EVA...

I'm an aspiring writer/director, and I share my stories here on Tumblr as well as on other platforms like Wattpad and AO3.

Most, if not all, of the stories I write are about and for Black people because I'm Black, and I don't always see representation for us in spaces like these. So, I decided to create that representation myself.

I hope you enjoy my work and find something that resonates with you. (Even if you're not Black)

The summer heat still clung to the sidewalks long after the sun had disappeared.

You stood in front of your bedroom mirror, smoothing your hands over your skirt for the fifth time. A smile kept threatening to spread across your face no matter how hard you tried to stop it.

Your older cousin had braided your hair the night before, and the beads clicked softly whenever you turned your head. You had even borrowed her lip gloss after promising not to "waste it on some little middle school boy."

But Robin Arellano wasn't just some boy.

The moment you heard the squeal of bicycle tires outside your house, your stomach flipped.

"Girl," your cousin teased from the doorway, "if you don't stop grinning like that—"

"Shut up."

"You like him bad."

You rolled your eyes and hurried outside before she could embarrass you any further.

Robin stood by the curb with one hand shoved into his pocket and the other gripping the handlebars of his bike. He'd clearly tried to fix his hair before coming over, but the wind had already ruined his efforts. His bandana sat slightly crooked across his forehead.

And for once, he looked nervous.

Not fake-cool Robin.

Actually, I'm nervous. "You look pretty," he blurted immediately. Heat rushed to your cheeks.

"You say that like you're surprised."

"I am—" His eyes widened.

"Nah, wait. I didn't mean it like that."

You laughed so hard that he finally relaxed. That was the thing about Robin. Around everyone else, he acted tough. Around you, he acted differently.

His ears even turned pink. "You ready?" he asked.

You looked behind him.

"...Where's the car?"

Robin blinked. Then, he blinked again.

"You think I got a car?"

"I thought your uncle was driving us."

"He said no." Robin clicked his tongue. "Said I gotta learn responsibility or some old man crap."

You folded your arms,"So how are we getting there?"

A grin slowly spread across his face. "We sneak in."

---

The drive-in looked magical at night.

The massive movie screen glowed against the dark sky while rows of cars stretched across the lot. Children ran around with popcorn, couples sat together in truck beds wrapped in blankets, and music drifted through the warm evening air.

Robin spent more time watching your reaction than the movie previews.

"You like it?" he asked quietly.

You nodded immediately. "Yeah."

And you meant it. Not because it was fancy. Because you knew he had tried. Robin had spent months saving money for this date.

You knew because Finney had accidentally revealed the secret while you were talking in the hallway.

Skipping snacks at school.

Helping neighbors carry groceries.

Doing yard work for elderly people on his block.

All for tonight.

Your chest tightened at the thought. "So," you asked, glancing around the crowded lot, "how exactly are we sneaking in?"

Robin smirked. "That's the fun part."

---

The "fun part" turned out to be crouching behind parked cars while Robin dragged you through the lot by the hand.

You were laughing so hard you nearly got both of you caught.

"Shhh!" he hissed. "You shhh!"

"You wanna get kicked out?"

"You almost ran me into a Buick!"

Robin slapped a hand over his mouth to stop himself from laughing. Eventually, the two of you slipped behind the snack building unnoticed.

Robin leaned dramatically against the wall and wiped imaginary sweat from his forehead.

"We are criminals now."

"Yeah, terrible criminals."

Inside, the snack stand smelled like buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and cherry syrup. Robin emptied a collection of crumpled bills and loose coins onto the counter.

The teenage cashier looked too exhausted to care.

"What can I get you?"

Robin looked at you first. "You pick."

You immediately pointed toward the slushie machine. "Cherry."

"Two cherries," Robin said. "And popcorn."

"And candy."

Robin looked horrified. "You trying to bankrupt me?"

"You said this was a date." With an exaggerated sigh, he bought the candy anyway.

When he handed you the slushie, your fingers brushed. Both of you suddenly became very interested in absolutely anything else.

Robin cleared his throat.

"C'mon. Movie's starting."

---

Since neither of you had a car, you settled onto an old blanket behind the last row of trucks. The movie flickered overhead while crickets sang in the darkness around you.

Neither of you paid much attention to the screen. Robin kept sneaking glances whenever he thought you weren't looking.

"You know," you eventually said, sipping your slushie, "this is kinda romantic."

Robin nearly choked on popcorn.

"You saying I got game?"

"I'm saying you got really lucky tonight."

"Ouch."

You giggled. The night softened after that. Cool air drifted through the lot. Colors from the movie washed across Robin's face in blues, reds, and whites. Somewhere nearby, people laughed from inside their cars.

Robin leaned back on his elbows.

"I wanted this to be good."

You turned toward him. "It is."

"No, like..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "I know I ain't got much. No car. No money. But I wanted to take you somewhere nice."

The honesty in his voice made your heart ache. You nudged his shoulder.

"Robin."

"Hm?"

"I would've been happy with corner-store chips and a sidewalk."

The smile he gave you then was small, a soft and real smile. Not the tough fighter everyone at school knew.

Just a boy.

Your boy.

The movie credits rolled quietly in the background as Robin stared at you for a second too long.

Then his eyes dropped to your lips.

"...Can I kiss you?"

Your stomach flipped. You nodded. Robin kissed you carefully at first, as though he was afraid of getting it wrong. Then you kissed him back. And neither of you paid attention to the movie after that.

---

After the drive-in closed, the two of you walked to a small diner downtown. Robin insisted on paying despite only having enough money left for fries and milkshakes.

You shared both.

At one point, an elderly couple smiled as Robin pushed the cherry from his milkshake toward you because "you like them more."

The waitress called you two sweet babies. Robin spent the next five minutes pretending to be offended. When he finally walked you home, the streets glowed gold beneath the streetlights.

Neither of you wanted the night to end. Robin stood awkwardly at the bottom of your porch steps.

"So..."

"So..."

"You got home safe," he said intelligently.

You laughed.

"Thanks for the date, Robin."

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Was it okay?"

Instead of answering, you stepped forward and kissed his cheek. Robin froze completely.

"It was perfect."

The stunned expression on his face told you he would remember that moment for the rest of his life. You didn't know then how little time either of you had left.

---

The first person who said it was Gwen.

Not the news. Not the posters. Not the whispers spreading through school hallways like smoke. Gwen Blake said it at lunch with trembling hands and frightened eyes.

"They took Robin."

Everything inside you went cold. At first, you laughed. Not because it was funny. Because it sounded impossible. Robin Arellano wasn't the kind of boy people just took.

Robin fought harder than grown men sometimes. Robin walked through life, daring the world to challenge him. Robin was supposed to be safe.

"...What?" you whispered.

Finney sat across from Gwen looking pale and exhausted. He hadn't touched his lunch.

"The Grabber," Gwen said quietly. "I think it was him."

The cafeteria sounds suddenly felt distant. Forks scraping trays.

Students talking.

Milk cartons dropping.

Everything faded beneath the roaring in your ears. "No," you said immediately.

"Robin would've beaten his ass."

Nobody answered. And somehow, that was worse. Because for the first time, you realized they were afraid.

And if they were afraid... Maybe you should have been, too.

At around 6:14 AM, Raylon Johnson was about to become the loudest person in apartment 3B.

“Oh my GOD.” Silence then, “OH MY GOD!!”She could hear something hit her bedroom door from the other side, mostly a shose.

“RAYLON!!" Tyler yelled hoarsely, “If the queen bee herself is not in this apartment as we speak, I need you to lower your god damn voice!"

Raylon ignored him completely. Her laptop sat open across her legs, email glowing against the darkness of her room while her heart practically punched through her ribs. She read it again and again, then one more time just to make sure she wasn’t hallucinating from sleep deprivation and instant ramen.

MLH Rookie Showcase — Media Credentials Approved

Approved.

She was really approved.

Eightteen years old, drowning in freelance work, nobody respected, barely scraping together enough money to split rent with Tyler and Fiona and somehow she’d just landed access to the biggest rookie hockey showcase of the year.

Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the laptop. “Oh my God,” she whispered again.

Then, immediately jumped off the bed and ran straight into the hallway barefoot. Tyler stumbled out of his room, looking ready to physically fight somebody. Silk scarf tied around his head, oversized T-shirt hanging off one shoulder, eyeliner smeared from sleep.

Fiona appeared right after him in SpongeBob pajama pants and a nursing hoodie. “What happened?” Fiona asked instantly, suddenly awake.

“Who died?”

“Nobody died,” Raylon gasped.

Tyler crossed his arms, “Then why are you screaming like Lauryn Hill dropped another album?” Raylon shoved the laptop into their faces. For three whole seconds, neither of them spoke.

Then Fiona screamed.

Tyler screamed louder. “BITCH!”

Raylon started laughing so hard she nearly folded in half. “I GOT IT,” Ray yelled. “I ACTUALLY GOT IT.” Fiona grabbed her shoulders violently. “It’s the big hockey thing right?!”

“Yes!”

“The huge hockey thing?”

“Yes!”

“The one you said would ‘change your career trajectory’ while crying at the Taco Bell at two in the morning?”

Raylon pointed at him. “Don’t quote me.”

Fiona snatched the laptop dramatically.

“Oh my God,” she breathed. “This is real media. Like actual media.”

Raylon nodded so fast her curls bounced wildly. “I know.”

“You’re interviewing athletes.” “I know.”

“Hockey athletes.” “Yes, Ty.”

“Sexy hockey athletes.”

Fiona burst out laughing while Tyler fanned himself against the kitchen counter.

Raylon grabbed her laptop back and reread the names listed under rookie media access.

Shane Hollander and Ilya Rozanov.

Everybody online was already obsessed with them. Hockey Twitte was mostly made up of bloggers, and college boys couldn’t stop talking about the rivalry between the Canadian prodigy and the Russian menace. There were compilation videos on YouTube already. Forum threads.

Sports blogs calling them “the future of the league.” And every clip she’d watched of Shane and Ilya looked less like hatred and more like two people who couldn’t stop orbiting each other.

Tyler leaned over her shoulder dramatically. “Ooooh, the Russian one is fine.”

“The Canadian one’s cute too,” Fiona added.

Raylon rolled her eyes. “I’m going there to work.”

“Mhm,” Tyler said immediately. “And I’m naturally blond.”

—•—

By noon, Chicago was freezing.

Raylon stood outside the arena, clutching her camera bag tightly against her coat while icy wind slapped against her face. Her press badge bounced lightly against her chest with every nervous heartbeat.

This was real.

Not a high school photography exhibit. Not a tiny local football game. Real media. A real opportunity.

She looked around at the reporters entering the building older men in expensive coats, women balancing coffee cups and clipboards effortlessly.

For a second insecurity crawled up her spine.

Nineteen years.

No degree.

No connections.

Just talent and desperation. Then, she tightened her grip on her camera. Talent counted, too. The arena doors opened. Cold air hit her instantly. The rink was massive.

Bright lights reflected sharply against fresh ice while players moved through drills below. Coaches shouted instructions across the arena. Cameras flashed constantly near the benches.

Raylon froze for half a second. Then instinct took over. Her camera slid naturally into her hands.

Click.

A goalie stretching.

Click.

A skate carving ice.

Click.

A player laughing with a missing tooth. The nerves faded with every photograph. This was the only place Raylon ever truly trusted herself. Then suddenly—

The energy in the arena shifted. People looked up. The reporters straightened. Even players seemed more alert. A rookie skated onto the ice.

Dark black hair beneath his helmet. Broad shoulders. Calm posture.

Shane Hollander.

He moved like discipline personified, controlled, sharp, and quiet. Then, another player stepped onto the rink behind him. And the atmosphere changed entirely.

Ilya Rozanov.

Cocky smile. Effortless swagger. The type of confidence that made cameras turn toward him automatically. Raylon raised her lens immediately. And that’s when she noticed it.

The way they looked at each other. Not casually. Not like teammates. Not even really like rivals. It was too focused. Too aware. Like every movement mattered. Ilya shoulder-checked Shane while skating past him.

Shane shoved him back immediately. Neither smiled. But neither looked away either. The tension snapped through the rink like live electricity.

“Oh, that’s interesting,” Raylon murmured.

Click.

The photo came out beautifully. The shot looked almost intimate despite the aggression two boys too close together, eyes locked, breathing sharp beneath arena lights. Without thinking, Raylon uploaded one of her photos to Twitter during a break between drills.

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

> @JUST_RAY

rookie showcase already insane 🏒 #MLH #Hollander #Rozanov #Hockey

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

The attached instantly started getting attention. Likes retweets and replies. One person commented:

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

>Why do they look like their going to kill each other?

--------

Raylon snorted out loud.

Maybe hockey Twitter was funny after all.

—

The media room buzzed with noise later that afternoon. Reporters shuffled around, preparing questions while camera crews adjusted lighting. Raylon checked her lip gloss quickly in her phone camera before somebody called her name.

“Johnson! Rozanov first.”

Her stomach flipped violently. Great. Perfect. No pressure. She walked into the interview room, trying to look more confident than she felt.

Ilya Rozanov sat sprawled comfortably in his chair already, one arm hooked lazily over the backrest. Fresh from practice, curls damp around his forehead, sharp jaw still flushed slightly from exertion.

He looked up immediately when she entered.

Then, I smiled slowly.

Dangerous face.

Raylon knew that type instantly. “Raylon Johnson,” she introduced professionally, holding out her hand. Ilya looked at her hand for a second before taking it.

His grip was warm. “You are one of the photographers,” he said.

“The interviewer today, actually.”

“Hm.” His eyes flicked over her face curiously.

"Multitalented.” Raylon ignored that completely and sat down.

Recorder on. Professional mode activated.

“So,” she began smoothly, “rookie showcase. Big day?”

“For everyone else, maybe,” Ilya replied lazily.

“Oh?”

He leaned back further in his chair. “I already know I’m good.”

She narrowed her eyes slightly, tilling her head a bit at his words while Ilya grinned wider. The interview went mostly off the rails after that until the cameras were off. Ilya flirted shamelessly. Dodged questions professionally. Smirked every time she rolled her eyes.

“You are American, yes?” he asked suddenly.

“Unfortunately.”

“I love American women.”

Raylon didn’t even blink.

“ I pray for your recovery.” For the first time all interview, Ilya genuinely laughed. His head tipped back slightly, shoulders shaking once before he looked back at her with open amusement.

“You ignore my flirting very well.”

“I work in media,” Raylon replied calmly. His eyes lingered on her for a second longer than necessary. Then somebody mentioned Shane Hollander outside the room.

And instantly Ilya’s attention shifted sharp and alert. Like hearing Shane’s name physically pulled at him. Interesting. Very interesting.

—

Shane’s interview room was quieter. So was Shane.

Raylon noticed it immediately.

Where Ilya consumed space naturally, Shane seemed careful with every inch he occupied. He sat neatly in his chair, shoulders tense, hands folded together tightly.

He was a bit nervous. That surprised her. The media painted Shane Hollander like hockey royalty already. Canada’s future golden captain. Calm under pressure. Perfect. But sitting here now? He just looked like a kicked puppy.

“Hi,” Raylon said softly as she sat down. Shane looked up quickly.

“Hi.” His voice was quieter than she expected, too.

“Raylon Johnson.”

“Shane Hollander.”

Unlike Ilya, Shane shook her hand quickly before immediately pulling back again. Shy cute, not like seriouly cute.

“You okay?” she asked gently before she could stop herself. He blinked. “What?”

“You seem nervous.” His ears turned pink immediately.

“I’m fine.” That answered the question. Raylon smiled softly. She adjusted her approach after that without even thinking about it. Less aggressive questions. Softer tone. More conversational than interrogative.

Slowly, Shane relaxed. Not fully. But enough. Enough to joke quietly once or twice. Enough to stop staring at the floor. Enough for Raylon to notice he had a dry sense of humor hiding underneath all that awkwardness.

Then she casually brought up Ilya. And something shifted instantly. Not anger. Something stranger. Awareness.

“He’s good,” Shane admitted carefully.

“You sound annoyed about it.”

A tiny, reluctant smile appeared. “I am.”

That made Raylon laugh. And unexpectedly Shane laughed, too small but still real. Warm enough to surprise both of them.

But instead of shutting down again, he just looked at her curiously. Trustingly. Outside the room, noise echoed loudly through the arena hallways.

But inside?

Everything felt quieter.

Gentler.

Like Shane relaxed around people who treated him like a person instead of a future headline. When the interview finally ended, Shane rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly while standing.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“For what?” He hesitated, then shrugged slightly.

“You made that easier than usual.” Something about that made Raylon’s chest ache unexpectedly.

“Anytime, Hollander.” She stepped out into the hallway and nearly walked straight into Ilya leaning against the wall nearby.

Like he’d been waiting, his eyes flicked toward the closed door behind her then, back toward her face. “You smiled more from him,” he observed.

Raylon blinked. “Were you listening?”

“I have ears.”

“You’re nosy.”

“I’m curious.”

She laughed under her breath while adjusting her camera bag.

“You should work on minding your business.”

Ilya pushed off the wall slowly. “But then,” he said smoothly, “how would I be out here with you?”

And somehow, standing there beneath ugly fluorescent arena lights with her camera still warm in her hands, Raylon realized she’d just met two boys who were going to ruin her life in a completely different way.

The parlor was alive tonight. Hot. Loud. Sweating.

Trumpets cried over the hum of men drunk on cheap liquor and cheaper fantasies. The floor pulsed beneath your feet as you moved hips slow, deliberate, a tease more than a promise.

Chicago hadn’t broken you, but it damn sure tried.

And now you were again back where you started in New Orleans, back in Storyville, back where your name meant something. Back where he was. You didn’t look at him at first didn’t have the time to.

That same heavy presence is sitting somewhere in the room like a loaded gun waiting to go off. You sang anyway. Low. Bluesy. Thick with something that made men lean forward in their seats.

“Makes me feel so sad and hurt inside

Feel embarrassed, so I want to hide

Silly me, I thought your love was true...”

A when your song was over, a few whistles and laughs rang out. But your eyes finally lifted, and there he was.

Louis. Clean suit. Gold watch.

His beautiful eyes on you like he was trying to decide if you were real or just another mistake walking back into his life. Your face broke into a smile without permission. God. You forgot how he looked at people. Like he could own them without lifting a finger. You didn’t even think. You moved through the crowd, dodging hands, ignoring calls, straight to him.

“Louis.”

His name came out softer than you meant it to. He didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just leaned back in his chair, looking you over slowly.

“You got a lotta nerve showing up here.” That hurt more than you expected. But you swallowed it.

“I came back,” you said, quieter now. “That gotta count for somethin’.”

His jaw tightened. “For what? That don't change shit for me.”

Chicago flickered behind your eyes, cold streets, colder men, and promises that turned into fists. “I thought I could do better up there,” you admitted.

“And?”

You held his gaze. “I was wrong.” Silence stretched between you.

Then Louis held out his hand. Not for you. For proof. You understood immediately. Slowly, you reached into your stocking, pulling out everything you had folded bills, wrinkled, worn, and placed it in his palm.

Every. Last. Dollar. His fingers closed around it. Testing. Measuring. Then he looked back at you and really looked this time.

“…You ain’t learned nothing,” he murmured. But there was something softer underneath it. Something dangerous.

That’s when you noticed the man beside him.

White. Blond. Too still. Too interested. He smiled at you like he already knew you.

“Wow,” he said smoothly, accent curling around every word, “what a heartwarming reunion.” Your stomach turned.

There was something wrong about him. Something that made your skin itch. You stepped closer to Louis without thinking. His hand shifted slightly on the table subtly but protective.

“This Lestat,” Louis said, almost like a warning.

The man Lestat de Lioncourt tilted his head, amused.

“And you are…?” You didn’t answer. Didn’t want to.

Something in his eyes said answering him came with a price.

Louis noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.

“She with me,” Louis said, firm. Lestat’s smile widened.

“Oh, I can see that.” You didn’t like the way he said it, didn’t like the way he looked between the two of you like he was in the middle of some play in front of him.

White people are weird as hell...

---

Later that night, Louis walked you home something about how the streets ain't safe.

“You really came back with nothin’?” he asked. You nodded.

“My mama took me in,” you said. “I ain’t got nowhere else.” He exhaled slowly.

“You always had somewhere,” he said, that guilt hit deeper than any man in Chicago ever could.

“I ain’t leaving again,” you said. That made him stop. You turned. He was looking at you like he wanted to believe you. Like he didn’t know how.

“Don’t say that shit unless you mean it,” he said quietly.

“I do.” A long pause. “…Come by the house tomorrow,” he said.

Your heart skipped. “For work?”

His eyes flickered something softe something almost teasing. “Nah I'll figure that out later.” Not like before. Closer. You weren’t just another girl on the floor anymore.

You sat with him. Walked with him. Sometimes, on quieter nights, he took you out. Just the two of you.

No business. No crowd. Just soft music spilling out of distant bars and the sound of your footsteps side by side. One night, he asked.

“You scared of him,” Louis said one night. You didn’t have to ask who.

“…Yeah.” He nodded like he expected it.

“You should be.” That didn’t make you feel better.

“You ain’t scared of him?”

Louis looked ahead, expression unreadable. “…Not in the way you are.” That answer sat heavy. But then his hand brushed the back off your neck. Brief. Intentional. And didn’t pull away right away. You glanced at him.

“Why you let me come back?” you asked softly. He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t look at you. But he pulled himself closer to you.

“…I missed you.” he said. A beat. And somehow, in that moment, that meant more than anything in the world.

---

Three weeks later...

You noticed it before anyone said a word. The way the room shifted. Like the air itself had teeth. You were laughing, really laughing for the first time in a while. Some man at the bar had been sweet, harmless, tipping well and talking nonsense just to keep you smiling.

It was easy.

And then silence. Not all at once. But enough. Your smile faltered. Because you felt it.

Eyes. Burning into you.

Louis' emerald eyes, standing across the room. Still as death. Watching. The man beside you kept talking, oblivious.

“…so I told him, I said—”

“Go on,” you murmured automatically, but your attention wasn’t his anymore. It was Louis. His jaw was tight. His posture straight.

And his eyes— God.

You’d seen him angry before. But this? This wasn’t anger. This was claiming.

“Will you excuse me,” you said quickly, slipping away before the man could protest. Your heels clicked fast against the floor as you made your way to Louis.

“You look like yo are about to kill somebody,” you muttered when you reached him. “I might.” The way he said it calm, quiet made your stomach flip.

“Louis—” “Who is he?"

Not loud. Not demanding. Just… final. You crossed your arms slightly. “A customer.” His gaze sharpened.

“You laughing with him like he more than that.” That stung.

“I’m working."

“You work for me.”

Your breath caught. There it was. Not said in weeks. Not like that. But it hadn’t gone anywhere. Before you could answer, a voice slid in between you both like silk over a blade.

“Oh, Louis…” You didn’t even turn. You knew.

“You do get so… territorial.” Lestat. Leaning against the bar like he’d been there the whole time. Watching. His eyes flicked to you, slow, deliberate, amused.

“You must forgive him,” he said to you, smiling faintly.

“He hates to see what he considers his… investments… entertain alternatives.”

“I ain’t an investment,” you snapped. Lestat’s smile widened.

“Oh, I know,” he said softly.

“That’s what makes this so much more interesting." Louis stepped forward, then. Subtle. But enough to put himself between you and Lestat.

“Enough.” One word. Heavy. Controlled. Lestat’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. Something sharp. Something jealous.

“You spend an awful lot of time with her,” Lestat said softly.

“I spend my time how I choose."

“And yet,” Lestat murmured, stepping closer, “you seem to forget… you were never particularly fond of sharing.”

That word lingered. Sharing. Like you were something to be passed between them. Your chest tightened.

“I ain’t nobody’s to share,” you said, firmer now. Lestat’s gaze snapped to you.

And for a second just a second. Something inhuman flickered behind his eyes. Gone as quickly as it came. But you saw it. And it made your skin crawl. Louis noticed. Of course he did. His hand found your wrist.

Firm. Grounding. Possessive.

“She ain’t part of this conversation,” he said quietly. “But she is,” Lestat replied.

“She’s the only reason we’re having it." Silence. Thick. Charged. Then— Louis pulled you with him. Not rough. But not gentle, either. Just… certain.

“Come on.”

You didn’t speak until you were outside. The night air hit your skin like a wake-up call. You pulled your wrist free.

“Louis what the hell was that?” He turned on you fast.

“That man had his hands on you.” “He was tipping me.”

“I don’t care.” “You should,” you shot back.

“That’s money.” “I give you money enough."

“That ain’t the point!” You were breathing hard now. So was he. Standing too close. Too intense. “You don’t get to decide who I smile at,” you said. His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up. “You right,” he said quietly.

A beat. Then softer “…but I don’t like it.” That should’ve been simple. It wasn’t. Because of the way he said it.

Not controlling. Not fully. Just… honest. Raw. And worse, it mattered.

“You jealous?” you asked, half-teasing, half-testing.

His expression didn’t change. “Yes.” No hesitation. No shame. Just truth.

Your heart stuttered. “Of a customer?”

“Of anyone who think they can have what’s mine.” The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you, the part that remembered Chicago, cold and alone, felt something dangerously close to comfort.

“You don’t own me,” you said, softer now.

“The hell I dont.” But he didn’t step back. Didn’t look away. “And I ain’t lettin’ him near you again."

That wasn’t a suggestion. You should’ve argued. Should’ve pushed back. But instead—

“…You really that pressed?” you murmured. His hand lifted slowly. Carefully. Brushing your jaw. Tilting your face just enough so you had to look at him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Yeah, I am.” You huff out a short laugh.

There's the Louis you know.

---

It started with the feeling.

That same one you got the first night back. Like something in the room wasn’t right. Like the air had weight to it. You weren’t supposed to be here this late.The club had closed hours ago. The music was gone. Just shadows and the faint smell of liquor soaked into wood. And yet Louis told you to wait. So you waited.

“Louis?” You called softly. No answer. Your voice felt too loud in the empty space. You hugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders. Something wasn’t right.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” Your breath caught.

You turned slowly. Lestat stands at the edge of the room. Not leaning. Not relaxed. Just… there. Watching you.

“I don’t like you sneakin’ up on me,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He smiled faintly. “But I didn’t sneak, cher.” A pause.

“You simply didn’t hear me.” That wasn’t better.

“Where Lou at?” you asked. Lestat tilted his head.

“Delayed.” Something about the way he said it made your stomach drop. You took a step back. Then another.

“You… you always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m supposed to understand things you ain’t saying.” His smile widened slightly. “Oh, you understand more than you think.” You shook your head.

“No. I don’t. And I don’t want to.” You turned to leave. Fast. And he was suddenly in front of you. You gasped. Actually stumbled back.

“There it is,” Lestat murmured softly. “That moment.” Your heart slammed against your ribs. “You didn’t walk that fast,” you said. “I didn’t walk at all.”

“No.” Your voice came out small. "You lying.”

“Am I?” Your back hit a table. No more room to move.

No more pretending this was normal.

“You’ve been so very brave,” Lestat said, stepping closer. Too close.

“Coming back. Standing beside him. Asking questions your kind usually avoids.”

“My kind?”

He leaned in slightly. “Innocent.”

“I ain’t innocent,” you snapped, fear turning sharp.

His eyes flickered. Amusement.

“No,” he said softly. “But you are human.” The word landed heavy.

Wrong. Like it didn’t belong anymore. “You should leave,” you said quickly. “Right now.”

“I could,” he said a beat.

“But then you’d never understand him.” You froze.

“You think Louis is just a man?”

Lestat continued. “Just a businessman with a temper and a soft spot for you?” Your throat tightened.

“He is—” Lestat laughed. Not loud. But it cut through you.

“Oh, my dear…” And then his face changed. Not all at once. His eyes wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. Too hungry.

His smile wider. Too wide. And when he spoke, you saw it. Fangs. You screamed. Or tried to. His hand was over your mouth before the sound could fully escape. Fast. Too fast. Impossible.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t ruin this.” Your whole body shook. Tears burned your eyes. You tried to fight. You did. But he held you like it was nothing. Like you weighed nothing.

“See?” he murmured. “Now you understand.”

“No—” you choked against his hand. “No—no—” The door slammed open. “Get your hands off her.”

Louis. You’d never been so relieved to hear a voice. Or so terrified by it. Lestat sighed softly.

“Right on time.” But he let you go. Just like that. You stumbled forward straight into Louis. Your hands grabbed his coat, clutching like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“Louis—” your voice broke. “Louis, he—he—”

“I know,” he said quietly. Too quietly. You looked up at him. Expecting comfort. Denial. Something. But his face wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t confused. Wasn’t anything you needed it to be.

“…You know?” you whispered.

Silence. Behind you, Lestat chuckled. “Oh, this is the part I enjoy.” Your grip on Louis tightened.

“Tell me he lying,” you said, voice shaking. “Tell me that ain’t real.” Louis didn’t answer. Didn’t look away.

And that’s when it hit you. “You knew,” you breathed. Not a question. His jaw clenched.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

No answer. “When?!” you shouted. “Before it mattered.” Your chest tightened. “It matters now!” Lestat stepped closer again.

“Of course it does,” he said softly. “Because now…” His eyes dragged over you. Slow. Hungry.

“…you’ve seen.”

You backed further into Louis. Fear. Confusion.

“Stay away from her,” Louis snapped. Low. Dangerous. Not human. And for the first time, you noticed it. The stillness. The way he didn’t breathe quite right. The way his eyes… shifted.

“…Louis?” you whispered. He looked at you then. Really looked. And whatever you saw, it wasn’t entirely human either. Your stomach dropped.

“You too?” you said, barely able to get the words out. A pause.

Heavy. Then “…Yes.” The world tilted.

“No,” you shook your head. “No—no, that ain’t—”

“You’re in it now,” Lestat said softly behind you. “Whether you like it or not.”

You turned on him, anger breaking through the fear. “I ain’t ask for this!”

“No,” he agreed.

A smile. “But you stayed.”

That word again. Stayed. Your breath came fast. Your thoughts are faster. Chicago. New Orleans. Louis. The money. The nights. The way he watched you. Protected you. Held you.

“…You was gonna let me keep not knowing?” You asked Louis.

His voice was quiet. “…I was trying to keep you safe.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“Safe?” You gestured wildly toward Lestat. “From what?!”

“From this,” Louis said. “And from me.”

That hurt worse than anything. Silence fell again.

Heavy. Final. Then Lestat spoke. Soft. Certain.

“She’s not leaving.”

You stiffened. “I can leave whenever I want.”

Lestat tilted his head. “Can you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because suddenly you weren’t sure. Louis stepped in front of you again. Protective. Possessive. Conflicted.

“She ain’t part of this life,” he said. Lestat smiled. Cold. Knowing.

“She already is.” And deep down, you knew he was right.

The halls of the Sanctuary were loud tonight. Generators hummed. Men laughed somewhere downstairs. The smell of cigarettes and cheap whiskey hung in the air. And yet the room Negan gave you felt quiet.

It had been one month since the night Negan Smith broke your group. You still remember the circle of headlights. Your friends on their knees. Lucille swing lazily over his shoulder while he studied each of you like you were animals at auction. But when his eyes landed on you… He smiled.

"Well damn… would you look at that." And instead of killing more of your people he took you.

---

You learned quickly how things worked here.

Smile. thank you. Wear the soft dresses they gave you. Laugh at his jokes. The other wives watched you carefully.

But Negan?

Negan adored you. Every time he saw you in the hallway, he'd do his signature grin.

“Well if it isn’t my pretty girl,” he'd say, voice warm and teasing. “You keep looking at me like that, and I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

You never really answered. You just smiled.

---

Tonight, you wore lace. Soft ivory lac clung to your skin and slipped off one shoulder. Pearls rested against your collarbone.. Exactly the kind of thing he liked.

The dinner table was set perfectly.

Candles flickered. Two glasses of wine. And beneath the table… A knife strapped to the inside of your thigh. Your heart pounded. Tonight was the night.

---

The door opened. Heavy boots stepped inside. “Well… holy shit.” Negan leaned against the doorway, eyes dragging slowly over you.

“You trying to kill me with that outfit alone?”

You smiled sweetly. “I made dinner.”

His eyebrows rose. “For me?” He stepped closer, clearly amused.

“Sweetheart, if the apocalypse had more nights like this, I might actually start recommending it.” He sat down at the table. You poured the wine. Your fingers brushed his hand. He noticed. Of course, he noticed. Negan noticed everything.

“You’re being awfully nice tonight,” he said slowly. You stepped closer.

“I’m getting used to things.”

“Yeah?”

His eyes darkened with curiosity. You moved behind him, hands rubbing his shoulders. Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“You took care of me. You protected me.”

"Gave me everything I needed."

Your hand slippes into your side. You pulled the knife free.

Then—

You struck.

But Negan moved faster. His hand shot up, grabbing your wrist before the blade reached him. The knife stopped inches from his throat. For a moment, the room went silent. Then Negan laughed. A low, impressed sound.

“Well I’ll be damned.” He twisted your wrist until the knife clattered onto the floor.

“You almost had me.”

Your chest rose and fell rapidly and you grunt out in pain. “I hate you.”

Negan stood slowly still holdign your arm and walks you over to the bed pushing you face first into it.

But he didn’t look angry. He looked distracted. “You know what’s funny?” he said softly.

“You’re the not first wife that tried to kill me.” His hand lifted your chin. “But somehow…” His grin returned.

“You’re still my favorite.” You glared at him.

“You murdered my friends.”

Negan nodded once. “Yeah. I did."

Silence filled the room. Then he sighed. “You know what I like about you?” You didn’t answer.

“You don’t break.”

His voice was softer now. Almost thoughtful.

“Most people in this world either snap… or they kneel.” His thumb brushed your jaw.

“But you?” His smile widened. “You tried to seduce me and stab me.”

A small chuckle escaped him. “That takes guts.”

He lets go of your arms and picks the knife up and places it back in your hand.

“You’re letting me keep it?” You say confused.

Negan shrugged. “Sweetheart… I'm sure that if you wanted me dead, I’d already be dead.”

He leaned down close to your ear. “But if you try that shit again…” His voice dropped to a whisper.

“Make it a little less obvious next time.”

Then he walked toward the door. Pausing only long enough to glance back.

“And hey?”

You didn’t respond. But he smirked anyway.

“Dinner still smells great.”

The door closed behind him. And for the first time since arriving at the Sanctuary.

You realized something terrifying. Negan wasn’t afraid of you. He liked you.

The club was already alive when he entered. Lights cut through smoke in slow pulses. Bodies move like waves, grinding, swaying, reaching. Money flows as easily as liquor, and attention is the most valuable currency in the room.

Then he walks in he does so slow and liberately as if he was forced to be there. But the space bends around him anyway. The host barely finished greeting him before Lestat just walked to the second level towards the VIP Lounge. The best seat in the building. Velvet ropes part like they were waiting for him.

He doesn’t thank anyone. Or even look at anyone. He doesn’t need to.

...

They gather quickly. Men and women. Beautiful, polished, practiced.

They laugh too easily. Touch too casually. Lean in just enough to be noticed. Hands brush his shoulders, his arm, the back of his neck subtle invitations wrapped in confidence.

Normally, it works but not night, but he doesn’t see them. Because the moment you step onto the stage, and he wanted you tonight and when he wanted something, everything else disappeared.

The music shifts low, heavy, and intoxicating. The pole gleams under the lights as you circle it slowly, deliberately, like you’re setting the rhythm yourself instead of following it. And Lestat stills.

It’s not just your body. It’s not even just the way you move. It’s the control. The precision.

The way every motion feels like a decision instead of a performance. His head tilts slightly. Eyes locked. Unblinking.

Someone beside him laughs, pressing closer. Another tries to pull his attention back, fingers trailing down his arm. Nothing. Not even a flicker.

Because you climb, and the entire room fades into irrelevance. You don’t look at him. Not once. But he watches like a man starved. Like he’s found something he didn’t know he was looking for.

By the time your set ends, the applause is loud.

Money rains. Voices call your name. But upstairs, He doesn’t clap. He just leans back slightly, eyes still fixed on where you stood.

Like he’s already decided something.

---

Backstage, your boss is waiting. Excited. Too excited. “You’ve got a VIP request,” they say quickly. “Private room. High-paying.” You pause. That usually means one thing.

“Who?” You ask. He grinned. “Doesn’t matter. Trust me, you want this one.” You hesitate for half a second.

Then, nod. Money is money.

---

You change quickly. Not your usual stage look. This one is sharper. More intentional. Something designed to hold attention longer. To raise the price without saying a word.

By the time you reach the VIP room, your guard is back up. Professional. Untouchable. You push the door open. And stop. He’s alone. No crowd. No distractions.

Just him sitting back like he owns the room, one arm draped over the chair, eyes lifting to meet yours the second you step inside. Recognition hits instantly.

“You,” you say before you can stop yourself. His lips curve slightly. “Me.”

The door clicks shut behind you. Too loud. You recover quickly, stepping further in, posture shifting back into something controlled. “Didn’t think you were the type to pay for company.”

He watches you approach. Every step. Every breath. “I’m not,” he says simply. You raise a brow. “Then what is this?”

His gaze drags over you, not rushed, not greedy. Measured. Interested. “Curiosity,” he answers. You let out a quiet scoff, circling slowly, keeping distance. “That’s expensive curiosity.”

“and you’re worth it.” That lands heavier than it should. You stop. Just out of reach. “Careful,” you say. “Lines like that usually come with expectations.”

His smile sharpens. “Do they?” Something about the way he says it like he’s the one in control of what happens next.

You step closer anyway. Because that’s the job. Because you don’t back down.

“Depends,” you murmur. “You gonna sit there all night, or did you actually call me up here for something?”

Silence. Then he stands too fast. Too smooth. One second across the room, the next close.

Closer than you expected.

Your breath catches. Just slightly.

His hand lifts not rough, not hurried but deliberate as it settles at your waist, pulling you in just enough to break the space between you.

Not a grab. Not careless. But firm. “Tell me,” he murmurs, voice lower now, almost thoughtful, “do you ever get tired of being watched?”

Your pulse stutters.“You’re the one always looking,” you reply.

“Yes,” he says. No hesitation. His gaze flicks to your throat and lingers. Something shifts. Instinct. A quiet, creeping unease.

“You’re different,” he continues softly. “Most of them want something from the room.” His grip tightens just slightly.

“You take from it.” You swallow. “Let go.” He doesn’t.

Instead, He leans in. Close enough that his voice brushes your ear.

“And I wonder,” he whispers, “what you’d take… if you weren’t pretending to be human about it.”

Your heart kicks hard against your ribs. “Yeah,” you say, forcing steadiness, “you’re definitely weird.”

He laughs. Soft. Genuine, and then everything changes. It happens fast. Too fast.

His hand shifts stronger now, unyielding as it keeps you in place. The room feels smaller. The air thinner.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmurs. You don’t even have time to react, pain. Sharp. Sudden. Your breath catches as his mouth finds your neck teeth breaking skin before you can fully process what’s happening.

Your hands push at him, weak.

Slowing.

The world tilts. Sound dulls, and through it all, He holds you steady. Almost… gently. Like you’re something precious. The last thing you feel is his voice, low against your skin.

“Nous ne faisons qu'un, mon amour,” he whispers into your ear before you pass out.

characters sheets.

Raylon Evangelista Johnson.

Fiona Howard & Tyler Smith.

And the rest of the cast of Heated rivalry !!!

🇨 🇭 🇦 🇵 🇪 🇷 - 🇴 🇳 🇪

PART ONE:

1: First timer

2: Best of luck.

3: Ms. Johnson.

PART TWO:

4: Hello again.

5: F.R.I.E.N.D.S.

6: Change.

7: I see you.

FINAL PARTS:

8: Together?

9: Family...

10: Home.

New story.

[New] Chapter one : Reunion. Season one.

Segments: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

Extra chapters:

[New] Chapter two: Lacking. Season two.

Segments: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

Extra chapters:

[New] Chapter three: Healing. Season three.

Segments: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

Extra chapters:

[New] Chapter four: Fresh. Season four.

Segments: one, two, three, four, five, six, and seven.

Extra chapters:

Older story.

[Idk I think their all bad but knock yourself out]

Old Masterlist.

Chapter one, and chapter two.

One shots.

Inside a very vibrant and colorful room, clearly meant for children under the age of five, sat four girls.

Rachel sat at the very end, her head lying on the wall behind her as she looked around the room while the rest of her sisters were a sleep on their chairs because this was their first plane ride across the country.

Rachel's body wouldn't let her sleep. The chair was way too stuffy for that. It didn't help that her mind was still in a panic. Alice was supposed to be here anytime now, and she sure was taking her sweet time.

Rachel hasn't seen Alice since she was 9 years old, and it really was surprising to hear that she even wanted to take them in. Annie, the youngest girl, barely remembers her face, let alone her name.

But somehow, Allison still remembered all of them and was so willing to take them in. It freaked Ray out a lot.

Rachel continued to sit in her own self, while the middle children, jennifer and Sarah, who were less sturdier in their seats, moved around in the seats trying to find the right placement in the ruff office chairs. The girls sat their feet on top of their luggage as a make shift foot stands.

AT THE FRONT DESK.

At the front desk, an officer mid-forties, too stiff and too polite, watched them with a faint, professional perplexity, probably wondering why the chief arranged four girls in a room meant for toddlers.

The door swung open and there she was.

Alice pushes through the heavy door and walks towards the front desk, her heart pounding with a mix of relief and anxiety. She’s dressed in a worn floral blouse and jeans, and her auburn hair pulled back in a loose ponytail. Papers in hand, she’s ready or as ready as she’ll ever be to legally take custody of her younger sisters.

But standing before her is a stern-looking man in a crisp police uniform: Chief Bowers. He’s broad-shouldered, authoritative, mid-fifties, almost archetypal in his quiet dominance. As Alice approaches, he offers a respectful, slightly too appreciative nod.

“Ms. Devon,” he says, voice steady.

“Congratulations…and may I say how brave you are? You’ve stepped up in a way most people can’t even imagine.”

Alice catches the glint in his eye charm, barely restrained. She manages a polite smile, though her posture remains guarded. His words strike an odd chord part admiration, part flirtation.

“Thank you, Chief,” Alice replies, voice steady. “It means a lot.” Yet her fingers tighten around the paperwork she’s carrying. She doesn’t know this man, and his warm tone prickles at her instinct to protect her sisters.

Chief Bowers steps closer, unconsciously leaning in. He extends a fresh stack of forms custody transfers, release acknowledgments, and a medical waiver for travel. It's all official and somewhat overwhelming.

“You’ll need to sign these,” he says, gaze lingering a bit too long. “Then we can… bring the girls out.”

Alice nods, exhaling softly as she accepts the papers. She opens them methodically, scanning each page by shining fluorescent light each line another step toward reclaiming their fractured family.

“All set,” she murmurs, handing back the completed forms. “It’s all signed.” Her voice wavers slightly; she’s not a fan of paperwork, especially when her heart is elsewhere.

Chief Bowers clears his throat and nods. With a firm stamp of duty, he gestures to an officer standing at attention nearby. “Officer Daniels, bring the girls.”

“Yes, Chief,” Daniels says crisply, stepping into the Pink Room.

Alice turns back toward the door behind the man, bracing herself for the moment that’s been both her deepest hope and darkest fears. She takes a steadying breath and enters.

The pink room.

The door cracked open, and in stepped Officer Daniels, clipboard in hand, eyes flicking toward the slumbering figures scattered across the mismatched chairs. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and tired nerves, a surreal playground turned waiting area.

Daniels cleared his throat softly but loud enough to penetrate the girls’ exhausted daze.

“Wake up, girls.” he said, voice gentle yet firm. “Your guardian is here to take you home.”

At these words, an almost imperceptible flutter disturbed the stillness.

Rachel snapped her eyes open first. Her gaze, usually bright with defiance, softened in the way only fear and hope can merge. Bleary and uncertain, she rubbed at the corner of her red-rimmed eyes and sat up, shoulders taut as though bracing for emotion.

Jennifer stirred next, blinking against the shifting fluorescent glare, her black metal playlist still pulsing faintly in her mind. She sat upright, as if jolted by a drumbeat only she could hear, heart pounding with anticipation.

Sarah perched awkwardly on a chair bolted too low, shifted into an upright position, eyes wide. The younger child in her peered out from under half-shut eyelids. Her breath caught in her throat.

Then there was Annie. Still in her cocoon of arms and knees, she frightened at first too tender to face what her heart already hoped for. But then, as if her internal clock finally clicked into place, she uncurled and looked toward the door. Her camera lay across the floor, forgotten.

Silence brief as a heartbeat, broken by Ray's whisper:

“She’s here?”

Daniels nodded, offering a comforting smile. “Yes. Your sister is here.”

And with that, each girl rose some slowly, others in a flurry of unease and longing dragging their rolling luggage, reclaiming themselves from the limbo of tired waiting.

They gathered near the door, timid and tense, hearts sticky with questions. Would Alice still know them? Would she still even want them after she saw them?

Then the door opened wider just a sliver this time and a familiar figure stepped in.

Alison, she's older, now steadier, with lines of responsibility drawn faintly across her face. She stood in the doorway, eyes darting over each of her sisters as if memorizing them all at once.

The silence stretched.

Rachel felt her throat tighten. For years she’d built walls against disappointment, and now seeing Alice, she didn’t know if those walls were supposed to crumble or hold strong.

Jenny shifted uncomfortably beside her, pretending to brush dust off her jeans. Sarah sluggishly looked at that woman with little to nothing behind her eyes, chewing her bottom lip as if words would betray her.

Annie just stared, wide-eyed and unreadable, clutching her little camera like it could explain the moment for her.

Alice’s lips parted as if she wanted to speak, but nothing came out. Her breath caught in her chest. She waited. They all did.

It was Ray who finally broke first. The same Ray who swore she’d never let her guard down. She stepped forward hesitantly, fists clenched, then suddenly let go and threw her arms around Alice. Her hug was tight, almost desperate, as though she feared Alice might vanish if she didn’t hold hard enough.

Alice stiffened just for a second before wrapping her arms around Rachel, burying her face in her sister’s hair.

One by one, the other girls followed, not really knowing what to do. Jenny slipped in next, quieter than usual, her cheek pressed against Alice’s shoulder. Then Sarah, eyes brimming, her arms winding tightly around Alice’s waist. Finally, Annie was hesitant at first until she slid into the circle, clinging to the fabric of Alice’s blouse like it was the only safe place left in the world.

Alice bent her head low, whispering, her voice breaking though she tried to keep it steady:

“I’m so sorry… for leaving you with her. I should’ve come sooner. I’m so sorry, girls.”

The words weren’t meant for the room, or the police, or the papers it was for them alone, spoken as though Alice’s guilt and love could only be understood in a hush.

Parking lot.

When the moment finally loosened its hold, they left together. Outside, the September air was crisp, carrying the faint scent of pine and asphalt. Parked out front sat Alice’s car a teal Mustang, polished but worn with years, its chrome catching the sunlight.

Their luggage was stowed in the trunk with some help, and soon the four sisters piled inside, the leather seats squeaking under their weight. Ray sat up front beside Alice, while Jenny, Sarah, and Annie squeezed into the back, silent and unsure, yet bound by something new.

Alice slid behind the wheel, glanced at them all in the rearview mirror, and smiled softly.

“buckle up girls,” she said.

The engine rumbled to life, and with a low growl of tires against pavement, they drove away from the station toward the little house that waited for them, a place that was about to become theirs.

Part two is coming soon...

OLD WORKS.

One shots.

[Long Days.] Homelander x mom reader.

[Lover Boy] Robin Arellano x reader.

[Merry Christmas] Homelander x reader.

[The love of a woman] Negan x reader.

Older series.

[The Seven] The Boys [Homelander] x reader.

[It's a party] The Boys [Homelander] x reader.

New works.

On going.

Perverts of Derry: PT 1, more coming soon.

Green Eyes: PT 1, more coming soon.

FLASH: PT 1, more coming soon.

One shots.

(LOVER BOY) Robin Arellano x reader -re mastered-

(Pretty Woman) Negan Smith x reader -re mastered-