie moves to partially lay beside you so your eyes meet. He takes one of your hands and squeezes it, cooing, “Sweetpea, you need to calm down. Crying is only going to make it worse.”

You immediately yell back, “I KNOW!” before groaning and rolling onto your back with your face in your hands. Eddie is dumbfounded. He has never seen you like this before. Hell, in all the time he’s been with you while you had migraines he barely even saw you cry let alone become hysterical.

His thoughts are interrupted by your wavering voice again. “Eddie I can’t feel my leg, why can’t I feel my leg.” His face turns from worried to scared, shooting up right away. He wasn’t a doctor, but that did not sound normal. This was a completely new symptom. Seconds later, you cry out, “Eddie I can’t feel my arm either please help me.” He doesn’t say anything, instead getting up off the bed and rushing to your drawer to grab another pill. He grabs your water and manages to help you take the pill and drink it in hopes that maybe a second pill will do the trick. Eddie watches you and goes over his options in his head. Does he call your mom? She gets migraines too, so maybe she knows what to do. Maybe your neurologist? No, he doubts they’ll be able to do anything. He realizes there’s only one real option, one you’ve turned down every time your migraines get really bad.

“Honey, do you want to go to the hospital?”

You shake your head in between sobs and Eddie immediately takes action. He gets you your sandals, the easiest shoes for him to get on your feet, and helps you up. You’re wobbling with tears running down your face. As you’re about to leave the bedroom, he briefly lets go of you to rush over to the table next to the front door and grab his sunglasses from before. He places them on you and you thank him with a sniffle. Once you two are steps away from the front door, you hesitate. Eddie looks at you with worry and you say, “I… I don’t have a bra on.” Eddie has to remind you that the doctors don’t care and goes back to helping you move. The two of you make your way out the door as fast as you can go, which isn’t much considering your condition. In a moment of panic, Eddie picks you up in his arms and rushes through the halls of the apartment complex and out to the nearest exit. He’s thanking every god there is that you two managed to snag parking spots so close to the entrance. He yanks the passenger side door open and puts you in and buckles you up. He’s in the driver's seat seconds later and begins haphazardly pulling out of the parking spot and towards the exit. Eddie’s mind is filled with potential scenarios on what's going on. Was this a seizure? Your neurologist had you tested for that last year and nothing came up. What if it’s a stroke? A brain bleed? He’s so distracted by his anxieties and getting to the hospital that he doesn’t notice your breathing start to even out and your posture fix itself. You aren’t crying or hyperventilating at all. About thirty seconds into the drive with the exit in sight, you look up and calmly tell him, “It’s over.”

Eddie slams his foot on the break and goes, “WHAT?” and looks at you with bewilderment. He looks past the sunglasses you’re wearing and sees how you seem to have made a completely full recovery. All the medication you took seems to have kicked in all at once. Your mind is clear and it’s like the attack never even happened. “Wait, so do you still need to go to the hospital?” All you do is shake your head and he lets out a giant sigh of relief, no longer clutching the steering wheel and hangs his head now as he begins to calm down and let himself catch his breath. You both sit there and process everything that just happened. Without a word, Eddie turns the car around and drives back to the parking spot. This time you’re able to get out on your own and meet Eddie at the front of the car. He pulls you in for a tight hug. Muffled by your shirt, he says,

“Never do that again, please. I thought you were dying.”

Your face is buried in his chest, and he only hears ‘mm-hmm’ before you let go of him and take off the sunglasses to look up at him. He’s inspecting your face again. You still don’t look the way you did before the attack but you’ve got more life in your eyes. Your eyelids are still drooping but now you just look tired.

You rub at your eyes and mumble, “Can we go back inside?”

Eddie nods and wraps his arm around you, letting you lean on him as you two walk back into the building. He clocks how drowsy you’re getting - this is normal, something he sees every time you get a migraine. The two of you return to your apartment without speaking with you, taking the lead upon entry and going back to bed. Eddie follows close behind and this time joins you, holding you close and pressing a kiss to your forehead. He was exhausted by the whole event and fell asleep shortly after you did. The only noise that echoed through the apartment was the sound of his snoring and the snoring coming from Yogi the next room over.

#eddie munson #eddie munson hurt/comfort #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson x reader #scripsi

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