#everything is shit and i truly mean everything

[littlelamy]

req!! reader always have a hard time sleeping and is always sleepy and rafe’s trying all the methods in the books despite humself being sleepy as hell :3

lamy's note: hope you like it!

the bedside clock glared 3:47 a.m. in bold red digits, mocking you as you laid tangled in the sheets. your eyes burned from exhaustion, yet sleep clung just out of reach like a cruel tease. every time you closed your eyes, your mind whirled—memories, worries, stray thoughts—spinning in circles that left you breathless.

rafe stirred beside you, his usual heavy, even breaths now disrupted by your tossing and turning. despite the darkness, you could feel the concern radiating from him.

“still can’t sleep?” his voice was low, gravelly from fatigue, but soft, like he didn’t want to startle you.

you sighed, running a hand through your hair. “no. it’s like… my brain doesn’t know how to shut up.”

rafe shifted, propping himself up on one elbow. the moonlight filtering through the curtains caught the edges of his messy hair, casting shadows on his face. “what if i read to you? isn’t that supposed to help or something?”

“you hate reading,” you pointed out, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips despite the exhaustion.

“yeah, well, i’ll do it for you,” he said, already reaching for the book on your nightstand—one of those random novels you’d been meaning to finish for months. he flipped it open, squinting at the tiny text. “fuck, why is the font so small? what is this, a book for ants?”

you couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you. “maybe this isn’t the best idea.”

“no, no, i got this,” he insisted, clearing his throat dramatically before reading aloud. his voice was monotone, the kind of flat, over-enunciated reading that made it impossible to focus on the story. still, you appreciated the effort, the way he stumbled over words but kept going anyway.

it lasted about five minutes before he groaned, slamming the book shut. “all right, new plan.”

“what now?” you asked, rolling onto your side to face him.

“heard somewhere that, like, breathing exercises help,” he said, mimicking slow, exaggerated breaths like he was leading a yoga class. “you know, in through your nose, out through your mouth. all that zen shit.”

you raised an eyebrow. “are you seriously going to sit here and make me do breathing exercises?”

“hell yeah, i am,” he replied, determined. “come on, follow me. in…” he inhaled deeply, shoulders rising dramatically, “and out.”

you tried to mimic him, but halfway through, his exaggerated exhale turned into a ridiculous wheezing noise, and you both dissolved into laughter.

“okay, that’s definitely not working,” you said, clutching your stomach as the laughter subsided.

rafe flopped back onto the bed, running a hand down his face. “shit, you’re right. i’m running out of ideas here.”

“you don’t have to do this,” you said softly, guilt tugging at your chest. “you’re tired too.”

he turned his head to look at you, his expression serious. “yeah, but it kills me seeing you like this. i just… i want to help.”

the sincerity in his voice made your throat tighten. “i know. and it means a lot.”

for a moment, neither of you spoke, the quiet of the room settling around you like a blanket. then rafe sat up suddenly, snapping his fingers. “got it. i’m making you tea.”

“tea?” you echoed, watching as he climbed out of bed, his movements sluggish but determined. “it’s the middle of the night.”

“yeah, and tea fixes everything. ask anyone.”

you chuckled, sitting up as he disappeared into the kitchen. a few minutes later, he returned, a steaming mug in hand. “hot tea, freshly made by yours truly. careful, it’s probably hot as hell.”

“you’re ridiculous,” you said, but you took the mug anyway, the warmth seeping into your fingers. “thank you.”

he sat back down beside you, watching as you sipped cautiously. “so? does it taste like sleep?”

you smiled. “not yet. but it’s nice.”

he nodded, leaning back against the headboard. “good. because if this doesn’t work, i’m out of ideas. unless you want me to, like, sing you a lullaby or something.”

the thought of rafe singing was enough to make you laugh again, the sound soft and unguarded. “i think i’ll pass on that.”

“your loss,” he teased, but his smile was gentle, his eyes warm as he watched you.

eventually, the tea and the quiet began to work their magic. your eyelids grew heavy, your body sinking into the mattress as sleep finally crept in. rafe stayed beside you, his hand brushing lightly against yours as he whispered, “just close your eyes. i’m here.”

taglist: @namelesslosers @maybanksangel @averyoceanblvd @iknowdatsrightbih @rafesheaven @anamiad00msday @ivysprophecy @wearemadeofstardust0 @rafesangelita @sstargirln @rafedaddy01 @soldesole @bakugouswaif @skywalker0809 @vanessa-rafesgirl @evermorx89 @outerhills @ditzyzombiesblog @slavicangelmuah @alivinggirl @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @rafesbabygirlx

[aventurineswife]

HII AUTHOR! ARE YOU HAVING A GOOD DAY? I HAVE A QUESTION. How would the SAHSRAU react if you suddenly got bored with HSR and switched to genshin?

Oh boy... The jealousy and the angst are sure burning up...

At first, they don’t notice.

Everything is normal. The Museum of Divinity still stands. Your artworks are still there. Your music still echoes through the stars.

But then… something changes.

The paintings stop appearing. The music stops playing. The museum doors remain shut.

The characters wait for your next command. It never comes.

The Galaxy is silent.

And that’s when they realize.

“There must be an explanation.”

Welt starts running calculations, probability theories, even dimensional travel theories—anything to explain your sudden disappearance.

Himeko sips her coffee, trying to stay calm, but her hands are shaking. “They’ll be back. They always come back.”

(You in fact did not come back.)

March 7th: "Uh, guys? You might wanna look at this..."

She holds up a blurry, pixelated screenshot she managed to capture—a screenshot of Teyvat.

Himeko’s mug shatters. (Like her heart ahem)

Blade stops moving entirely. His entire reason for existing has just left him behind.

Stares blankly at the sky, gripping his sword. If you are no longer here, then what purpose does he have?

Dan Heng acts calm, but he's already in crisis mode. He's scrolling through files, trying to find any clue as to why you left.

When he sees the Teyvat screenshot, his grip tightens on his spear.

Dan Heng: “…We’ve been abandoned.” (yeah no shit, Sherlock-)

Aventurine immediately plays it cool. "Well, well, well. Looks like our dear Creator has found another plaything."

Sunday is not calm.

"BETRAYAL! TREACHERY! ABANDONMENT! I HAVE BEEN CAST ASIDE!"

He dramatically collapses on the museum floor. Aventurine just watches with amusement.

But the second he sees the Teyvat screenshot—

Aventurine: “…Oh, you’ve got to be joking.”

They both hate the idea of you playing another game more than they hate each other.

Kafka smirks, but there’s a sharp edge to it. "So, you’ve moved on, huh?"

Black Swan looks at the fading murals of your art, her expression unreadable. “All things fade… but I never expected our Creator’s gaze to turn elsewhere.”

Deep down, they wonder—were they not enough?

Luocha: "I suppose even gods grow tired of their creations."

Jing Yuan: "Hah… It seems we have been cast aside for another world."

They act philosophical about it, but they’re both lowkey miserable.

Jing Yuan tries to joke about it, but even Yanqing notices something’s off.

Luocha stares at a fading portrait of you, quietly wondering if he will ever see your light again. (Probably not but ahem)

March 7th is the first to start coping.

"It’s fine, it’s fine! Maybe they’re just… on a vacation! Yeah! They’ll be back! Right?"

Sparkle is already scheming. "If our dear Painter has found another world… then perhaps it’s time we follow them there."

(They are actively looking for ways to break into Teyvat.)

Sighs, so the list goes on...

Blade stops fighting entirely. (What's the point if you're not watching?)

Dan Heng avoids everyone. (He refuses to believe it.)

Kafka and Black Swan start theorizing. (Will you return, or is this the end?)

Sunday begins plotting. (If they cannot bring you back, they will find a way to make you remember them.)

March 7th, Sparkle, and Aventurine?

They're looking for a way to invade Genshin. (Yeah, with Silver Wolf's help)

Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months.

They wait.

And wait.

And then—

One day—

A new painting appears.

It's… different.

A familiar signature, but a different style.

A mural of Teyvat.

And on that day, the last hope shatters.

You are gone.

Their Creator has truly moved on.

But that doesn’t mean they’ll stop searching for you. Not ever.

My back hurts... I'm taking away your guys' SAHSRAU privilege. I need someone to write this as a fic or expand it and I'm not gonna write it, that's for you. 🫶

[melosliving]

Can you do when actress reader has a panic attack and kelvin Harrison jr and Aaron Pierre are there

let me cook baby !!! I just wanted to say thank you for all the love y’all have been showing me 🥹 I’m currently dealing with shit and y’all’s comments, requests and reblogs truly bring joy in my heart so thank you for everything ❤️❤️

aaron pierre & kelvin harrison jr x actress!reader

you’re having a panic attack

The first thing that hits you is the warmth in your chest, then the feeling that the walls are closing in. The air grows thicker, like you’re breathing cotton. You know you’re not alone—the noise of the room, the voices, the slightly flickering lights—but it all starts feeling distant. Like you’re underwater. Your heart is racing, your hands are shaking, and you’re losing your grip on the ground.

“Hey, hey, lovie. You’re with us ?”

Aaron’s deep voice reaches you, but it floats in the void. You want to answer, but your throat is tight. A warm hand wraps around yours, squeezing gently.

“It’s just me. Breathe, slowly, you don’t have to force it. Just... follow my voice.” Kelvin. Always that soft, patient tone. He lowers himself to your level, his eyes full of concern but not panic. He just wants to help. You don’t have to see his face to know he has that little frown that means he’s thinking of a thousand ways to make this better for you.

The pressure had been building all day. The interviews, the flashing lights, the constant need to be “on.” It wasn’t your first press junket, not your first time sitting under the scrutiny of cameras, but today something snapped. Maybe it was the long hours, the overwhelming questions, or the way your body just couldn’t keep up anymore. Whatever it was, it hit you hard.

“Do you want to step outside for a minute ?” Aaron suggests, still holding your hand. You don’t have the strength to answer, but you squeeze his fingers just a little. He understands.

Kelvin places a hand on your back, a grounding gesture. “Let’s just walk a little, come on.”

You move without thinking, between the two of them, protected. The noise of the room fades behind you. The air outside hits you, cooler, lighter. Your shoulders start to drop, the trembling in your hands slowly easing.

“That was a panic attack, wasn’t it?” Aaron asks gently. He gives you time to respond, and when you nod, he nods too, like he understands completely.

“Do you wanna talk or just breathe a little more?” Kelvin is in front of you now, eyes locked on yours. He doesn’t push, he just waits. You take a deep breath, and even though your voice is a little rough, you manage to whisper, “Just... stay here for a bit.”

“Okay. We’re not going anywhere.”

So they stay. Aaron on your left, Kelvin on your right. Their presence solid, reassuring. They don’t rush you, they don’t flood you with questions. They’re just there. And that’s enough.

Minutes pass, and the tension in your chest starts to ease. The night air is crisp, the distant hum of the city grounding you. Kelvin crouches down, rubbing small circles into your back. “You’re doing great boo. Just keep breathing.”

Aaron shifts closer, letting your head rest lightly against his shoulder. “You know we got you, right?”

You nod, swallowing past the lingering tightness in your throat. “Yeah. I know.”

Kelvin smiles, brushing a stray curl from your face. “Good. ‘Cause we’re not letting you go through this alone.”

For the first time since the panic started, you believe them. You exhale slowly, letting yourself be held by their warmth, their steadiness. The world still feels a little heavy, but with them here, you know you’ll be okay.

@ melosliving 2025

[maul-of-shame]

Why do you and valar-did-me-wrong never post the heinous, hateful haladriel anons you claim to have received? Whenever someone gets hate they usually post the anons as proof, but neither of you did that. Interesting.

Where do I even begin with this absolute masterpiece of a reach? Because truly, the acrobatics in your logic could put even the most seasoned Cirque du Soleil performer to shame.

First off— You, just like them, came as anon. Obviously. You think people who throw hate have the guts to stand by what they say? Please. They sit behind their little grey-faced anonymity, spitting bile, because deep down, they know their accusations wouldn’t hold up to even the lightest scrutiny. They fear feedback, backlash, and accountability, which is why they only ever send these messages from the safety of a faceless profile. The only thing “interesting” here is your apparent belief that cowardly hate only counts if it’s publicly aired for your personal entertainment.

And let’s talk about this absolute gem of a claim: that I never posted proof.

Bestie, the fact that you even typed that out tells me one thing—you haven’t read shit.

I have posted proof. I have responded to hateful asks. I have directly addressed this before, which means you either (a) didn’t bother looking, (b) did and ignored it because it didn’t fit your little narrative, or (c) are just here to stir the pot regardless of reality.

The fact that you’re automatically assuming that anyone speaking out about harassment must be lying because you haven’t personally seen enough spectacle for your liking. That says far more about you than it does about me. You really just jumped straight to “They must be making it up!” without even considering that maybe, just maybe, people don’t owe you a trauma display just to prove they were harassed. That’s not a gotcha moment—that’s just a really nasty take.

Like, do you ask people to livestream their trauma too? Should we submit a notarized affidavit of every slur, threat, and unhinged screed we get in our inbox? Or would you still move the goalposts and pretend it’s “not that bad” because facing the truth makes you uncomfortable? Because abusers love the fact that people like you exist. They thrive on this exact kind of dismissal, knowing people like you will swoop in and do their dirty work by demanding “proof” while ignoring the actual problem.

And let’s not pretend for a single second that you give a shit about fairness, because if you did, you’d be holding your own side accountable instead of crawling into my inbox with your weird little conspiracy theories but oh well-

Oh, and don’t think I didn’t clock what you were trying to do as well. Dragging Valar into this? Really?

@valar-did-me-wrong, is one of the kindest, most unproblematic people in this fandom. They have my love and support and for you to drag them into this, this is absolutely vile.

The fact you tried to drag them into this tells me everything I need to know about your intentions. This isn’t about “truth.” It’s not about “proof.” It’s about trying to discredit and dismiss people speaking up about harassment because it’s easier than acknowledging that maybe—just maybe—people in your own circles are the ones sending vile shit. And that? That’s pathetic.

You really thought you did something here, huh? Sat down, typed this whole thing out, and thought, "Wow, this is gonna expose them!" Bestie, all you did was expose yourself. The way you immediately assumed that because you haven’t personally seen the proof, it must not exist? The way you think people owe you a public parade of every nasty message they get just so you can decide if their harassment is real enough? That says way more about you than it does about me.

And let’s be real for a second—if I had flooded my blog with every single piece of hate I’ve received, you and people like you would be the first to turn around and say, “Oh, look at them playing the victim, making a spectacle of it, stirring drama!” You want to move the goalposts because your problem isn’t actually with whether or not this harassment happened. Your problem is with people you dislike daring to call it out.

And the funniest part? You came into my inbox as an anon to accuse me of lying about anon hate.

The sheer lack of self-awareness is honestly impressive. The irony is writing itself at this point. The call is literally coming from inside the house, babe.

At the end of the day, your little conspiracy theory is as embarrassing as it is transparent. If you need to contort reality this hard just to make yourself feel better about defending the people sending hate, that’s on you. But don’t expect me—or anyone else—to take you seriously.

Oh, and before you waddle off back to whatever echo chamber convinced you this was a good idea—next time, try coming up with a take that doesn’t make you look like a sentient Lembas crumb with trust issues. Your logic is as fragile as Denethor’s grip on reality, and frankly, I’ve had more stimulating debates with my toaster. Now go touch some grass, hydrate, and maybe, just maybe, develop a personality that isn’t built entirely on being insufferable. Stop embarassing yourself in my inbox, Gollum.

Toodles!!😊

[alittlegiraffe]

Title: All That Matters (Part 4)

Part 5

You had been in LA with Marshall for three days, and things had been good—better than good. Being with him, seeing his world up close, instead of watching from a distance, made all the difference.

And he had been on it.

Keeping his hand on your thigh when you sat next to him, making sure you were included in conversations, kissing you like he had something to prove every time you were alone.

It felt like things were finally settling. Like maybe, just maybe, all those insecurities had been in your head.

Until today.

You were sitting in the studio, curled up on the couch while Marshall was in the booth, headphones on, focused on his verse. You liked watching him work—it was one of the few times he looked truly at peace.

Then she walked in.

Her.

The same singer from the picture.

You recognized her immediately—the long, wavy hair, the body that looked like it had been sculpted in a lab, the confidence that oozed off her like expensive perfume.

She didn’t even see you at first. Just strutted in like she owned the place, flashing a smile at one of the producers.

“Eminem’s here, right?”

The guy nodded toward the booth. “Yeah, he’s recording.”

She lit up. “Oh, perfect. I knew he’d want me on this track.”

You raised an eyebrow.

The producer chuckled. “He ain’t mentioned anything about that.”

“Oh, please,” she said, flipping her hair. “He totally wants me.”

Your stomach tightened.

The guy smirked. “Oh yeah?”

She leaned against the console, lowering her voice just enough to sound sultry. “C’mon, you saw us at the party. The way he was looking at me? We had a moment.”

Your pulse spiked.

The producer snorted. “I don’t know if I’d call it a moment. He talked to you for like five minutes.”

She waved a dismissive hand. “Whatever. He was into it. I bet if I play this right, I could get him to fuck me before the week’s over.”

Blood rushed to your ears.

For a second, you thought maybe you’d imagined it. That she hadn’t just casually said she was planning to hook up with your husband—like you didn’t even exist.

Before you could even process it, the booth door opened, and Marshall walked out, rubbing his neck.

The second she saw him, she lit up.

“Speak of the devil,” she purred, pushing off the console. “I was just talking about you.”

Marshall barely looked up from his phone. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.” She sauntered forward, tilting her head just so. “I was telling them how we clicked at the party.”

You saw the exact moment Marshall realized what was happening.

His eyebrows shot up, his head jerking back slightly. “Uh. The fuck?”

She giggled, completely missing the shift in his expression. “C’mon, don’t be shy. We had a vibe.”

Finally, Marshall lifted his eyes—past her. To you.

And the second he saw your face, everything changed.

His entire body stiffened. His jaw clenched. His grip on his phone tightened.

Then, in the coldest, flattest tone you had ever heard, he said—

“The fuck are you talkin’ about?”

The air shifted.

She blinked, caught off guard. “I mean… y’know. We just had chemistry—”

Marshall laughed.

Not a nice laugh. A mocking laugh.

“Yo, get the fuck outta here with that.” He shook his head, scoffing. “I talked to you for five minutes about music. That’s it. Ain’t no ‘vibe.’ Ain’t no chemistry.”

She frowned. “But at the party—”

“The party?” Marshall cut her off, stepping forward. “You mean the same party where I spent half the night textin’ my wife?”

Her face fell.

And just like that—she knew.

Slowly, hesitantly, she turned—finally seeing you for the first time.

You didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

Her lips parted. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Marshall mocked, shaking his head. “Yeah. Oh.”

A beat of awkward silence.

Then she cleared her throat, smoothing her hair. “I… I didn’t know.”

Marshall scoffed. “Yeah, no shit.”

She shifted uncomfortably. “I didn’t mean—”

“I don’t give a fuck what you meant,” Marshall cut in. “But don’t ever come in here runnin’ your mouth like that again.”

She swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Got it.”

Then, without another word, she turned and walked out.

The second the door shut, Marshall turned to you. “Baby—”

“I’m fine.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t do that.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. “I am fine. It’s just—God, she didn’t even know who I was.” You let out a bitter laugh. “She was standing there, talking about fucking my husband, and I was right there, and she didn’t even see me.”

Marshall’s entire body tensed. “That ain’t on you.”

You swallowed, looking down. “I know. But it still sucks.”

He sighed, running a hand down his face before stepping forward and cupping your cheeks. “Look at me.”

You hesitated, then lifted your eyes to his.

His face was hard, serious. “I don’t see them.” His thumbs brushed over your skin. “I don’t want them. I want you. Always you.”

Your throat tightened. “I know.”

“You believe me?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

His shoulders relaxed slightly, but his eyes were still stormy. “I’m sorry you even had to hear that shit.”

You exhaled. “It’s not your fault.”

He was quiet for a beat, then murmured, “Still.”

You sighed, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your face into his chest. “Just… hold me for a second.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His arms locked around you, holding you so tight it almost hurt—but in the best way.

Like he was trying to prove something.

And maybe, in a way, he was.

[gimmebackmyskeeball]

MEET LATINA POGUE READER!

latina pogue reader who looks nothing like the crap she likes.

latina pogue reader who is a certified eco warrior, the most expressive girl in The Cut, surfer, stoner & most likely a vegetarian totally has nothing to do with her body dysmorphia, loves a good dirty joke, a ridiculously forward person, looks like a total black cat but actually the biggest golden retriever when you get close to her.

latina pogue reader who has beautiful curls but always straightens them cause it looks ‘more sleek.’

latina pogue reader who totally swings both ways (sometimes she barely cares who she hooks up with, let alone the gender.)

latina pogue reader who always looks and smells rich even though she’s probably the poorest between the pogues (which, considering JJ, is saying a lot.)

latina pogue reader who likes Diet Coke, cherry cigarettes, weed, pineapples, cats, surfing, tanning and sunshine, the color yellow, pink and red, LDR’s music, old camp shirts, physical touches, long hot showers, swimming, skinny dipping, bikinis, surfing, mushrooms, musical movies, slurpees, hot guys, hot girls, her mom, seashells, gold jewelry, waking up late, R&B, sunsets, Bob Marley and Elvis Presley’s music, street lights and riding the dirt bike.

latina pogue reader who never really learned how to drive but forced JJ to teach her how to ride the dirt bike just to get better and spite him.

latina pogue reader who had a tumblr blogger phase in 2016 and sometimes still logs back her account (which is named some ridiculous shit like curvybaby17 or smth) to look at her and Kie’s old pics.

latina pogue reader who has insane daddy issues but truly believes she’s the best of the best, not in an egotistical way, she knows she pulled through all the troubles life gave her, making it all on her own and she’s confident that she can handle everything.

latina pogue reader who has insane motherly nature (being constantly called ‘mama’ by her favorite blonde), her comforting game is top tier— would recommend.

latina pogue reader who absolutely loathes Rafe and The Chipmunks and has bitch slapped Topper on the face before. one of her favorite moments in life.

latina pogue reader who could be an absolute bitch when she wants to…and some of her words are definitely controversial but you couldn’t pay her to care.

latina pogue reader who doesn’t handle disrespect very well and will make your life a living hell if you cross her. (bonus points if she trusted and cared about you to begin with.)

latina pogue reader who is the most confident freak you can meet.

latina pogue reader who is always the loud, opinionated one. she would never let a man beat her in anything. and I mean anything.

latina pogue reader who needs people to perceive her intelligence. she needs them to know that she's smart and not ‘trailer trash’, that she has something important to contribute to the society.

latina pogue reader who is the biggest softie underneath her loud mouth, scary attitude and maneater aura.

i love her and have a whole ass arc for her :(

[scoobydoodean]

Dean keeps his cool far more than I would have. He thinks Cas isn't doing well because of whatever he did for Sam, and so he sits and he plays Sorry with Cas. But it quickly becomes clear through their conversation, that Cas is convertly telling Dean all the reasons he won't help him—that Cas understands more than he lets on—that Cas is hiding. And Dean isn't naive to this. He's catching on.

CASTIEL: You know, we weren't sure at first which monkeys were gonna make it. No offense, but I was backing the Neanderthals because their poetry was... just amazing.

"I don't actually care about humanity that much as a species. You're just a bunch of monkeys to me" (This isn't how Cas usually feels. This is the way characters like Uriel and Zachariah spoke—the way Godstiel spoke).

CASTIEL: You guys ate the apple, invented pants.

"Humans have done both good and bad. I feel indifferent about your suffering."

DEAN Cas, where can we find this, uh, Metatron? Is he still alive? CASTIEL I'm sorry. I – I think you have to go back to start.

"Maybe the world should just start over".

DEAN This is important. I think Metatron could stop a lot of bad. You understand that? CASTIEL We live in a "sorry" universe. It's engineered to create conflict.

"Sorry, Dean. This is just the way the world works. People hurt you lower creatures, who are both good and bad, and therefore exploiting your species is a neutral activity".

I mean, why should I prosper from... your misfortune? But these are the rules. I didn't make them.

"I don't make the rules. Humans (you, Dean) being left in a steaming pile of shit to suffer is just how the world works, kiddo. Sorry. You're on your own. And yes—I get to stay here and relax while you suffer."

Dean isn't stupid. He knows exactly what Cas is saying. That he doesn't care about humanity's plight, and he doesn't care that Dean is in pain (which is a turn from 7.17. btw). So Dean responds in kind:

DEAN: You made some of them [the rules]. When you tried to become God, when you cut that hole into that wall.

You made this happen. It's your responsibility, and you're avoiding it.

CASTIEL Dean... it's your move. DEAN pounds a fist on the table and swipes the board to the floor. DEAN Forget the damn game! Forget the game, Cas. CASTIEL I'm sorry, Dean. DEAN No. You're playing "Sorry!"

Cas (in this state) isn't sorry at all. He's playing a character who is avoidant—a character who doesn't fight anymore—who just watches the bees—the bees with a structure sort of like the Leviathan.

CASTIEL Outside today, in the garden, I followed a honeybee. I saw the route of flowers. It's all right there, the whole plan. There's nothing to add.

"I'll let the Leviathan do whatever they want. Existence is just a study in God's plan, which we can't ever truly defy". (This is also a rejection of everything they fought together for in season 5).

Just remembered the Sorry board disk horse.

If Cas gave me that completely insincere smile while holding up the game “Sorry” as a form of “apology” I would have not only knocked the board on the ground I would have launched at him over the table.

[lysgaardsbakken]

i hate life so much lately ahahah

[dykedvonte]

Curly had two days to act and Swansea had two months.

I think it’s just interesting that every defense of Swansea not immediately acting are the same ones that are argued against for Curly. “He didn’t want to alert Daisuke or makes things worse for Anya either Jimmy!” I mean people also assume that about Curly and the crew. “He has to think about his plan of action and a right moment!” Again so did Curly, power and authority aside, he still would have to think of what he had to do. “He makes sure he doesn’t have to be around Jimmy!” So did Curly and they only do this to an extent, both give Jimmy more than a few opening to keep harassing Anya.

This isn’t defense of Curly nor a damnation of Swansea. Their actions are very parallel to each others in tragic and sour ways when it comes to how they approached helping Anya. In the grand scheme of it all they both did the same thing: Nothing. No action either took stopped the inevitable outcome of her death nor Jimmy’s continued damage to themself.

The only real difference is Swansea didn’t like Jimmy which is pretty substantial, but also just as damning as Curly knowing how bad Jimmy could get to an extent. He had even less of a reason to wait, even more of a reason to act seeing as he was now worried for Anya AND Daisuke. He is not bound by the possible procedure as Captain and actively does not care about what happens next. So what does it matter if he acted in the moment? Why did he wait? I think he’s just as morally complex and grey as Curly and we hold him on a pedestal that still perpetuates things in rape culture the game critiques.

It’s not just enough to dislike and be abrasive to predators/abusers like Jimmy. It’s not enough to just put yourself between them and the other person. It’s not enough to hold tensions when you know someone is vulnerable. He and Curly do the exact same things but on different sides of the coin. I ask how is it better to not turn a blind eye but still not really do anything about what you are seeing? Not until it affects you atleast…

The game makes a big point to not put men doing the bare minimum or who wait to do more on pedestals and I’m actually surprised so many are missing that point.

[torahtot]

you can always tell when someone doesn't have maga men in their life and god it makes me angry.. "if you're nice and compassionate you can be the one woman that makes them realize women aren't mean!" my mom bent over backwards for my dad for 25 fucking years he has plenty of other women kissing his ass and it never changed anything. do you really think that before being radicalized they never knew a single kind woman? they were never friends with a nice girl? alt-right men's problem with women isn't just that they've experienced too many mean women and they need to be shown that women can be nice, it's that they think women are inferior and don't deserve rights and don't understand anything so you can do what you want with them. and it takes a lot more than being nice to show someone that you aren't inferior. this isn't a case of being nice even when it's hard for the sake of deradicalization, it's about spending every fucking interaction with someone trying to get them to see you as a human being with value and a functioning intellect while they just laugh and show you that's never going to happen.

i cannot stress this enough: random women are not just going out and Being Mean to men. ur average guy interacts with plenty of women throughout his life- close women amongst their friends and family, casual interactions etc. most people don't start out being shunned by women, they start out being treated as NORMAL. & when they show their disrespect in normal society, it isn't tolerated, but when they go to alt-right spaces (which they're pushed towards online) they're told they're allowed to be as horrible as they want with no consequences because they're entitled to everything. it isn't "women aren't welcoming and the alt-right is so friendly so i'll become alt-right," it's "women don't let me disrespect them and the alt-right tells me fuck them, do whatever you want, you're entitled to it all" and why would you choose the group where you have to be a normal accountable person when there's a group that will reward you for being a shithead who gives no fucks?

the alt-right can afford to be more friendly and welcoming because they can allow bigotry. this can't work the same way for progressive spaces because we can be as kind & welcoming as possible but at the end of the day we have lines where we have to say "this behavior/speech isn't allowed in this space," and for certain people, that just can't win against a space where you can be as nasty as you want. these posts always end with a disclaimer saying "of course being kind doesnt mean you need to tolerate their bigotries" but what they don't realize and what drives me crazy is that women not tolerating bigotry IS the "women are mean" that radicalized them in the first place. they perceive you pushing back on any bigotry or bullshit as you being a meanie and treating them like they're ontologically evil. the 'kindness' they need to be deradicalized is you letting them walk all over you.

idk what the answer is to deradicalizing them and im sure relationships are part of it but you can be as kind as you want and all it will do is destroy you ime. i cant stand to see people (who have never even successfully deradicalized any man by being nice btw they always speak in hypotheticals and not from experience) double down on telling women to do things that will see no results and only hurt them, especially when any woman who has tried can tell you exactly how it went

[trippinsorrows]

lord Jesus, be a fence.

not quite sure where to start with this one, to be honest with you. i know we only saw hayes a few times prior to this point, but it was obvious what gemini mean to him and vice versa. he's going to be crushed to find out she's dead, and God forbid if he's the one to find her body. my goodness. 🥺🥺🥺

it was obvious before, but i really hope it's painfully obvious now, how sick and demented roman/mateo is. he's now repeatedly raped her and acts like shit is fucking normal. that's beyond disgusting. i was so appalled reading him talking to ivy about all the women he's killed. like, it's nothing. like their lives were nothing.

and then, then, this nigga has the everlasting audacity to propose to ivy with the ring that belonged to his wife who he brutally murdered? and get mad when she says no???? yeah, he's psycho psycho.

the scene of ivy "losing her mind" was so well done that i couldn't tell if she was acting to throw roman off or if she was truly on the brink of insanity, which would be so valid and understandable give everything she's been through.

listen, i hate to be that person, but i was so relieved when duchess was safely released to baby girl. 😭😭 i mean, i need ivy to get out too, but at least the baby doggy is alright. 😭

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. 

"Officers Hayes?" His tone was clipped, urgent, with an edge to it. "I’m Detective Cody Rhodes, 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’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 the two cops.

But even more importantly, across the street.

The police cruiser.

And inside—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. "Let me go, you fucking psycho!"

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, she needs me! 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 trembling with shock.

"You fucking monster," she spat, gasping for air.

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!

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[autisticaradiamegido]

day 86

do any of yall ever have like. an Evil infodump? where instead of endlessly word vomiting about a thing you love and are very informed about, there is a thing you are equally well-informed about but hate with a passion that you cannot hold back in conversation?

i do :')

(I'll put it under the cut for the curious because I think it's important and i cannot be stopped but also i'm not kidding the facts are infuriating)

SO. "Homeopathic" is often interpreted as sort of a vague synonym for "natural," or "organic," but it's actually related to a system of alternative medicine that means something Very Specific.

There are two main principles behind the practice of Homeopathy.

"Like cures like." This is the idea that, for example, if you have a headache, taking a veeeery small amount of a substance that is known to CAUSE headaches will cure that symptom. I understand where people fall into this flawed idea, as it sounds very similar to the principles behind, say, vaccines, or antivenom. But it isn't universally applicable in this way. An herb isn't a virus. But even if it was, a Homeopathic preparation of that herb would not have any effect on the body because of the second principle.

"Water has memory." This is the idea that water is able to "remember" any substance that it has had contact with. This is also not true. Molecules don't really have any way to store information like that, and even if they did, well... What would that information do inside our bodies? Would our cells have any way to interpret and process that information? What would they do with it? It's all rather nebulous and it seems like more of a spiritual claim than a scientific one. Which is fine, but is not medicine.

So, with these principles in mind, the process of creating a "Homeopathic Preparation of [insert substance here]" goes a little something like this: You take a dropper and put one drop of your active substance in a container with a hundred drops of water. You then take a drop of that mixture, and put it in another container with another hundred drops of water. You continue this dilution process until there is, quite literally, a near-zero percent chance that your mixture contains even a single molecule of your original active substance (depending on the level of dilution believed to be best for the substance in question. Typically, a higher dilution is considered more potent.) So it is, by this point, literally just a vial of water.

This vial of water is what is then sold as a "Homeopathic preparation of [substance]." OR that water is used to compound a batch of sugar pills, or gel capsules, or tablets, whatever format is being offered. Regardless, the composition of the tincture is literally just water and ~*vibes*~.

And they sell these vials of expensive vibe water! At!!!

THE PHARMACY!!! WITH LIKE THE IBUPROFEN AND ALL THE OTHER REAL MEDICINES!!! AND NO BIG WARNING LABELS THAT SAY, "THIS CONTAINS NO ACTIVE INGREDIENTS AND IS BASED ON VIBES ALONE," OR ANYTHING LIKE THAT!!

In fact! In the US they are able to advertise that they have been FDA approved! (FDA approval of dietary supplements is not the same as FDA approval of actual medications. In the context of supplements, approval just means they've proved it won't just kill you straight up, and thus you're allowed to sell it.) And, well. It certainly won't kill you! In fact they often also advertise things like, "It's natural!" and "No harmful side effects!" and "No risk of overdose!" and it's all technically true! BECAUSE IT'S JUST WATER! LIKE I CAN'T STRESS ENOUGH HOW IT'S LITERALLY JUST WATER!!!

Anyway. Please keep this in mind the next time you are offered a homeopathic remedy, or see one advertised in the store, or hear your antivaxxer auntie bragging about the fact that her kids all got a "homeopathic" alternative to their MMR shots.

IT'S! JUST! VIBE WATER!!!!

[sesamestreep]

“requiem for methuselah” crazy ass episode for many reasons. Kirk is being fully insane, like I don’t actually think, even controlling for how quickly and easily and readily he seems to fall in love with anybody at the slightest encouragement, that he’d go that bonkers for that android woman he just met while everyone on the ship was this close to dying, but that’s neither here nor there, because in the background you’ve got an equally but much more subtly insane episode for Spock, who extremely uncharacteristically admits to experiencing an emotion (or nearly experiencing, whatever) and that emotion is ENVY of all things. And then spends the rest of the episode warning Kirk away from this new love interest (something that doesn’t usually happen, even when Kirk has very inadvisable love interests) and is, in the end, the person who accurately identifies that Rayna’s competing love for Kirk and Flint is ultimately what overwhelms and destroys her with the most killer line in maybe history???

And then to wrap it up we get an equally uncharacteristic sort of denouement scene (TOS loooves to cut an episode off right after the actual climax, leaving little time for falling action or character reflection, or to stick a sitcom-y button on the end where the gang all smiles and laughs at their misadventures and everything resets to zero, which is not a criticism, it’s just the style of that era of tv, honestly) where Kirk is literally miserable over Rayna’s death (again, kind of unusual for a lot of his love interests, he tends to be able to move on pretty quickly) and Spock goes to see him and he falls asleep right in front of Spock (also odd) and then when Bones comes in to give the final word on Flint, Spock waves him off from waking the Captain (tender) and Bones gives him that awful speech about how it’s sadder that Spock can’t even imagine the love Kirk felt for this random android woman than it is that Kirk lost her in the first place (debatable but also rude) and how his great tragedy is that he can’t love at all like they can and how all he wishes is that Kirk could forget about all of this and move on. AND THEN, to have Bones leave and Spock go over to Kirk and very gently, tenderly, reluctantly touch him and put his hand to his forehead and tell him to forget and HAVE THAT BE THE END OF THE EPISODE??? What am I supposed to do with that??

[cryptdfish]

“white mourning.”

[puhpandas]

listen hw2 was fun and all when it came out but god am I glad that we have other stuff going on now and that it's not the most recent relevant thing to talk about bc. jesus was it frustrating when it came out

[3416]

just need to give a shoutout to all the people who interact w me or the things i make on here for the love and good vibes. twitter's been pissing me off the past couple days and i just think it reaffirms i'll never really leave tumblr bc the fandom culture here is just so much.. more lol