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i think about their drama a lot
so correct me if i’m wrong if this is allegedly damon r and roman. Hollis stole his gf and roman slapped ts out of him?? WHAT HE DO TO MAKE EM THAT MAD???
Godboy with artist showing bf747 demo
the video of roman beating the shit out of damon rush i’m in tears
that also did something to me…👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀👀
bf847 pt.5
2hollis x fem!reader
cw: mentions of abuse (physical and mental,) crying, blood
this ones a little more lengthy - i included a flashback sequence
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flashback
the first time it happened, you didn’t even register it as violence. it was late, your apartment dim except for the glow of a lamp you’d forgotten to turn off. damon was pacing, irritated about something small you’d said hours earlier, something you couldn’t even remember clearly. his voice kept rising and falling, sharp with accusation, while you sat on the edge of the couch trying to keep yourself small. when you stood to give him space, to de-escalate the way you’d learned to, his hand came out suddenly. the sound was louder than the pain at first, a sharp crack that seemed to echo in the room. you froze, more shocked than hurt, your cheek burning as your mind scrambled to catch up.
he went quiet immediately. his face changed like a switch had flipped, panic replacing anger. “y/n, i didn’t mean to,” he said quickly, reaching for you. you stepped back, heart pounding, but already your brain was trying to smooth it over, trying to make sense of it. you told yourself it was an accident. stress. exhaustion. love pushed too far. later, alone in the bathroom, you stared at your reflection and practiced believing it. you told yourself it wouldn’t happen again. you needed that to be true.
---
the second time felt different because you saw it coming. the argument had been building all day, tension woven into every text, every pause. you’d gone out earlier without telling him exactly who would be there, and when you came home, the apartment felt charged. he stood too close, towering, his words cutting sharper this time. when you tried to walk past him, he grabbed your arm hard enough to stop you. you pulled back instinctively, and that was when he shoved you. you hit the wall, shoulder first, breath knocked from your lungs as pain bloomed fast and bright.
afterward, he blamed fear. “y/n, you scared me,” he said, voice shaking. “i thought you were leaving.” you sat on the floor, hugging your knees, nodding even though your body was trembling. part of you wanted to scream. another part of you wanted to disappear. you focused on calming him instead of yourself, apologizing for something you didn’t fully understand. later, lying in bed awake, you stared at the ceiling and replayed the moment over and over, wondering what you could have done differently.
---
the third time was quieter, which somehow made it worse. there was no shouting, no dramatic escalation. just a cold argument spoken through clenched teeth. you’d questioned him—just once—about a message you saw on his phone. his eyes hardened in a way that made your stomach drop. he stepped closer, crowding you until your back hit the counter. when you told him to back up, his hand struck your arm, fast and controlled, like he’d already decided it was necessary.
the pain throbbed, but the silence afterward was heavier. he didn’t apologize right away this time. instead, he told you that you pushed him, that you knew better than to accuse him. “y/n, you know how i get,” he said, like it was a shared responsibility. you nodded, tears slipping down your face, hating yourself for how quickly you accepted the blame. later, you wore long sleeves even though it was warm, and you avoided mirrors so you wouldn’t have to look at the faint bruising, or at yourself.
---
the last time stayed with you the longest because it was the moment something finally cracked. you were already afraid when the argument started, already exhausted from walking on glass. he was angry that you hadn’t answered your phone quickly enough. when you tried to explain, your voice shaking, he snapped. his hand came out harder than before, catching you across the mouth. you tasted blood instantly, shock ringing in your ears as you stumbled backward.
he didn’t rush to apologize this time. he just stood there, breathing hard, looking at you like you’d disappointed him. something in you went very still. you didn’t cry right away. you didn’t yell. you just looked at him and realized, with a clarity that scared you, that if you stayed, this would never stop. later that night, alone, you pressed ice to your lip and stared at the wall, the decision forming quietly but firmly in your chest. that was the moment you stopped wondering if it was your fault, and started thinking about how to leave.
---
present day
you wake slowly, the way someone does after crying themselves hollow. your body feels heavy, not just with exhaustion but with the kind of tired that settles into your bones after months of holding your breath. for a moment, you don’t open your eyes. you’re afraid that if you do, the night will rush back all at once—damon’s voice, the argument, the final break that felt more like tearing fabric than cutting cleanly.
when you do open them, the ceiling above you is familiar. your ceiling. the small crack near the corner you’ve meant to fix for months, the faint shadow where the light never quite reaches. it takes a few seconds for it to register that you’re in your bed. not on the couch where you remember curling into yourself, knees pulled to your chest, shaking while hollis sat beside you in silence that never felt empty.
the realization lands softly but deeply: you don’t remember coming here.
your sheets are pulled up around you, tucked the way you like them. there’s a pillow supporting your back that wasn’t there when you fell asleep. someone took care of you while you weren’t conscious enough to ask for it. the thought tightens your throat.
you sit up slowly, your body protesting, a dull ache blooming in places you didn’t realize were tense. there’s a faint soreness along your ribs and shoulder that makes your jaw clench. memory flickers—damon’s hand, the way he grabbed too hard, the way he always apologized after. your stomach twists.
you breathe through it. in through your nose. out through your mouth. you’re safe now, you tell yourself. he’s gone.
the apartment is quiet in a way that feels different from loneliness. there’s movement somewhere beyond your bedroom door. soft sounds. a pan being set down. a cabinet opening. the smell reaches you next—coffee, fruit, eggs, toast. something warm and normal. your chest tightens again, but this time it’s with something closer to disbelief.
you swing your legs out of bed and stand, pulling on the hoodie hanging from the chair. it isn’t yours originally. you recognize the way it fits—too long in the sleeves, heavier than what you usually wear. hollis. the realization brings with it a rush of complicated emotion. gratitude. comfort. guilt for needing him this much.
as you walk toward the kitchen, your mind races despite your body moving slowly. part of you is bracing for the other shoe to drop, for anger or awkwardness or questions you aren’t ready to answer. another part of you just wants to see him, to confirm that last night really happened and you didn’t imagine the gentleness.
hollis is standing at the stove when you reach the doorway, shoulders slightly hunched in concentration. his hair is messy, curling at the ends like he ran his hands through it too many times. he’s still wearing yesterday’s clothes. the sight makes something twist painfully in your chest. he didn’t go home. he stayed.
he turns the second he senses you, like he’d been listening for you without realizing it. his eyes soften immediately, a gentle smile spreading across his face. “hey,” he says, quietly, carefully. “you’re awake.”
“yeah,” you reply, your voice rougher than you expect. you clear your throat. “i think so.” he studies you for a moment, taking in the way you’re standing, the tension in your shoulders, the dark circles under your eyes. he doesn’t comment on any of it.
“how do you feel?” he asks instead.
you want to give him a simple answer. you can’t. “kind of… empty. and also like everything hurts.”
he nods, like that makes perfect sense. “that tracks.”
there’s a pause where neither of you moves. you’re suddenly very aware of the space between you, of how last night changed something even if neither of you has named it.
“i moved you to your bed,” he says gently, like he’s afraid of startling you. “you fell asleep on the couch. i didn’t want you waking up sore.”
you swallow. the memory flickers—his arms under your knees and back, the way he held you like you were fragile but not breakable. you hadn’t been awake enough to feel embarrassed. just safe. "thank you,” you say quietly. he shrugs, but his expression is earnest. “of course.”
you sit at the counter while he finishes cooking, watching his hands move with a care that feels intentional. the normalcy of it all feels surreal. last night your world collapsed in on itself. this morning, someone is making you breakfast.
there’s a knock at the door. the sound makes your shoulders tense automatically, your pulse spiking before your brain catches up. hollis notices instantly. “hey,” he says calmingly, turning toward you. “it’s just nate. i asked him to come over.”
you hesitate. part of you wants to hide, to keep this moment contained between you and hollis. another part of you knows you can’t carry this alone anymore. “okay,” you say finally.
when nate steps inside, his expression shifts the second he sees your face. the usual ease is gone, replaced with something heavier and more focused. concern, unfiltered. “hey,” nate says softly. “you alright?” you nod, even though it feels like a lie. “i’m… here.” he doesn’t push. “i’m really glad you called,” he says, glancing briefly at hollis.
the three of you exist together in a quiet, careful space while hollis finishes cooking. nate leans against the counter, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and hollis, already putting pieces together. you can tell he’s holding back anger, not wanting to scare you with it.
once the food is done, hollis sets a plate in front of you, then sits across from you instead of next to you, giving you room. nate takes the chair beside him. “you don’t have to eat,” hollis says. “or talk. or do anything. this is just here.” you stare down at the plate, your appetite nowhere to be found. your fingers curl around your mug, needing the warmth.
“he wasn’t just controlling,” you say suddenly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. you don’t look up. “i kept telling myself it wasn’t that bad. that i was overreacting. that if i just stopped upsetting him, it would be fine.”
nate’s jaw tightens. hollis stays still, listening. “he didn’t like me seeing you guys,” you continue. “he said you were distracting me. that you didn’t really care about me. that i needed to choose.” your voice shakes. “i thought choosing him would make things easier."
there’s a long pause before you say the next part. your chest feels tight, like you’re trying to push words through a wall. nate and hollis simply watch, not wanting to interrupt or scare you back into silence.
“he hit me,” you whisper. “not all the time. just enough that i kept thinking maybe it was my fault.”
the air in the room changes instantly. nate exhales slowly, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment like he’s grounding himself. “i’m so sorry,” he says, voice low and controlled.
hollis stands and moves toward you, but he stops short, kneeling in front of you instead of crowding you. he looks up at you, eyes unwavering. “you did nothing to deserve that,” he says firmly. “nothing you did caused it.”
your eyes burn. “i thought if i was quieter, if i didn’t argue, he’d stop.”
nate nods. “people like that make you feel responsible so they don’t have to be.”
something shifts in your chest, a knot loosening just slightly. hearing it said aloud feels different than telling yourself. “i was scared to leave,” you admit. “i didn’t think anyone would believe me.”
hollis reaches out slowly, giving you time. when you place your hand in his, he squeezes gently, grounding and warm. “we believe you,” he says. “i believe you.” nate leans forward. “and we’re not going anywhere. okay?”
your vision blurs as the weight of it finally hits you—not the pain, but the relief. you lean forward, resting your forehead against hollis’s shoulder. he doesn’t move, doesn’t tighten his grip. he just stays, solid and steady, like he’s been doing this his whole life.
the morning light continues to fill the kitchen, soft and unassuming. breakfast goes cold on the table, forgotten. what matters is the quiet understanding settling between the three of you. the knowledge that you are not alone anymore. that you are safe.
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taglist: @swaggotsnoticeswaggots @myownbiggestfan06 @mimiandpeepee @pix3lkitten
Tati x Bassvictim x Damon rush
