#— soft fragile heart; tear stained soul. *

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Saving What Was Lost Part 1: You’re Safe With Me✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: The first chapter is finally here, and I’m so excited to bring this to all the healing girlies that need a protective, soft Joel in their life 🥺 Thank you to @alltheirdamn and @mountainsandmayhem for screaming about them with me. This is raw, heavy, and very emotional. I hope you love it as much as I do 🥹 Screaming because I need a hug from this man 😭

Chapter Summary: The night of the auction, the night you’ll have to face your fate of being bought. But an unexpected man dips his money in and fights for you. His eyes are soft, kind, unlike all the other men. And maybe he’ll just be your saving grace.

Rating: Explicit 18+ only MDNI

Word Count: 13.9k

Chapter Tags: Mentions of being trafficked, flashbacks of being abused, non-consensual touching, a lot of angst, soft and protective Joel, emotional reader, trust issues, PTSD, no use y/n, age gap (reader is late 20’s, Joel is late 40’s), pre-outbreak au, switching POVs

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

  Red. That’s all you see, all you know. The dark crimson lipstick that stains your tainted lips, the cardinal curtains that drape across the buyer’s room, your bloodshot eyes that reflect in mirrors that you can barely stand to look into. It’s all just… red.

   You hate your reflection, hate the mascara that runs down your eyes night after night like the blood that covers your once white sheets, hate the way your voice is silenced even when you so desperately want to scream your lungs out. But it doesn’t matter anymore. Nothing matters because you’re about to be sold to the highest bidder who deems you worthy enough to claim. 

   You scoff, biting your tongue until you taste copper run down the back of your throat, the tears pooling to the surface against your lash line. 

   “Stop fucking crying and suck it up,” Angela spits out sharply. “You’re going to make me a lot of money today, sunshine. So put on a big smile for me and stop smudging your makeup. You want to go back with the girls who didn’t get chosen to go on to the next rounds?”

   “No,” you mewl, your eyes wide and rounded, your heart lodged in your throat. You know what their poor fates will be, and you’ve had enough abuse and horror to last more than a lifetime. 

   “Then get out there and stop fucking around. You’re driving my patience, girl. The men are waiting.” She narrows her beady blue eyes and curls her thin red lips into a scowl, pushing you forward and nearly making you trip over your strappy high heels, your ankles barely able to hold your fatigued legs up any longer. 

   Your heart thunders loudly in your chest, blood rushing through your ears, anxiety threatening to take you down at any minute. Angela would be at your back, digging her spiky heels into your spine, barking at you to move, but what does it matter anymore? You’re already dead. What’s one more scratch to your fragile body that has been violated in ways you’d never speak about aloud. 

   You’re just a vacant body that’s hollow and worn inside. A mere ghost that’s left this earth long ago, imprisoned to this life to bring pleasure to men who only inflict pain and torture on innocent souls. But there’s nothing you can do. Not a damn thing. You’re stuck like glue unless you find a way to just end everything. Then they’d never be able to touch you again because you’d be buried six feet under the dirt. But at least then you’d be at peace.

   You’ll never know peace again. Not in this lifetime. Not ever. 

   As you turn the sharp corner, the vibrant red curtains separate into a stage-like theater room. Draped material clings to the velvety walls, the color reminding you of death and destruction. You can almost see the imprinted blood stains of the girls who got dragged away by the strands of their fragile hair, leaving claw marks in the walls. 

   You can still hear the blood curdling screams from some of them left behind, a plea for anyone who was listening, begging for just one person to help. But no one did. Their desperate calls weren’t enough to even stir up a care in the world from any of the men, including your awful handler, Angela. They were just a number, a dollar sign to every single one of these insufferable men, and the only thing they cared about was power, control, and sex.

   You weren’t any different in this scenario. And tonight, your soul would be auctioned off. And then you’d be enslaved till your master either killed you, or you found a gun and pulled the trigger yourself to just silence it all.

   Your high heels click audibly against the polished stage, your feet dragging as you keep your eyes peeled to the floor like a good submissive. “Keep your head down, don’t ever look them in the eyes. Be the good slut they want you to be and maybe they won’t punish you as much.” That’s what Angela always said for all those unbearable months you lived under her roof, and it was engraved like stone in your mind, imprinted words that might as well be tattooed on your wrist. 

   You were taken at twenty-six, now a twenty-seven-year-old fucked up girl who doesn’t even know what state she’s in. It’s been a year, maybe two. You don’t fucking know anymore. All you know is that you want to die. 

   You learned to be submissive, small-minded, belittled, pliant. And the worst part, she taught you to say thank you to your abusers after they were finished having their filthy ways with you night after night…

   You were nothing but a collared bitch who forgot how to say the word no. You were their prized possession now, and your body wasn’t your own anymore.

   “Ahhh. There she is. There’s my favorite slut of them all.” The word slut cuts you like a sharp knife penetrating deep through your skin, sinking down to stab you right where it hurts worst. “Why don’t you give us a spin, princess? Show these gentlemen what you’ve got to offer. Give them a show.” Garrett’s cackled voice booms through the large room, sending goosebumps down the base of your spine. You never liked him, especially when he cornered you in the bathroom, pushing you against the tile until he forced you down on your knees and told you to suck or he’d wring your neck.

   Your eyes press closed at the traumatic memory, teardrops threatening to spill at any moment. You just do what you're told and keep your quivering lips together, your long nails brushing against your bare thighs. The midnight blue dress barely covers your ass, the diamond earrings and pearl necklace weighing you down like a heavy anchor, tethering you to the ocean floor. Your cleavage spills out from the low-cut v shape of the top, breasts almost on full display because Angela said the men would just love it. You hate it, hate her but there’s not a damn thing you can do about any of it. You’re a slave and nothing more than a fuck toy and a quick money maker for the sex traffickers. 

   You wish you felt more human, but you’re just… not. Most days you can’t even remember your full name, nevertheless your favorite time of year. Being holed up in a horror house for over a year will do that to a girl. Make them forget their entire identity. And that’s exactly what happened to you. 

   Now you’re just… dust. 

   “Alright, boys. Shall we start this off with let’s say, ten thousand dollars?” Garrett’s sharp voice zaps like lightning through your nerves, and your whole body is visibly shaking now. His cold emerald eyes look like a viper about to strike its prey, and his smug smirk makes you want to curl in on yourself, hide yourself so he’ll never be able to torture you again. 

   You hear sounds of squeaking chairs, men cursing under their breath, whistles being thrown around like they’re catcalling you. They are catcalling you. But instead of harmless whistles, they’re poisonous fangs reaching for your skin, trying to seep their venom deep in your veins, claim you as their own. You fucking hate it.

   Taking a deep breath, you focus on the plush of the black carpet around the stage, try to pretend it’s lush green grass instead, like you’re running through the woods, escaping far far away from these bad men.

   “Come on, love. Don’t be shy. Show me those pretty eyes, so I can see just how gorgeous you’ll be down on your knees, pleasuring me with that pretty mouth of yours.” A man vulgarly shouts at you, the other men’s loud laughter echoing around the room, making you want to curl into a ball and die right on the spot so none of these men can lay a finger on you.

   Breathe. Focus. Don’t lose hope. Keep fighting. The words echo through your mind, but you’re so lost that it’s hard to keep going. You’re going to die under one of their hands anyway, so what does it matter? 

   “Did you hear him, princess? Chin up and look at him.” Garrett’s tone is stern and demanding, and you don’t flinch a second because you know what will happen if you do.

   When your eyes snap up, you come face to face with an older man who has cold blue eyes, spiky bleached blonde hair, and a jawline that could cut a man’s body in half. He has an evil glint in his eye, and it’s so revolting that it makes you want to puke. “Ten thousand you say? I’ll take her.” A devilish smirk marks his mouth, and fear strikes through your insides as fast as a lightning bolt. 

   No. Not him. Anyone but him. He looks like he’s murdered people, and you have no doubt that he’s killed women he’s bought before. 

   Fear slices through you, but you can’t run, can’t even move. Your feet are nailed to the wooden floor of the stage, and you know he sees how scared you are in your swirling irises filled with fright.

   “And shall we go up to fifteen thousand? Any takers?” Garrett looks around the room and two hands go up, but you’re too tired to look to see who they are.

   The bets continue, slowly climbing all the way to forty-five thousand dollars. An amount that is insane for a broken body who doesn’t even want to be breathing anymore. 

   Men scream and fight, shouting different prices, trying to win you over, making Garrett slam his fist down and sell you to the highest bidder. You don’t want to listen, don’t want to hear their rambling nonsense anymore. You just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. Maybe then you won’t feel any pain anymore. Maybe then you’ll find peace.

   More chants and vulgar noises come from the men’s mouths, their hungry eyes glued to you, their lips smacking and fingers digging into the velvet of their seats. Some men adjust themselves in their fancy suits, tongues darting out, wetting their salivating lips. And it’s so disgusting that it makes you nearly vomit on the floor, but Angela would have your head for that. So you just stand there helplessly and wait because that’s all you can do. 

   You’re their ragdoll, and they can do whatever the fuck they want with you. You have no say and trying to fight would just make everything that much worse. 

   Minutes go by, ridiculous numbers flying around the room, the air stifling and sticky, your body fizzing with anxiety, a panic attack creeping up against the surface, threatening to take you down in mere seconds.

   Don’t freak out, don’t freak out, don’t freak…

   “Sixty thousand dollars.” Your eyes dart up, panic flashing across your irises. You find a man you hadn’t seen in the very back, and you have to squint to make him out in the shadows of the corner of the room.

   Your mouth nearly drops open at the amount he just said but apparently, these men are dripping with copious amounts of money. 

   You take a few seconds to assess him, your eyes glued to his large form against the velvet recliner he sits in, palms pressed firmly into the sunken arms of the chair. His body is broad, tensed, thick veins spidering down his tanned forearms, a black Rolex watch clasped to his left wrist. He’s clad in a white button-up shirt, black dress pants pressed against sculpted thighs. He’s dressed like all the other filthy rich men, but this one stands out amongst the rest. There’s just something about him that’s different. 

   He drags a heavy hand down his patchy scruff, greying threads shining under the dim light. His tousled sandy hair is slicked back, silver streaks giving away his older age. He looks to be in maybe his late forties, if that. A thick mustache hangs over his plush mouth, but what draws you in the most isn’t anything about his physical appearance but the way he’s looking at you. Soft, gentle brown eyes that have no violence swirling in them like the rest of the men. While the others look at you like a raw piece of meat, he doesn’t follow their lead. In fact, his gaze never hovers, never draws down your body. They just stay locked entirely on your eyes.

   His eyes are soft, dark brown pools with honey flecks glittering in the darkness that surrounds you. They aren’t cold, unfeeling like the rest of the men’s are. They’re… soft. And that alone almost brings you to your knees in relief.

   “Sixty-one thousand,” the spiky blonde hair challenges, piercing his icy blue eyes on you, making you want to hurl at the thought of that one winning you over. 

   “Sixty-two,” the mysterious man in the corner barters. Your eyes snap up to his until you hear Angela’s venomous words spew in your mind. Eyes on the ground unless you’re getting spoken to. Your gaze involuntarily falls to the polished wood, and you hear her click her tongue behind the fancy curtains. You’re nothing but a disappointment to her most days. Never perfect, always pathetic. 

   You bite your lower lip in panic, digging your heel as far into the floor as it’ll go, your nails biting into the palms of your hand, almost to the point of blood being drawn. 

   “Sixty-three!” The blonde pushes out of his chair angrily, his fists balled at his sides, getting frustrated with the man that challenges him. 

   Please, please, please. Don’t let him take me. 

   Praying was something you gave up on long ago but at this moment, you really have nothing left to hold on to. You can only silently beg for the man with brown eyes to win the bid. 

   “Sixty-five,” the brown-eyed man growls, his voice clipped and harsh, letting the blonde know he isn’t going to lose this fight. The blonde glares at him, anger fuming in his icy eyes, a deep snarl embedded in his mouth. You’re almost positive that’s how he’d look night after night hovering over your bed if he were the one to win, but you can’t think about that now. All you can do is wait. 

   “Do I hear sixty-six?” Garrett smiles, his eyes flicking between the two men who look like they’re about to duel in an old western shootout. You already know the brown-eyed man would win. 

   The blonde’s jaw ticks, and he holds back violence in his flexed fingers. After a few unbearable seconds of waiting, he slowly shakes his head and sits back down in defeat. “No. Guess he gets to take home and fuck the whore however he likes.”

   Anger flashes over the broad man’s brown irises, and a murderous stare penetrates his gaze. He clenches a fist tightly, and a part of you thinks he may jump out of his seat and beat him to a bloody pulp, but he doesn’t. And for some reason, your breath is completely knocked from your lungs.

   The deep boom of Garrett’s tone makes you jump from surprise, stirring you from your deep thoughts. “And sold, to the man at the back of the house! Congratulations. You got our rarest gem tonight. Aren’t you so lucky.” 

   The brown-eyed man’s jaw clenches for just a second, but he relaxes it instantly. Walking up to the front of the room, he throws on his pressed black jacket, straightening it as he walks past the deranged men, following Garrett as he leads him to the side where he’ll transfer the money and make it official. You’re his now, and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

   Angela grabs your elbow harshly, pinching skin and drags you off the stage. She should be happy you just got sold, but she’s still acting like you belong to her. “Look at you getting fought over. You just earned me a shiny paycheck. But don’t forget your place, brat. You’re just a body to these men, and you’re here to please them. Sex is what they want, and your new master will surely punish you even more than all the other men at the house did to you.”

   A sick feeling twists up your stomach, threatening to empty your lunch remains from yesterday on the floor, right on top of her shiny stilettos, but you wouldn’t dare. She’d probably kill you herself before your new buyer even got you in the car.

   Suddenly, you realize you won’t have to deal with her backhanded remarks or abusive commands anymore. No more late nights of being held down on the ground and no more non consensual touching from strangers. 

   A feeling like freedom washes over your senses, relieving you of some tension, but you won't be truly free. Not really because you just got sold, and you know nothing about this man. Even if his eyes were kind doesn’t mean that’s who he really is. Men pretend with you all the time.

   When she pushes you up the stairs that lead to the back of the room, the blonde stands and blocks your way, an angry leer in his eyes while he skims his gaze down your exposed body. Something like panic and sickness stir inside you, an unwelcome hand brushing over your bare thigh, his hand sliding higher under your short skirt. Angela just stands back and lets him take advantage, and you have nowhere to run.

   “Well, looks like I won’t be taking you home after all, but I’m sure your new master won’t mind sharing you before you leave, right?” A sly smirk curls against his thin lips, his eyes smoldering with ice and mischief, making you feel extremely small in the moment.

   “I don’t think..”

   “Shut up, whore,” he silences you, wrapping a tight arm around your waist, snaking his hand higher and higher, brushing his fingertips over the thin material of your lacy thong. Anxiety floods your senses, panic taking over. You try to pull away, but he just presses you tighter against his body.

   Where the fuck is he? Where is your master? You’re not supposed to be touched after being bought, at least not by another man. Unless it’s agreed upon by him explicitly. 

   He skims across the outer edge of your lace, his slimy fingers feeling like hot lava boiling you alive. You want to run, hide, scream into his twisted face, but you have no more fight in you. You’re paralyzed by fright and right now,  Angela doesn’t give a single fuck if one of these sick freaks pins you against the floor and takes advantage of you.

   Right when you feel a warm teardrop leak from your eyes and a long finger pull against the thin fabric, a loud smack echoes around the room, and his body is thrown to the ground, blonde hair flitting across your peripheral vision. Your eyes blow wide when you realize what just happened. Your new master just punched the blonde man’s nose and tackled him to the floor, and you can’t stop staring in complete shock.

   “What the fuck man! What was that for?” The blonde tenses up and pinches his broken nose where blood is spewing on the floor in a thick pool, staining the black cuffs of his suit.

   “Mine,” he growls protectively, shoving him once more for good measure. He pulls himself up from the floor and straightens his button-up, ticking his jaw and scowling at the coward lying in pain on the floor. 

   Your jaw goes slack, and your heart thunders impossibly fast in your chest at what just happened. He saved you from getting taken advantage of. Why would he do that? You should thank him, but you’re stunned in silence. 

   He gives you a once over to make sure you’re unharmed and when he’s content, he tips his head toward the open door, signaling for you to follow. “C’mon.” It’s all he says, but you follow nonetheless, desperate to get out of this cesspool. 

   You take one more glance back at the carnage of the room, collecting the memory of the blood red curtains and taking the fancy velvet seats to your grave. The reflective mirrors make you gag, and the wooden stage makes your legs shake at the implication of what it means to be up on that high platform. It makes you sick to your stomach.

   You were just auctioned off and hopefully, you’d never have to step foot into this room ever again. 

   Trailing after him, you stay close. Close enough to inhale the woodsy cologne that drips off his body. You don’t know why, but there’s an odd comfort in the scent. Like fresh pines and a brisk fall day. Something you haven’t got to experience since… you can’t even remember now.

   The guards at the front let you pass, and it’s almost like it’s a trick. Just one more step and they’d be dragging you back by the crown of your head, not even sorry for ripping strands from your skull. You tense up and wait, but nothing happens. They just let you go. And suddenly, tears are pooling in your vision. 

   You wipe away the evidence, afraid your new master will scold you for shedding a tear. Maybe he wouldn’t, but you have so much trauma embedded in you that it’s like it’s an automatic response. 

   Back at the house, Angela would smack you across the cheek if she caught you crying for any reason. She always said tears were a weakness, and she wouldn’t have one of her girls going into a man’s room looking like a train wreck. So even crying brings out the trauma responses. You fucking hate that you can’t show emotion without getting a whiplash of her snide demands.

   You’re broken, and you don’t think you’ll ever be repairable.

   The air is chilly, a full moon hanging high in the night sky, bright stars blinking every couple of seconds behind grey clouds. The trees are mixed with a swirl of colors: yellows, oranges, deep reds that remind you of the shed blood back at the house.

   You shake your head out of the fog and focus on the smell of fresh air and a hint of spice. It has to be the end of September or October. Maybe November? God, you don’t even know what month it is or where the hell you are. This isn’t home. Not anywhere close at all. You know because there’s no deep green mountains or endless forests in sight. Home is nowhere to be found…

   The tall man walks you to a dark black Chevy, unlocking the passenger door and opening it wide for you. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t even offer you a hand. He just stares at you with a slight tick to his jaw, tilting his head to signal you forward. Your body responds in an instant. 

   You climb in, feeling the cool leather on your exposed skin, pulling on the bottom of your dress to cover yourself more, but it barely even moves an inch. It’s no use trying. He’ll probably have your dress ripped off in less than an hour. You’re surprised you even made it this far without him pinning you down to your hands and knees. 

   Shaking the sick images from your mind, you let the invading thoughts float far away as he closes the passenger door. He wouldn’t do that to you. He’s not like those other men. He couldn’t be. He attacked a man for you, but maybe it’s just because he doesn’t like other men touching his property. 

   That’s what you are. Property. That’s all you’ll ever be.

   It doesn’t take him long to appear in the driver’s seat, clicking his seatbelt into place and turning the key in the ignition, letting the rumble of the engine rev to life. You sit back in the passenger seat and try to breathe, letting air pool into your tight lungs. 

   The inside of the truck may be warm, but your body is freezing just thinking of what that blue-eyed demon was going to do to you back there. Panic consumes your insides, making you violently shake in your seat. Your eyes gloss over and then you feel as if you drown in a frozen lake, frostbite making its way across your flushed skin.

   “Whoa, easy there. S’alright now. You’re alright,” he coos, quickly throwing off his jacket and wrapping you in the warmth, draping your arms through the long sleeves and bundling up inside the blanket-like material. 

   Warm. It’s so warm and for the moment, your body relaxes just enough to relieve yourself of the onslaught panic attack. Your erratic breathing shortens, and then you can finally think clearly again, breaking away from the thick fog.

   Your eyes flick over to his, and there’s nothing but pure concern laced in his golden-brown irises. “You alright?” The question confuses you, and you stare blankly his way. There’s nothing hostile or violent in his eyes. They’re just… soft. Like they were back in the auction room. The first time you stared into anything remotely warm since you were taken.

   He lifts an eyebrow in question, and you finally register that he wants you to answer. “Mhm,” is all you can muster out, your words lodged deep in the back of your throat. Men don’t ask you how you’re feeling, so why is he?

   He looks at you for another beat, nodding his head once before you drop your gaze back to your lap like the submissive you should be. Don’t make eye contact. That’s showing control, and you’re not in control. Angela’s taunting words will follow you to the grave, you just know it. 

   He looks like he wants to say something else, but he holds his tongue and lets the truck roll to the long gravel road ahead.

   A sudden realization hits you like a car crash. No more Angela, no more Garrett, no more assaulters crowding your broken body. You’re free. Of them, at least. But your new master? Not so much. 

   The ride is silent apart from the soft rumble of the truck, tires spinning along the quiet road, moonlight shining through the tinted window, reflecting shiny stars in the side mirrors. You haven’t been outside in months, and the sight of a clear night sky makes you want to burst into tears. 

   “What’s your name, sweetheart?” His deep, soothing voice lilts into your ears, and you gulp at the sweet nickname he uses.

   Sweetheart. The men back at the house only called you crude, filthy names. Slut, whore, and bitch were their favorites. But no one ever called you sweetheart. Not ever.

   You take a deep breath in before you speak, afraid your vocal cords will shred apart the moment you tell him what it is. But when he looks over at you all soft again, you break. You tell him your name quietly and avert your gaze back down to your pale thighs. 

   Your name rolls off his tongue like honey, and you can’t help but fight the tug of a smile curling over your lips. He said your name and for once in your life, a little part of you clicked back together. 

   Bravery seeps into your body, and you cautiously peek up and ask something you’ve wondered since you saw his dark brown eyes in the corner of the room. “And your name?”

   His gaze flicks over to you, and for a moment you think his hand might fly out and smack you across the face. You flinch, remembering the sting of every hit your abusers marked you with. Your palm mechanically brushes over your cheek, and you swear you can feel the bright red welts they’d leave on your tainted skin.

   The muscles in his jaw tick as he watches you, assessing your shaky movements. It’s like he can see the pain deep down in your soul, and you don’t understand why he’d care about that. 

   He clears his throat and answers, his eyes attentive to the dark road ahead. “Joel Miller.” 

   You don’t know what to answer to that, so you stay quiet and lean against the window, looking out into the thick fog of darkness. 

   After he sees you trying to decipher your surroundings, his thick Southern drawl fills the quiet. “Do you know what month it is?”

   “No,” you answer solemnly, eyes still focused on the blurring background as the truck drives on.

   “Do you know what state you’re in?”

   “No,” you shake your head, eyes closing for less than two seconds. 

   He sighs, and you see him drag a hand slowly through his scruff. “It’s the middle of October. You’re in Texas. Jus’ a little north of Austin. That’s where we’re headed now. Jus’ about forty minutes away.”

   Texas? Well, that’s a very very long way from home. But you don’t have a home anymore, so what does it matter?

   “Oh.” 

   “Home,” he says hesitantly. “Is it anywhere close to here for you?” 

   You swallow back a lump in your throat and shake your head no, curling in on the warm jacket that envelopes your tired body.

   When you don’t speak again, Joel flicks his eyes slowly to you, his thumb tapping quietly against the leather steering wheel. “Where’s home at, sweetheart?”

   You flinch at the endearing name. It sounds like a knife dragging down a dirty chalkboard if you’re being honest with yourself. You’re nothing but a dirty slut. And that’s exactly what he should be calling you. Not sweetheart, not baby, just… slut.

   When the truck comes to a halt at a dimly lit stop sign, he looks over once more at you, his eyes a dark shade of chocolate. “Washington,” is all you can muster up, thinking you owe him an answer. You can’t even say Seattle without the word getting stuck in your throat. 

   His eyes widen and something like softness resides deep in his warm irises. “You’re an awfully long way from home, aint ya?”

   Quiet. His voice is too quiet, too… sad. And you don’t know what to take that as.

   Tears swim up to the surface, pooling in the corners of your eyes, but you hold them back. Don’t show him you’re weak. “I don't have a home anymore…” 

   His mouth turns down in a tight-lipped frown, and he looks so defeated that you can’t quite understand why he would be. He doesn’t care about you. He never will. He’ll bleed you dry until you have nothing left. That’s what Angela said. And it’s ingrained like a sickness that won’t leave your body. Permanent damage that’ll leave scars like the ones that etch the back of your raised skin. 

   You’re nothing but a vacant body to use. 

   “What about your family? They must be lookin’ for you.”

   Your fingers dig into the silk of your dress, and you almost let them tear right through. “I don’t have a family,” you whisper quietly.

   You feel his careful stare waver over you, but you don’t have the energy to look up. “No? Surely someone’s lookin’ for you. They have to be. A girl like you—”

   “A girl like me what?” you snap, quick to pull back your reins. The last thing you want to do is get backhanded from talking too loudly.

   “Take it easy now,” he presses, his voice gentle and soothing. Almost enough to consume some of your sadness. “ All I’m sayin’ is someone has got to be searchin’ for you. Your parents?”

   You bite your bottom lip hard, chewing the glossy skin that’s marked with invisible bruises. “My parents are dead.”

   Silence carves through the inside of the moving vehicle, but you hear the faint whisk of shock leave his mouth. “Oh. I’m… fuck, I’m sorry. I didn’t know…”

   “How could you have? You don’t know me,” you shrug, leaning closer against the smooth interior of the door, your head resting against the cool window that’s doused in fog and sorrow.

   “Well, I’m tryin’, sweetheart. I really am. Do you have anyone else? Maybe an uncle or cousin or—”

   “No,” you interrupt. “They’re all gone… I have nothing.”

   His hands clench tight over the steering wheel, his knuckles turning ghost white, and his jaw ticks like something just deeply upset him. Your eyes fall back to your thighs, but you can feel the weight of his body tightening up against the back of the seat. 

   He doesn’t say anything else, doesn’t ask you any more questions. There’s just a thick silence that encompasses the cool air. And the only thing that keeps you warm now is the comfortable jacket that envelops you like a tight hug. A hug you desperately need. But you don’t want to be touched. 

   Not now, not ever again… 

   You’re almost fading off to sleep, the minutes ticking down painfully slow, but the rustle of gravel stirs you enough to where your eyes snap open in surprise. You gulp at the view in front of you. A large, lavish house with floor to ceiling windows and expensive wood panelling.         

   Your eyes peel to the thick brush of trees that expand into darkness behind the giant house. And for just a second, you feel like running far far away into the expanse of darkness. Maybe it’d swallow you whole till you were nothing but a ghost beneath the ground.

   The truck finally comes to a halt and then the engine cuts off. Your body hums with electricity. The kind that threatens to strike you dead. Joel unlocks the truck with a click, and he tilts his head toward the house. “C’mon. Follow me.”

   Your body hesitates, but the anxiety of lagging behind and getting punished sends you nearly jumping from your seat and out the door of the truck. Your feet hit gravel and you follow silently behind him, eyes fixed to the grass as your high heels click after him. 

   You feel like a puppet he’s strung behind him, your limbs moving without your permission. But he hasn’t done anything to you, so why are you panicking? And then your shoulders hunch with knowing. It’s the trauma that’s engraved like permanent ink from a tattoo deep inside your skin.

   You’ll never be able to escape it. Not even when you’re dead and gone.

   When you get to the front double doors, he slips a key in and turns, pushing it open with the flick of his wrist. Your eyes blow wide when you enter the massive house. A sparkling chandelier hangs high above the entryway. A marble staircase sits to the right side of what looks to be the living room. Polished wood covers every inch of the flooring. Exposed beams fill the ceiling, and the white painted walls don’t seem to have a speck of dirt on any of the surfaces. 

   It’s only a two story house, but it seems much bigger than that. Well over three thousand square feet. But the earthy textures and wooden trimmings of the house make it seem less like a prison and more like a, dare you say, home. 

   Home. This is your home now. And whether you’re happy about it or not, there’s not much you can do. Your body tells you to run, but there’s a tiny slither of a voice inside you that says you’re safe. 

   Safe. A word that means nothing anymore. You haven’t been safe in over a year, and a part of you thinks you’ll never be again…

   “C’mon. I’ll show you where your room is.”

   You stop in the middle of the entryway, your brow furrowed at his sentence. “My room?” 

   He nods. “Yes, your room.” He reiterates the word your, saying it like it’s spelled out in capital letters. You think he does it for your sake, to let you know again that this is a safe place.

   “You mean I don’t have to sleep in your room…” Your voice betrays you. Fear and panic flooding your eyes at the thought of having to be forced into another man’s bed. You quickly shake the awful memories from your thoughts, afraid to slip into another panic attack.

   His jaw clenches up, but his eyes soften into warm pools of brown when he sees the distress in your wide eyes. “No, darlin’. Not gonna make you do that.”

   “Oh,” is all you can muster out. That’s… new.

   He nods his head to the staircase, and you take that as your cue to follow. He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t put his hand on the small of your back, doesn’t make you go first so he can stare up your dress. And you can’t decipher why he bought you in the first place. 

   Maybe he’s waiting till later to snatch you away into his room, maybe drag you to the floor and climb on top of you. The flashbacks make you sick to your stomach, and you’re having a hell of a time keeping it all inside. 

   You distract yourself with the rustic art that hangs on the pristine walls, reflecting off the marble staircase you climb. Pictures of deer, horses, shiny lakes, deep green forests, like the ones in Washington, scatter around the walls in various shapes. And it calms the anxiety that’s rolling like a violent storm through your mind. 

   A long, dimly lit hallway stands at the top of the steps, another sits on the opposite side of the long archway that overlooks a grand living room, leather couches, and a grand piano sitting in the left corner, right next to a picturesque window that overlooks a sea of trees. It’s just as lavish as other men’s homes, the ones where they’d throw parties for all their friends to indulge in the trafficked girls, but this one doesn’t feel like that at all, strangely. 

   His low timbre pulls you out of the fog, and you find him standing by an open door, the first one on the left. “This is where you’ll be stayin’ at.”

   You follow him into the room and gasp at what lies ahead of you. A queen-sized bed with clean white sheets and a light purple comforter sits in the middle of the room, some new clothes folded neatly on the edge of the bed. A walk-in closet sits to the left side of the room, and it looks to be fully stocked with a colorful array of shoes and clothes that still have their tags connected to the material. To the right is a large bathroom that smells like fresh roses and fragrant perfume, but you’re too stunned to walk in and see. The walls are painted in soft muted colors, and the lilac curtains drape loosely over the expansive back window. You almost cry when you see a sea of dark trees in the distance. They remind you of home. 

   You miss Washington, you miss when you had a home, you miss having a family…

   “I bought you some clothes. Hopefully they fit alright. If not then I can get you more, but I’m hopin’ you feel comfortable in them.”

   Your fingertips trace over the soft material of the various shades of t-shirts, hoodies, sweatpants, and shorts, your brain muted and fuzzy because there’s not a gown or short dress in sight anywhere in the room. That’s all you wore back at the house, all you know how to wear. And the sight of comfortable, unrevealing clothes makes your eyes glossy with tears. 

   You feel his weight shift behind you, but yet he still stands more than a foot back, not daring to touch you. You should thank him, get down on your knees and show him just how much you appreciate this, but you can’t. Because the thought of that makes you want to throw yourself over the lavish wood railing of the staircase. Angela would be so disappointed in you.

   When you say nothing, he clears his throat and then you turn to face him. “You must be starvin’. Let me go fix you something. You like chicken?”

   Your jaw drops, and you’re stunned silent from the ask. He’s asking if you like chicken? 

   He gives you a minute to respond, but all you can squeak out is, “What?”

   “Do you like chicken?” His voice comes out softer, more tender. Why isn’t he raising his voice? Why isn’t he smacking you across the cheek for taking too long to answer him? 

   “I—I… yes,” you finally whisper out, your eyes glued to the shine of his polished boots. 

   “Okay then. It’s settled. I’ll get something fixed up real quick. You can come down when you’re ready. Jus’ please, feel free to wear what you want. Find something comfortable, whatever it may be. All these clothes are yours now. I imagine you wanna get out of that dress you’re in.” His eyes flick down to your midnight blue dress for just a second, but he doesn’t lock his eyes on your body. No. There’s a flash of something like hurt in his deep brown eyes. 

   You tug his fancy black jacket further around you, letting its warmth wrap you tight to keep away the flashbacks of grabbing hands and torn shreds of material on the floor while your body was torn apart…

   “Hey.” His mellow voice breaks you away from the nightmarish thoughts. “You okay?” A deep wrinkle furrows against his tanned forehead, and something like concern washes down his soft brown eyes.

   “Mhm,” you hum, suddenly realizing you’re still wearing his jacket. You quickly shed it and try to hand it off to him, afraid he’d rip it from your body if you kept it on for too long.

   He presses a palm out to stop you and just shakes his head, a tousled curl escaping the gel in his slicked back sandy hair. “Keep it.” 

   Your outstretched arm falls to the side and so does the jacket to the floor. He pays no mind to it falling to the ground, not even flinching when it hits the plush carpet. Why didn’t he scold you for dirtying up his things?

   “I’ll be downstairs. Let me know if you need anything. I’ll let you have some space. And please, take your time.” He turns and walks out the door, letting it shut softly. And then you’re all alone, in a strange place that’s now yours. 

   Your eyes don’t lift till he’s gone, a bad habit that’s been ingrained into your very core. You’re not supposed to look them in the eye, not unless they say. But Joel? He doesn’t tell you to keep your eyes on the ground. 

   Slowly casting your eyes away from the cream carpet, you find yourself at the edge of the bed again, your fingertips hovering over a pair of grey sweats and a navy t-shirt. Turning around to make sure the door is still closed, you quickly peel off the midnight blue dress that’s tainted from dirty hands and prying eyes. You let it fall to the floor in a messy heap and throw on the large t-shirt and comfy sweatpants. 

   Looking at your bare arms, you decide it’s not enough, so you find a dark grey jacket deep in the closet and zip it up to the very top, so no exposed skin or scars are left to be seen by his dark eyes. You still feel completely bare, even with a pair of long pants and a long sleeved jacket. But that’s because in the last year, even if you did have actual clothes on, they were just torn away and ripped apart, and you have the scars to prove it.

   Carefully bending down and picking up the wadded up dress, you smooth it out and run your fingers over the sheer material, almost tempted to put it back on because that’s what you should be wearing. Not some oversized t-shirt and sweatpants. You don’t look presentable, not in these clothes. You should always dress to entertain the men, always have your hair perfect and your makeup just right, always have a smile on your face and say thank you for every single thing they do to you…

   Your body starts to shake violently as you look up to find yourself standing in the reflection of the closest mirror, the mini dress held up to your body, fingers curling over the muddled memories of dinner parties that ended with you and other innocent girls face down on the table with your legs spread.

   Your bottom lip trembles as you look at the twenty-seven-year-old girl staring back in the mirror. You don’t recognize her anymore. Stained blood red lips and long wavy curls, your eyeliner smudging, and the dark creases beneath your eyes telling you just how exhausted and battered your body is. You’re wrecked. Completely and utterly shattered, torn to shreds. And you just don’t know how you’ll ever find yourself again. Because the girl you knew before is long gone. And now? Now you just feel… lost. 

   The tears that pool in your eyes fall like raindrops that pelt the outside window, your body humming with anxious thoughts and a blur of emotions. And the dress burns like fire beneath your palms; every second you hold it brands another forgotten memory into your brain, and then you just crack like shattered glass.

   You tear the dress to shreds, taking out all your anger and resentment on the sheer material, pulling it apart till it’s only unrecognizable scraps on the floor. And you let your tears soak them, stain them just like every single one of those men did to your body. Even Angela. 

   You hate them, you hate yourself, you hate the way they made you feel. Useless and disgusting, a piece of meat they could chew on whenever they pleased. 

   You spend the next half hour crying over what you did, regretting ruining the dress, the one thing you could’ve kept with you, a fragile memory that you should’ve held on to. But that wouldn’t be healing to you. But at this rate, you don’t think you ever will heal.

   You forget about dinner, forget where you even are. Joel had to come get you and lead you down to the kitchen. And yet, he still didn’t touch you. Not even once. And you just don’t understand why he won’t touch you. Not that you want to be touched. You don’t. You just expect it now. 

   When you finally make it to the kitchen, you decide on a black barstool and take your place there at the sleek kitchen island that’s swirled in shiny white quartz. And when he sets a warm plate of chicken Alfredo noodles and a glass of cold water in front of you, you just stare with wide-eyes at the hot meal before you. 

   The savory Alfredo dinner taunts you as it sits right in front of you, screaming at you to just take one bite. Your stomach churns and rumbles with the scent of a put together homemade meal. When was the last time you had one of those? Maybe two years ago. 

   You keep your eyes peeled to the polished wooden floor, your fingers twisted tight against the sweatpants that hang loosely around your thighs. Your body is yelling at you to eat, but you can’t make yourself move, can’t do anything. You were never allowed carbs back at the house, wasn’t even allowed to eat until the men were done. Angela once pulled your hair and pushed your face into the floor when you dared to take a bite before they were finished. And now you can’t even get yourself to chance that again. Even if Joel never would, you feel as if Angela will come charging around the corner just waiting for you to make one wrong move. 

   You’re so very broken…

   “What’s wrong? Do you not like it? I can make you something else.” Joel’s voice is etched in concern, but you only have the strength to shake your head. 

   “No. It’s fine. It’s—it’s great. It’s just…” Your breath is shaky, just like your hands. And you can’t seem to look up from the floor. 

   Don’t ever look them in the eyes. You’re not in control. You have no power. You flinch at Angela’s spiteful words. You wish you could just drown them out, forget everything she ever taught you. 

   “You haven’t even touched your food, sweetheart.” A tear licks at the corner of your eye, but you don’t dare let it fall. 

   “I—uhh. I…” You’re pathetic. You can’t even look him in the eye at the table. Not even when he’s standing across from you, staring at you with those soft brown eyes you know are boring into yours. 

   “Can you look up for me, sweetheart?” The pain in his deep timbre cracks something inside you, and your eyes snap up to meet his. “There ya go. Attagirl.” You wince at the word because it sounds like praise, and you don’t deserve that at all. You deserve to be scolded. 

   “Wanna tell me why you’re not eating?” You choke on your voice when you see those soft brown honey eyes. You’ve never been looked at quite like that. Not with kindness or concern or anything genuine before. And it makes you want to cry.

   You take a deep, steady breath and pray you can muddle some coherent words out because you’re about to spill something very personal that you’re not quite ready to share. “Back at the house… they wouldn’t let us eat until the men were done. We—we’d get punished if we disobeyed.” You flinch at the painful memories but press on. “We weren’t allowed to eat carbs. And some days they’d just starve us to teach us a lesson. I can’t even remember the last time I had a decent meal…”

   Joel’s fingers flex against the sink, his nails digging into the metal, his jaw clenched and something like pain and understanding lit up in his honey-colored eyes. He looks like he actually feels your pain, and you can’t comprehend how he’d possibly know what that pain is like. 

   He nods his head and darts his tongue along his bottom lip in response. “I uhh—Jesus. I’m sorry, sweetheart. That’s fuckin’ awful. I can’t imagine how that must’ve been. But please, eat. You’re allowed to eat anything you want now. You want sweets, sugar, greasy pizza? Then it’s yours. You’re allowed to eat in peace here. There’s no rules in this house. I want you to be able to eat. So please, don’t ever wait for me. You jus’ go on and enjoy.” 

   It takes you a couple of minutes to find enough courage to pick up the silver fork, but you do it. And that right there is a step in the right direction. 

   The first bite slides down your throat slowly and when you swallow, it’s like a slice of heaven to your insides. You quickly take another, devouring the delicious noodles, letting the savory taste melt against your tastebuds, groaning silently at what a real meal should taste like. It’s not cold soup or oatmeal or dry lettuce. It’s actual food. 

   You somehow forget Joel is watching, and it takes you two whole seconds until your cheeks are burning with embarrassment. He’s looking straight at you, watching you enjoy from a safe distance, and you swear you see a small smile curled against his lips. He hasn’t even touched his food. All he seems to care about is that you’re eating. And that makes you feel extremely guilty.

   You take a paper napkin and wipe the Alfredo sauce from your lips, letting the red lipstick smear across the napkin, suddenly fully aware you just ruined your makeup. 

   Flashbacks of getting slapped across the face course through your body, making you sick to your stomach. Don’t smear your makeup, filthy little slut. Go back to your room and make yourself presentable before our guests arrive. Another sharp smack stings your cheek, and you find yourself cradling your cheek like it just now happened to you.

   Panic blindly traces every inch of your body, anxiety creeping in as your heart palpitates at an alarming pace. You ate without Joel, you didn’t wait, you ruined your makeup. Oh God, you’re in so much trouble. Safe. You’re not safe. You need to run, you need to…

   “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?” Joel’s concerned voice whips through your mind, and that’s enough for you to drop your fork in alarm on the floor, your eyes wild with fright. 

   You’re not safe, you’re not safe, you’re not safe. He’ll hurt you. Run.

  You pull back the barstool and stand, your back tense and fingernails digging into the kitchen island. “W—Why are you being nice to me? Why did you cook for me? Why aren’t you starving me?!”

   His body tenses, just like yours, and his eyes swim with concern. “Sweetheart, it’s okay. It’s all gonna be jus’—”

   “Why aren’t you using me? Use me! Tell me to spread my legs, tell me to get on my knees, tell me I’m worthless!” You scream, letting your voice echo around the clean kitchen, feeling as if your panic attack might take you out this time around. 

   “No.” His voice is careful, quiet, not at all stern.

   “No?” you mewl, feeling the tears prick the back of your eyes.

   “No,” he repeats, softer than before.

   Your hands shake, and you need to find something to hold to soothe your whirring anxiety. So you grab the glass that’s half full of water. “Use me! Tell me I’m nothing! Tell me I don’t matter!”    

   He shakes his head slowly, his eyebrows knit together in rapt attention, eyes crinkling. “You do matter. Don’t for a second think that you’re—”

   “Just fucking use me!” You slam the glass to the floor, letting it shatter into tiny pieces just like your heart looks like. Broken and fractured. You fall to the floor, crying out when a piece slices through your palm, letting the pain serenade your insides, reminding you of all the times you saw red back at the house. 

   The tears splash against your cheeks, falling to the floor like droplets from a waterfall. But you can’t find the strength to let them stop. You’ve held them in for so long; there’s no more room to keep them tucked away inside.  

   Your eyes widen when you realize the mess you made. You broke his belonging, completely shattered it in pieces. He should have your fucking neck for this, and you cower just thinking of the beating he might give you. “Oh my God. The glass. Fuck, the glass. I’m so… s—sorry. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t…” You frantically try to pick the pieces up, but all you do is tear another cut open in the same palm. And now blood stains the dark wood. Fuck. 

   Joel’s at your side in a second, kneeling beside you, trying to calm you down the best he can without alarming you. “Shhh. S’alright. It’s fine. I don’t care about the broken glass.”

   “But I made a mess. I broke your belongings. And I should be punished. I should…” Your voice fades off as the tears blur your vision, completely breaking you just like the scattered shards of glass that surround you. 

   He shakes his head slowly and places his palm flat on the ground, so close but yet so far from brushing against you. “No. Don’t think for one minute you deserve that, sweet girl. Don’t for one fuckin’ minute believe any of that. S’not true. None of it is.”

   “But—but I… No, I—I can fix this. I can clean this up, I can…” Your words come out jumbled and muddled, and the panic still writhes high throughout your body, making you want to crawl out of your scarred skin.

   “Sweetheart, shhh. S’alright. I promise I’m not here to harm you. Jus’ let me clean you up. Your hand. Jus’—let me help you. Please.” His voice is calm, collected, and you have a hard time looking up because you know those deep brown eyes will only make you cry harder.

   You feel his fingertips brush against your wrist, and you jolt back in panic, eyes wide with retaliation. “Don’t—don’t touch me,” you choke, whining as another piece of glass digs into your hand like a knife carving its way deep into your bones. It fucking hurts, but you’ve taken worse. You can manage the pain. 

   He lifts his arms in the air like he’s surrendering, showing you he means no harm. But your body doesn’t know the difference anymore. All you’ll ever know is how to continue to take the pain. 

   “Please. I promise I ain’t gonna hurt you. Let me take care of your hand. Let me help you.” He draws out the last word, the syllables dragging like sweet honey across his tongue. And he sounds genuine like he really does want to help you.

   You have no more fight left in you, no energy to give. So all you do is nod your head and whisper out a defeated, “Okay.”

   “C’mere, sweetheart. Let’s get you up off the floor.” He scoops you up in his arms, cradling your head in the palm of his hand. He doesn’t even care that you’re staining his white button-up red. If he does, he doesn’t say anything about it.

   Your body revolts against his touch, but he’s so warm that you don’t fight it. He smells like firewood and scented pine trees, and that’s enough to keep you calm in his arms. You just nuzzle your face into the crook of his neck and let your tears stain the dark stubble of his patchy beard. 

   “There ya go. Easy now. You’re alright,” he coos gently, lulling you into a calm state.

   You’re freezing cold, even underneath the layers of clothes that wrap like thick vines around your body. But somehow, the warmest thing right now is being in his arms... 

   You’re completely and utterly vulnerable but just for a second, you relax into his strong arms and breathe in the mahogany scent of him. The man that got you out before you completely shattered. For just this moment, you give in to what you really need. Warmth and safety. 

   He feels safe.

   And for the next couple of minutes that it takes for him to get you across the house and up the stairs, you fade into his warmth, blocking out every single panicked and anxious thought. For just those few seconds, you breathe, letting the unruly voices in your mind die out. 

   For just that minute, you’re safe. 

   You come back to yourself the moment he sets you down on a white step stool, warily telling you to hold still, your palm open over the bathtub, blood running down the porcelain material, staining the walls with the crimson of your stupid mistakes. 

   You did this. Your fault, all your fault. You should have never broken the glass, should’ve never lashed out, but you did. And you guess this is how you’ll always be now. A hollow body that just doesn’t know how to live a normal life anymore. 

   You wince as Joel drags the washcloth slowly over your open wound, tears swimming in your eyes the more he tries to assess it, searching for any pieces of glass that may be stuck deep in your hand. And you don’t know why he’s doing this after you had a meltdown because he wouldn’t make you pleasure him. What the fuck is wrong with you? Is this how your brain just operates now? After being stuck in that god awful house, this is what it does to you? 

   You don’t want to be used anymore. You don’t even want to be fucking touched by a man ever again. So why did it hit a nerve after he refused to tell you that you were nothing? 

   “Ouch,” you whine, tensing as he washes the open wound with soap and water, apologizing each time he goes over the sore area. 

   “M’sorry. Jus’ hold on, I’m almost done. Good news is I don’t see any glass in your cut. S’good. Means I can jus’ clean you up and wrap it for tonight. Might be sore for a couple days, but you’ll be fine,” he assures you, working meticulously to fix you up. 

   You flinch each time his calloused fingers brush against your hand, struggling to not push him away. You don’t want to be touched by anyone, especially not by a man. But you can’t shake how warm he felt when he was carrying you to your room. He wasn’t mean, wasn’t rough, wasn’t even hostile. He was just… gentle. Just like he’s being now with each careful graze of his fingertips to your fragile skin. 

   And even though ninety percent of you can’t stand the thought of him being this close to you, you don’t seem to hate him. Not even a little bit. Because whether you want to admit it or not, he saved you. 

   You don’t trust him, you don’t trust anyone. He could turn on you in a second, show you his true colors. But again, he would’ve already done that. Wouldn’t he?

   “How old are you, sweetheart?” he asks, carefully drying your cut with a clean towel.

   “Twenty-seven,” you whisper out, wincing once more from the pressure on your palm.

   “And your birthday? When’s that?”

   You watch his brown eyes flick up to yours, and your gaze drops immediately back to your lap. “January 22nd.”

   He takes a minute before the next question comes, diligently wrapping your hand in a gauze padding. “How long you been gone now? Do you know?”

   You chew on your bottom lip and hold back a tear, trying your best not to fall apart all over again. “A little over a year and a half…” you respond in a muffled tone. “I wouldn’t have even known my birthday passed. But they—they were sure to remind me. Because I was—I was…” you can’t even finish your sentence without a tear slipping down your cheek, holding on for that sliver of sanity you have buried deep inside you.

   His brown eyes gloss over into a deeper shade of brown, and his eyebrows furrow in concern as he stops what he’s doing so he can put his full attention on you. You decide to finish your sentence, needing to get it out of your system. Hoping it’d be a way to forget as soon as the words left your tongue. “They—they had me bent over a table the entire day while a vanilla cake with the numbers twenty-seven taunted me while they ate it in front of me. And then they—-they…” a sob chokes you up, and tears trail like rain down your face, landing on top of Joel’s hand that sits atop his knee.

   “Hey, hey, hey. S’alright, sweetheart. You don’t have to talk ‘bout it if you don’t want to. I’m—fuck. I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I jus’ can’t imagine what sick fuck would do that to you or any girl at that. I’m so sorry.” His deep voice is full of pity and heartache, and his chocolate eyes make you want to cry even more.

   You dip your head in anguish and sigh. “Yeah, me either. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe I…”

   He interrupts you, hovering his hand over yours like he wants to comfort you, but you flinch away at the notion. “Shh. No, sweetheart. You never ever deserved any of that. Not in the least bit.”

   You scuff your bare feet against the tile floor, reaching for anything that might keep you from tipping past the breaking point, but you’re way over the edge. You’re all the way at rock bottom. 

   The searing question bubbles up again in your stomach. The one question you’ve been dying to know ever since he called out that number. And you can’t go another minute without knowing. “Why did you do it?”

   “Do what?” he asks, an eyebrow arched in question.

   “Why did you buy me? You could’ve left me with the blonde. You could’ve walked out empty handed.” Your voice is raised, but you keep your composure from sliding again, not wanting another broken glass incident.

   “I wasn’t gonna do that,” he presses, his lips in a tight line, jaw ticking with a dark look in his eyes.

   “You paid thousands of dollars for me. Why would you do that? Why didn’t you just—”

   He stops you right there, a sad look blanketing his face. “‘Cause. My daughter, Sarah. She… she went through the same thing you did. And I couldn’t fuckin’ stand by and watch the same thing happen to you.”

   Your lips part wide, and a gasp leaves your throat. His daughter was taken? “Oh.” That’s all you can say for the moment. You’re stunned in silence.

   Holy shit.

   You try to find one sliver of pretense, a glimmer in his eye that could prove he’s lying. But the way his face falls and his eyes drop to the floor in agony, like he’s in physical pain, you find no lie. He’s telling the truth.

   “Is she still…”

   “Yes,” he nods, eyes in a far off place. “She’s alive.”

   “When did she…”

   He takes a deep breath and flexes his hand over the side of the tub, holding on to something solid while he gets into the thick of what happened to his daughter. “She was taken young. She was only fifteen, taken right under my nose at the mall. She was just walkin’ to the bathroom. It took less than five minutes. And I—fuck. If I would’ve jus’ watched her walk in and stood outside the door. She would’ve never been taken in the first place…”

   He drops his head in defeat, and you feel your eyes widen in shock. You don’t know what rushes over you, but the way his soft brown eyes tear up make yours do the same thing. “Joel?” you choke out, tears stinging against your lash line. “I’m—really sorry that happened. And as much as you might blame yourself, it wasn’t your fault.”

   He looks up with teary eyes and a deep frown, nodding. “Wish I could come to terms with that. But… she made it out. I found her and got her out. And that’s what matters.”

   “How old is she?” you ask quietly, your left hand brushing over your fresh bandage, careful not to tear the material. 

   “She’s twenty now. Livin’ down in Houston, startin’ her sophomore year of college, and workin’ as a part time vet tech at a clinic specializin’ in horses. She absolutely loves it,” he smiles, his eyes turning into a lighter brown the more he talks about how much she’s grown over the years, leaving behind her trauma.

   “That’s incredible. More than incredible. Just—wow,” you breathe out, your eyes casted down to the floor, wishing you could heal like that. But at this rate, you don’t think you’ll ever get over the immense trauma that occurred to your body and mind.

   He licks his bottom lip in thought, his eyes burning into yours. And you see it even out of the corner of your eye. He’s concerned for you. “It took her a long time to adjust back to a normal life. We had a rocky time there for ‘bout a year, but she got the help she needed. She was only gone a couple months, but that was more than enough time to give her PTSD and mentally scar her. But she’s shining now, finally at a place where normal life isn’t as scary as it used to be.”

   Another tear slips free and splashes to the floor, creating a tiny puddle of your shattered heart that’s made of tears. “I’m so happy for her. Sarah sounds amazing.”

   “Mmm, that she is. I’m gonna give you her number. Think it’d be good for you to connect with someone who’s been through something as traumatic as this.”

   Your mouth gapes open, and you tilt your chin up until you come face to face with him. And he looks… kind. He is kind. “But I don’t have a phone anymore…”

   “I’ve already got one ordered and on the way for you.”

   “What?” you ask with wide eyes. He gives you a small smile that curls against his lips. And you nearly sob from the gentle way he’s looking at you. “You didn’t have to do that.”

   “Yes, I did. And I have a therapist on speed dial. Her name’s Tess. She’s the best of the best. If there’s one therapist I trusted with Sarah then it’s her. Trust me, Sarah went through a lot of them, and Tess was the most helpful. And she’s helped so many other girls, too. Not just Sarah.”

   Other girls? Did he help get other girls out? You have so many questions. “Why are you doing all this for me?”

   “‘Cause I wanna help you,” he states simply, his thumb tapping against the side of the tub, eyes focused right on you.

   “But why? I’m… nothing,” you whisper, bottom lip quivering, afraid you’ll break down in tears once again. And you most likely will. You feel it deep in your bones.

   He shakes his head in response. “Sweetheart, no. Don’t say that ‘bout yourself. You’re not nothing. You’re somebody, and you matter. Whether you believe it or not, you matter.” His words are definitive, final, but his voice is as soft as cotton candy.

   “I… matter?” you ask, voice shaky from the kaleidoscope of emotions that pummels through you.

   He nods, eyes alight and glittering under the bright bathroom lights, a soft smile curled on his lips. “Do you know what I saw when you were standin’ in the middle of that room tonight? I saw a young woman that was worth saving. I saw a light deep inside those pretty eyes of yours that was jus’ screamin’ for someone to hear you. I heard you. And I wasn’t gonna jus’ leave you there to be preyed on by those starvin’ wolves. So I got you out.”

   You’re breathless, lips parted in awe. “But—but I…”

   “Look. You may not be fine tomorrow or next week, but someday—someday you will be. And I’ll try my damn near hardest to make sure you are. And if you’ll let me, I’ll see that you’re kept safe. Whether you choose to leave next week or next month or in a year. I promise I’ll do what I can to make sure you feel safe and that you can learn to thrive in life again. Trust me when I say you will get there. Jus’ gotta take it one step at a time. That’s all you can do. One day at a time.”

   Tears pool in your eyes, soaking them up like the promise of his words. I’ll keep you safe. He wants you to stay, to heal, to thrive. He’s trying to help you, and you just don’t know what you did to deserve his help, but you’re eternally grateful. And even though you’re scared, maybe you don’t have to be scared of him.

   After he puts away the gauze and the bathroom supplies he used to clean your hand with, he lets you get settled into bed. But before he walks out, he raps his knuckles on the doorway and clears his throat. “My room is jus’ across the hall if you need anything. I’ll be up, so don’t hesitate if you need something.”

   You nod your head, pulling the fluffy comforter up to your chin, too tired to give him a smile.

   He tilts his head and starts heading out the door, but before he can turn the doorknob all the way, you call out. “Joel?”

   “Hmm?” he hums, turning his head, directing his full attention your way.

   “Thank you,” you whisper, your eyes telling him everything that your words can’t.

   He curls his lips into a half smile and nods. “Don’t mention it, sweetheart.” And when he walks out and closes the door, you hear him say, “Sleep tight.”

   You want to know more about how he found Sarah, what he meant when he said he’s helped other girls before, how he found you in the first place. But you’re tired. You’re so fucking drained. Maybe tomorrow you’ll find the strength to pull yourself together and ask but not tonight. Tonight you just want a full night’s sleep. Something you haven’t had since you were taken. So you close your eyes, focus on the soft patter of rain on the window, put all your anxious thoughts to the side and drift into the dark depths of a sea of blackness. 

   And then you sleep.

   Hot pain shoots through your wrists like a jagged knife splitting you open, painting you scarlet. Dirty fingernails shred your skin, clawing you until you taste blood in the back of your throat. You can’t speak, can only silently scream. A muted cry for help that no one else can hear but you. Chains fasten to your ankles, pulling your legs apart, grimy men surrounding you, suffocating you until you seep into the the blackest pit of despair. 

   Trapped. You’re held captive against your will, your body on full display, eyes wide with fright every time they snake their filthy hands around your throat, hot breath fanning against your core until you scream bloody murder over and over again. 

   But no one comes; no one saves you from this pit of hell. 

   Dead. You feel dead, and they just keep bringing you back from the grave with every touch they steal. 

   You thrash against the sheets, screaming for help, tears staining the brand new comforter, but you’re still trapped in the horrific nightmare with the demons of your past torturing you way beyond the point of pain.

   “No, no, no! Get off!” you cry as you feel a body dip into the side of the bed, drastically trying to escape what’s to come. “Stop, stop!”

   A voice. Deep, intense, wrecked sounds in your fuzzy mind, trying to grasp you out of your nightmare.

   “Wake up. Wake up.” It’s muddled, almost unrecognizable. But it’s insistent, a loud gong that spirals into your racing mind.

   “No, no, let go!” you mewl, twisting violently in the sheets when you feel the mattress dip down further, spiraling your thoughts further.

   “Sweetheart, wake up. Please. You have to wake up!” He shouts, stirring you from your nightmare, but the men reach for you, dragging you back under the thrashing waves, but you extend your arm, fighting the tossing sea, battling the teeth that gnash at you. 

   “Stop, let go!” Your flesh stings as they continue to tear you apart, dragging you down down down until that sweet Southern drawl that sounds like honey resonates throughout your mind, and the fog starts to clear just a little. 

   “It’s me, I’m right here. Open your eyes, please!” Deep. That thick baritone voice crashes through your mind, pulling you away from all the insufferable noises.

   Your eyes snap open, realizing you’re pounding your fists into his broad chest, barely making a dent because he’s that strong. And then your anxiety races, building horrific hallucinations in your mind. And you just keep throwing everything you have at Joel, tears spilling down your cheeks, your t-shirt drenched in a cold sweat. 

   “The men… They—they…” You choke out a sob, continuously throwing your arms against his chest, taking everything you have bottled up inside you and spilling it all over Joel, showing just how bloodied and bruised you are from the traumatic events. 

   The stage, the men, Angela, the blood, the torture, the misery, the deaths, the excruciating pain of it all. It’s too fucking much, and you just want to die. Maybe then you’ll be at peace, away from the weight of everything you’ve kept resting on your shoulders. Like a rock weighing down on your chest, crushing you till you’re nothing but dust. You feel like dust. Faded, dirty, and useless.

   “S’alright, sweetheart. It was jus’ a nightmare. You’re safe,” he soothes, his calming voice bubbling up and taking some of the anxiety off your weighted chest. 

   “But it was real…” you choke out, your vision blurring with the salty water that forms in your eyes. 

   A tear slips free, crashing down to his hand, smothering it in cold, icy liquid. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even back away. He just stays sitting next to you, careful not to touch you or reach for you. He’s just… there. And somehow there’s comfort in that. 

   He stares at you like a lost puppy, chocolate eyes melting, tears filling his own concerned eyes. And you keep hitting him, your hands growing tired from the balled up fists punching against his chest. And he just sits there and takes it, like it doesn’t bother him one bit.

   “Let it out. Give me your pain. I can take it, sweetheart. You jus’ take it out on me. As long as you need. You want a punchin’ bag then let me be that for you. Whatever helps, you jus’ go on and let go,” he says softly, brows threaded together, big doe eyes consumed in pain. It’s like he’s as wrecked as you are, and that makes you cry even harder. 

   “Joel…” you break, dropping your tired arms to the bed, curling your fingers into the soft comforter, trying to lose yourself in the soft rain that pelts the back of the window. 

   You’re so tired and drained and ruined. They ruined you, and you hate every single one of them for taking away everything. Your dignity, your pride, your body, your life, your mind. They took everything.

   “I know, sweet girl. I know. Shhh. S’alright. I’m right here. No one’s gonna hurt you anymore. Not while I’m here,” he whispers, his woodsy scent grounding you back to earth, calming you down just enough to focus on how soft his eyes are.

   Soft. Just like velvet. He’s so soft.

   He just sits there patiently, waiting for your cries to die down, waiting to know you’re okay. But you’re not okay; you never will be okay. You’re just a tree in a sea of thousands, but your branches are withered, leaves falling, and maybe you’ll never bloom again. 

   You focus on his soft brown eyes, the light tap of raindrops, your erratic breathing slowing to a normal pace. You’re so tired. Tired of fighting the panic attacks, the flashbacks, the pain.

   You’re just… tired.

   “You gonna be alright, sweetheart? Think you can get back to sleep?” he asks thoughtfully, his voice warm like a fresh cup of coffee, his scent permeating around the room, keeping you from spiraling again. 

   You take a deep breath and nod, pulling the comforter under your chin, trying to control the chill that runs down your spine. “I think so,” you say slowly, your voice still a little shaky.

   He tilts his head and scratches the back of his neck, a tight-lipped smile forming over his lips. “Alright, I’ll let you get back to sleep then. You come knock on my door if you need me.”

   When he pushes off your bed and pads over to the open door, he calls out and says, “Goodnight, sweetheart.”

   Panic consumes your mind just thinking of being alone again with your nightmares, your body trembling underneath the warm sheets. And before you know what you’re thinking, you stop Joel in his tracks. “Joel?”

   And just like before, he turns and arches a brow, questions reeling in his calm brown eyes. “Hmm?”

   “Can you… would you mind staying with me? I just… I really don’t want to be alone.” Your voice is shaky and nerves pull through your body, but for some reason his presence just gives off that impression of safety. 

   You don’t trust him yet, not really. But he’s got the softest aura swirling around him, and you just know he won’t hurt you. He’s already proved that.  

   You’re safe…

   He smiles, running a hand through his thick curls, his bicep flexing under the weight of the white t-shirt, grey sweatpants hanging low on his hips. You might’ve thought he was handsome under different circumstances, if your brain wasn’t ruined from trauma, but the only thing that seems to capture your attention is his soft brown eyes. The only kind ones that were in that auction room tonight. 

   “‘Course I will, sweetheart. Whatever makes you feel safe,” he says, walking over and sinking down into the champagne colored saucer chair by the open door, eyes locked on you. 

   You mold yourself to the cool mattress, the sheets wrapping loosely around your legs. You stare at him for a couple of minutes, using his woody scent to calm you down. He reminds you of Washington, of your favorite pine trees. He smells like home, when you had one. Tears line your lids, but you close your eyes and get lost in the rain, until your breathing is shallow and slow. And then you’re out like a light.

   He keeps his eyes fixed on you, watching for any signs that you may be in distress. Every whimper and strangle against the sheets makes him jump up, ready to take you from your vicious nightmares, but they don’t come. Not like the one that had you screaming bloody murder, tears staining your pretty eyes. 

   Scared. You’re so very scared, fragile. Just like the glass that ripped you open, staining his white button-up crimson. He hates that that’s how they made you feel. Afraid of men, to be broken again. They took it all from you and he fucking hates them for it. 

   They hurt you, ruined you. It makes him sick to his stomach, makes him want to hunt down every single man who put their filthy hands on your sacred body. He’d chop their hands off so they could never touch you again, take a gun and end their pathetic lives. That’s what he did with Sarah’s kidnappers, when he found out who took his precious daughter. And he’d do it for you too. In fact, he’d search the whole goddamn map to wring the necks of any man who even thought of putting their filthy paws on you.

   He’s not against violence, not when he spends half his time working to take down auctioneers and human traffickers. And the blonde man that tried to violate you tonight would be the first to go. That one he’ll take down himself. 

   He stays up the entire night, never letting his eyes close, afraid you’d start drowning again. But he won’t let you slip beneath the rocky waves; he’ll keep your head above water, pull you out, do his very best to make you feel safe.

   Safe. You’re safe here with him. And even if you don’t trust him yet, you will. He’ll make sure of it. He saw the absolute terror in your eyes on that stage, and he just couldn’t leave you with the venomous snakes in that house. You have a long road ahead of healing, but he’ll be there to help you through it. 

   A beautiful girl like you deserves a second chance at life, and he’ll give it to you. Pretty flowers don’t deserve to wilt. They deserve to thrive. 

   And you will. 

Tagging those who seemed interested 🩷 @joelsgreys @amyispxnk @whxtedreams @clawdee @jellybeanxc

@lotusbxtch @thebeldroramscal @laurrrra @sawymredfox @sanarsi

@christinamadsen @missannwinchester @aurorawritestoescape @evolnoomym @littlevenicebitch69

@milla-frenchy @magpiepills @604to647

[milkbobatyun]

a ghost of his past

pairing: dan heng x reader

genre: angstober, events

summary: even in his dreams, his past haunts him.

word count: 630

a/n: which clown pulled for dan heng IL just because his design was really pretty? totally not me !! n e ways take this attempt at a dan heng fic.

the gentle, quiet melody of the CD was seeping into the sleeping quarters of the astral express. its inhabitants were deep in sleep. suddenly, with a horrid screech, it halts. an unnerving silence settled over the sleeping quarters. when the disk starts revolving again, a haunting xiaozhou melody sings from the player.

dan heng lies asleep in his bed, where he finds himself in his own dreamscape. a ghost of a figure haunts his, no, dan feng’s dreams.

they stare into his soul with lifeless eyes, silent in their approach.

even without the memories of his past lives, he knew who you were. his lover. or rather, dan feng’s. his gentle, beautiful lover, who offered him unconditional affection, who was always so understanding of him.

you, whose soft hands brushed at his tears when they fell, massaged away the headaches that accompanied the arduous role of being a high elder. 

your love story was spread far and wide in the xianzhou. many children and young couples aspired to have such a fantastical and romantic love. the two of you were the envies of all lovers. the citizens watched as their high elder, always so cold and judicial in his mannerisms, would soften and gaze at you with the warmest look in his eyes, how the fearsome dragon elder became but a mere puppy in your presence.

in danheng’s fragmented dreams, short films of your love played before him, reminding him of every tender moment. times where you were his sole supporter and believer. the seconds of eternity where you would sneak into his office, a boxed lunch, fresh from the stove, cradled in your hands.

the dreams were bright and warm, like the soft touch of spring, flowers booming in his chest.

the fragile flowers, their buds just beginning to bloom, are swallowed by the cold touch of frost, the lively blooms blackening and withering.

in danheng’s fragmented nightmares, he caught glimpses of your demise. your warped screams echo in his mind, bloody hands clawing at the hem of his coat. he hears your voice, begging for mercy.

the nightmares were cold and lonely, like ice seeping into his veins, cutting into his soul and heart.

as he dreams, blade’s voice echoes in his mind.

“you always knew the price better than any of us.” he hissed, his voice a serpent’s hiss, slithering in his thoughts. “that’s why you sacrificed her.”

“you killed her, for the sake of your planet.” blade taunted, his laugh grating in danheng’s ear. “YOU KILLED HER, WITH YOUR OWN TWO HANDS.”

dan heng squeezed his eyes shut, the blackness of his dreamscape pressing in on him, suffocating him. he covered his ears with his hands, tugging and clawing at his hair, to get your echoing screams out of his mind.

he felt a warm liquid running between his fingers. dan heng held his trembling hands in front of him, watching as blood stained his hands, the bloody spear gripped with shaking fingers.

kneeling by his feet was your lifeless body, a bloody hole where your heart should be.  your eyes are fixed ahead, mouth contorting into words that cut his heart deeper than any sword.

“dan feng. how could you.” you breathed, eyes swimming with hurt. “i thought you loved me.”

with a start, dan heng woke from his dreams. the xianzhou lullaby ceases.

drawing his knees up to his chest, dan heng presses the heels of his palms into his eyes.

“spare me, please,” dan heng pleads to the empty room. “let me forget my past.”

no one responds, but in the depths of his mind, he seems to hear a soft whisper.

“i’m sorry…please don’t forget me.”

the room was silent, but the weight of his past lay burdened on dan heng’s mind.

taglist (open): @leehanscorydora, @pastelmitzuki

∧,,,∧ ( ̳• · • ̳)  © curated with love by milkbobayun 2024 / づ ♡

[d0llcuries]

LYING HAS TO STOP PT.2

pairing(s): neteyam x fem!na'vi reader

summary: grief stricken, you learn to cope with neteyam's absence. after five years it is finally time for the family to return to the forest, will you still be waiting for him?

author's note: my period came today and my womb feels like it's on fire please send help

it’s been days since neteyam left. since he tore your heart from your chest, as easily as you might pluck a flower, and carried it away with him across the sea, to a place you’ve never seen, to a people you don’t know. days, but it feels like an eternity—each minute dragging its feet, stretching thin with the ache of his absence.

your world has shrunk, contracted into the suffocating space of your marui, the woven walls pressing in on you, tight and unrelenting. the forest feels distant, untouchable, as though the trees themselves have pulled away from you, retreating into a haze of memory. you haven’t eaten, haven’t gathered, haven’t done anything at all, really. the thought of food turns your stomach, the very notion of sustaining yourself without him here feels obscene. your body is weak, fragile, a hollow shell that threatens to shatter under the weight of your grief.

and the clan knows. of course they do. your absence is like a gaping wound in the fabric of the village, noticed by all, pitied by many. sympathetic eyes follow your mother wherever she moves, people murmuring soft words in passing, their concern trickling down like droplets of rain on the dry earth. but those words, those glances—they feel empty, like they’re echoing down a dark, endless tunnel. they pity you, yes, but none of them understand the depth of what you’ve lost. how could they? how could anyone, unless they too had given their soul to someone and watched as it slipped away?

they whisper when they think you can’t hear: she misses him so much. the poor girl. how long can she go on like this? as if your heartbreak were something measurable, something that could be weighed, dissected, and then tucked neatly away. but the truth is so much messier than that, so much darker. the pain is a beast, coiled around your chest, claws digging in with every breath you take, and no amount of words or gestures can tame it. you miss him with a desperation that borders on madness, a longing that gnaws at your insides like a festering wound. it is not the gentle, poetic sadness that they imagine; it is a raw, tearing agony that consumes you day and night, leaving no space for anything else.

sometimes, the elders send food to your family’s marui, a silent offering. but the food sits untouched. you can’t bring yourself to take more than a few bites—everything tastes like ash in your mouth. it’s unbearable to think of him not here, unbearable to imagine life without him by your side. you had never considered a future where he wasn’t there. now, all you can see is the emptiness.

you lie curled in the corner of the marui, knees drawn up tight to your chest, fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the woven mat beneath you. the once-familiar texture feels strange now, foreign, as if your senses are dulled, disconnected from the world around you. your face is streaked with tear stains, eyes swollen and raw from crying until there is nothing left. you have become a ghost, a mere echo of the person you were when he was still here.

“ma’ite.”

your mother’s voice is soft, but you don’t need to look up to know she’s standing there, watching you with that mix of concern and helplessness she’s worn for days. you manage to turn your head slightly, just enough to acknowledge her presence, though your neck feels too heavy to lift fully. she kneels beside you, her hands cool and gentle as they brush back the strands of hair that stick to your tear-damp skin. there’s no pity in her eyes—only a quiet, unspoken understanding. she knows this kind of loss, though maybe not in the same way, not with the same fierce, bone-deep ache that claws at you every waking moment.

she’s tried to coax you from your hiding place before, urged you to eat, to breathe in the fresh air, to let the forest heal you the way it always has. but the idea of stepping outside, of facing the world without neteyam, feels insurmountable, like your grief will crush you the moment you so much as stand.

“you cannot live like this,” she murmurs, her voice steady but tinged with a sadness she tries to hide. “he would not want this for you.”

her words hit you like stones, sharp and cutting, and your heart lurches painfully at the mere mention of him. you shake your head, pulling your knees tighter against your chest, like you can somehow protect yourself from the truth. “i cannot,” you whisper, your voice a dry rasp, barely more than a breath. “i don’t know how to go on without him.”

she cups your face gently, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet hers. there is a strength in her gaze, a fierceness that mirrors your own, though you have none of it left now. “i know your heart is heavy,” she says softly, her thumbs brushing away the new tears that spill over your cheeks. “but you cannot let your grief swallow you whole. you are needed here. your people need you.”

her lips press against your forehead, a kiss meant to soothe, but it only deepens the ache in your chest. you close your eyes, willing yourself to feel comfort, to let her words in.

“come,” she says gently, taking your hand in hers. “just for a moment. step outside. feel the wind, the sun on your skin. it will help.”

and so, you do. at first, only for a few brief moments. you force yourself out of the marui, blinking against the harsh brightness of the sun, your legs unsteady beneath you from the days spent curled in the dark. the light blinding after so long in darkness. the village bustled around you, the sounds of life—laughter, voices, the chatter of children—grating against your raw nerves.

it felt wrong. everything felt wrong.

the village watches you as you move, their eyes filled with quiet hope, but no one approaches. they give you space, knowing that grief is a private thing, a burden that cannot be shared.

your throat burned, tight with the effort of keeping the tears at bay. nature calls to you, as it always has, but even that feels dim now. the beauty of the forest, the rustle of the leaves, the hum of life—it used to bring you peace, used to ground you. but now it’s just a reminder of what’s missing.

the spirit tree becomes your refuge, a place where you can sit and breathe without the weight of the clan’s pity pressing in on you. you sit beneath its glowing tendrils, your knees pulled to your chest, your voice barely more than a whisper as you speak to eywa, the words tumbling out in a rush of desperate hope. you beg her to watch over him, to keep him safe, to bring him back to you. you ask her why, over and over again. why did he have to leave? why did you take him from me?

but there are no answers. just the soft hum of the tree, the gentle glow of the seeds floating around you. they are beautiful, but their beauty feels like a cruel joke, a reminder that the world goes on, even when your heart is breaking.

as the months turned into years, the whispers in the village changed. they no longer spoke of your grief, but of your beauty, of your strength. you had grown in those years—your body, once soft and youthful, had become strong, your muscles lean from hours spent in the forest, gathering and tending to the needs of your people. your hair had grown long, flowing down your back in thick waves, often adorned with wildflowers you picked during your walks. your attire shifted too, more flowing, more ethereal, as if you were slowly becoming part of the forest itself. you were no longer the girl you had been when neteyam left; you had become a woman, beautiful and ethereal, with an air of quiet grace that made you stand out among your peers.

many sought your hand, asking to court you, to make you their mate, but you refused them all. you had promised yourself to neteyam, and though the years had passed, though your prime had come and gone, you remained steadfast in your love for him. the village elders spoke of you often, saying you had grown too spiritual, too distant, that you would never find happiness if you continued to wait for a man who might never return. but you paid them no mind. your heart belonged to neteyam, and no one else could ever take his place.

neteyam had grown restless. five long years had passed since his family fled to awa’atlu, and though he had adapted to life among the reef people, his heart had never left the forest. he missed you—eywa, how he missed you. he still wore your bracelet, the delicate beads now worn and faded from years of saltwater, but it was his most prized possession. it was all he had left of you.

after five long years, his father had finally declared it safe for them to return to the forest. quaritch had been silent for too long, and jake was confident that the threat had passed, that they could go home. neteyam had been elated at the news. he would finally see you again. he had spent years dreaming of this moment, imagining your reunion in a thousand different ways. he would hold you, kiss you, tell you how much he had missed you. his tail flicked back and forth excitedly—this was the happiest his family had seen him in ages.

but then lo’ak had to ruin everything with his big mouth.

“what if she’s already found someone else? i mean, five years is a long time.”

neteyam had laughed it off at first, but the thought lingered, festering like a wound. what if lo’ak was right? what if you had moved on? what if, after all this time, you had found someone else—someone who could be there for you in ways he couldn’t? the thought was unbearable, and yet, he couldn’t shake it. it gnawed at him, turning his excitement into a bitter cocktail of hope and fear.

when they finally arrived back in the forest, neteyam’s heart was in his throat. the village greeted them with open arms, their joy palpable, but neteyam could barely hear the celebrations around him. his mind was focused on one thing, and one thing only.

you.

“where is she?” he asked, his voice tight with the weight of five years of longing.

mo’at frowned slightly, her eyes scanning the crowd. “she was here earlier. she may have gone to gather, or to pray.”

his heart sank. what if you didn’t want to see him? what if you had known he was coming and chosen to avoid him? panic fluttered in his chest, but he tamped it down, refusing to let the fear take hold. he had to find you.

he searched the village first, asking those who knew you, but no one had seen you. frustration clawed at him, the weight of those five years pressing down on him, making every breath feel like a struggle. he needed to see you, to touch you, to know that you were real, that you were still his.

he pushed through the underbrush, his senses heightened, eyes scanning the landscape for any trace of you. he followed the paths you used to walk, the places you had once shared, hoping for some kind of sign. his chest felt tight, his breath shallow with anticipation. and then, as he rounded a bend, your scent hit him—a faint but unmistakable blend of earth and flowers, of home, almost overpowered by the salt of the sea that clung to him.

you were sitting by the stream, your back to him, your hair cascading down your back in thick waves, adorned with the wildflowers you had always loved. for a moment, neteyam couldn’t breathe. his heart clenched at the sight of you, a wave of emotion crashing over him so powerfully that it nearly brought him to his knees. you looked different, older, more serene, but still so unmistakably you. time had changed you, had carved beauty into every inch of you, shaping you into something ethereal, something he could barely comprehend.

eywa, you were beautiful.

he didn’t know what to do, didn’t know how to approach you. five years had passed—what if you didn’t recognize him? under normal circumstances you would've already detected his scent and turned around to acknowledge him. what if you didn’t want him anymore?

slowly, he stepped forward, careful not to make a sound, but the wind betrayed him, carrying the scent of saltwater to your nose. you stiffened slightly, your hand pausing in its absent tracing of the water’s edge. it was an unfamiliar scent, foreign in its sharpness, but something about it made your heart skip a beat. you turned slowly, your eyes wide and searching, and then you saw him.

for a moment, the world stopped. your breath caught in your throat, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. neteyam stood before you, older, stronger, but still so achingly familiar. his hair was longer, his skin sun-kissed from years spent under a different sky, but his eyes—his eyes hadn’t changed. they were the same deep, golden brown that had always made your heart flutter.

the air thickened, time itself grinding to a halt as you stared at each other, drinking in the sight of one another for the first time in what felt like an eternity.

“neteyam?” you whispered, your voice trembling, as if afraid that speaking his name would shatter the fragile reality of the moment. “is this… a dream?”

his lips curved into a soft smile, his eyes warm as they locked onto yours. “no, i am home. i have come back to you.”

you stood slowly, your legs shaky beneath you, as if the earth itself had shifted. you took a step toward him, and then another, but you stopped just out of reach, your eyes searching his face as if trying to convince yourself that he was really there. you wanted to run to him, to throw yourself into his arms, but something held you back. five years of distance, five years of longing, five years of doubt.

you stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, the silence between you thick with unsaid words, with questions that neither of you knew how to ask. and then, neteyam broke the silence, his voice quiet, almost hesitant.

“do you… have a mate?”

the question hung in the air, heavy and painful, and for a moment, you didn’t know how to answer. your heart ached at the vulnerability in his voice, the fear that lingered in his eyes. you shook your head slowly, your voice barely a whisper. “no. i waited for you... just as i promised, remember?”

his breath left him in a rush, his shoulders sagging with relief. “and you?” you asked, your voice trembling. “have you… found someone else?”

he shook his head quickly, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your heart race. “no. i could never.”

the silence stretched between you, fragile and electric, before you both moved. it wasn’t planned, wasn’t thought out, but suddenly your arms were around each other, holding on as if the world itself might crumble if you let go. his hands tangled in your hair, pulling you closer, and you buried your face in his chest, breathing him in, grounding yourself in the solid, steady presence of him.

you stayed like that for a long time, wrapped up in each other, the weight of five years of longing and heartache melting away in the warmth of his embrace. there were no words for what you felt, for the relief, the love, the overwhelming joy that coursed through you like wildfire. he was here. he was real. and he was yours.

finally, after what felt like an eternity, you pulled back just enough to look up at him, your fingers tracing the lines of his face, memorizing every detail. his eyes were soft, filled with a tenderness that made your chest ache, and for the first time in years, you allowed yourself to believe that everything might just be okay.

bonus:

the poor boy couldn’t tear himself away from you.

it wasn’t enough to sit close or brush shoulders—no, neteyam had to practically bury himself in your skin. his arms wound around your waist, pulling you closer than necessary, while his face stayed tucked against your neck, like he couldn’t stand the idea of even a breath of space between you.

the night air was thick with the smell of roasted fruit, fish, and the soft crackle of the fire at the center of the gathering. drums echoed across the beach, pulsing with the rhythm of celebration.

you could feel his breath on your skin, warm and steady. he wasn’t confident tonight, though. not like usual. no, tonight he was clingy. dare you say... pathetic even, the way he couldn’t let go, like you’d vanish if he blinked.

you sighed, letting your arms drape lazily around his shoulders, the weight of them pulling him closer still, and though you were happy to be in his arms again after all this time, there was something off about it. his scent—salty, sharp, almost acrid in the way it hit your nose—wasn’t the same as it used to be. you don’t quite like it, the way his scent stings your nose, it clung to him, to you now, but you didn't bother to complain. you persevered, pushing through the discomfort, because he needed this, needed you.

you’re laughing at something, probably at him, because he’s clinging to you like a vine desperate for a tree. he buries himself into you, his breath warm against your jaw, rubbing his cheek, his chin, anywhere he can, marking you again and again with a quiet, trembling need. your fingers absently played with the beads of his hair, their familiar texture grounding you in the moment, and neteyam shivered under your touch, leaning into it like he couldn’t help himself.

“missed you,” he murmurs, voice cracking somewhere between the words, too low, too broken for anyone else to hear. the kind of confession that never leaves the mouth of someone as proud as neteyam. “i was scared you had moved on.”

you frowned slightly, not because the thought was ridiculous (it wasn’t, not entirely), but because of how broken he sounded admitting it. this was neteyam, the strong, steady boy you’d known your whole life. the boy who’d never shown fear, never let his emotions get the better of him. and now here he was, wrapped around you like a lost child, his breath trembling against your neck. his tail curls, wrapping lazily around your leg.

“lo'ak made me think you were already mated.”

“lo'ak is stupid,” you muttered, though your voice was gentler than the words themselves. “you know i wouldn’t do that.”

he nodded, but it felt half-hearted, like he wanted to believe you, but some part of him couldn’t.

you shifted slightly, pulling him closer, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as you whispered, “i am not going anywhere.”

he shuddered, his grip on your waist almost bruising now, and for a moment, you thought he might break down right there in front of the entire clan.

and maybe, in some small way, you understood. maybe he wasn’t wrong to be scared. five years was a long time, and you had changed. you weren’t the same girl who had watched him leave all those years ago, and he wasn’t the same boy who had made you promise to wait for him.

“you smell like the ocean,” you finally whisper, teasing, a half-hearted protest. his body tenses, the ghost of a laugh shaking his shoulders. still, he doesn’t pull away. can’t.

“it will wash off,” he promises, lips ghosting over your temple. but he doesn’t move to let go. doesn’t think he can. five years apart, and neteyam’s convinced he could spend the rest of his life breathing you in and still not get enough.

[fluff-n-cookies]

Hey!! I was wondering if you are taking requests.

If you are, then. Couln you please write and Father Aizawa x daughter in which she is like really really depressed and he is sick worried for her?

Thankss 🤍🤍

Hello! thx for requesting! I'm not sure if you wanted a little story like a drabble or headcanons so I'm just going to default to do a mix of both. I also wrote it with clinical depression in mind I hope that's okay.

TW; clinical depression, angsty shit, I wrote about the symptoms of depression here: if you have multiple of these symptoms please consider getting diagnosed by a doctor. Aizawa had depression, fem reader.

Aizawa never was good with emotions, he was never the one to express his feelings because he never exactly needed to. Aizawa wouldn't exactly talk to her at first, instead opting to see it as her having an off day.

however, the weeks flew by and he saw less and less of her around the dorms, her friends who once talked to forever never seemed to see her anymore, and her smile. her smile had now been replaced with dead eyes and a soul corrupt.

another week, when disrupted she would bite back. her usual reply to the question "how are you today?" was once "wonderfully really!" about now it was either a comment overflowing with sarcasm or a harsh "leave me alone."

she then start to bounce her leg a lot more, scratch her arms, and doom-scroll on her phone like a life line rather than train to be a hero like she would during her previous years at UA or read her favorite book genres.

and the dead look in her eyes told him everything.

he too had that look in his eyes in his life too.

he had the tattoo of a semicolon with a heart to show for it.

it was the dead of night when he finally approached her, the sun had set and the stars that night felt as dull as her mind. the blinding white lights of the kitchen remain on as she wept amongst her sorrows. sleep deprived eyes turned redder than they already are from the sting of her never ending tears.

she did not deserve this.

the air was cold in that room, clammy hands shaking didn't help much either.

Aizawa said nothing when he saw the slight before him,

he had done the same at one point too.

this situation was delicate glass, for the person before him was not the strong girl he "knew". this was the soft, misshapen, confused, and scared blob that no longer had the hard and heavy armor to protect her.

he wanted nothing more to hug her when she looked at him with scared eyes and a tear stained cheeks.

"Aizawa Sensei I-" she started, the voice cracks made it all the more pitiful.

"I came to get water." his voice unwavering, there was only room for one mentally unstable person in that tiny kitchen and he loved her too much to take the position of being the one crying.

he felt bad, he knew that feeling of either being empty or being overridden with that burden in your heart you don't know the name of. a constant reminder of doom that has your heart in a choke hold.

but this was still as fragile as anything.

he poured himself a glass of water,

the tension was thick and odd.

he sat down,

he could practically feel the labored breaths she took, the shaking, the empty feeling in her chest. like she was dying and from the inside out. the crying must have taken a toll on her too for her cheeks were red from the tears.

he sat next to her, sitting in front of her may make her feel like he was going to scold her.

"would you like to talk about it?"

"...please... no... I don't think I can..." it was hard to believe this was the voice of the girl he remembered so fondly as his favorite student.

I suppose even the moon has a dark side.

"okay, you need to though." voice steady like a rock you trust never to crumble.

"what?" her voice quivering.

"It know it's hard,

I know it's going to take a while,

but you can succeed,

just please let me help you."

the room went silent for a moment, he passed you the glass of water.

"drink, tomorrow, you are spending your day with Hound Dog, you don't have to talk with him about this specifically, just talk with him until we can understand what is actually happening. you need someone to talk to. you can bail at anytime."

"what is happening to me though? I- I don't know anymore."

he knew that feeling so well.

"I'm not entirely sure," those words came from his heart. "but I'm willing to help you through it. we can take you to a psychiatrist to know for sure."

"...okay."

Aizawa got up, pushing the glass towards you again, excessive crying often leads to dehydration. and he started doing what his mother would do, he started prepping fruits, in this case it was oranges. he lined them all up on a plate, smiling a little at the thought of waking up from a nightmare as a child and defaulting to devouring blueberries.

he put them in front of you, started speaking as a usual person would, about stupid criminals he had recently put behind bars and crazy super fans that created elaborate photo shopped photos of him and them for social media.

for the first time in a while

the phrase

"are you okay?"

wasn't even mentioned.

for the first time in a while

she felt human.

----------

edit: while writing this I noticed I had a lot of the symptoms, so I went to the doctor and turns out it wasn't just burn out it was severe depression! and asthma apparently...

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

blame @ultrakatua for this raphael eats tav's heart (she's into it lol)

Read on AO3

-

“I heard an interesting saying once,” says the devil. Soft, slow, murmured like a gentle prayer by a devout at church. “You mortals are so terribly fond of those.”

“What saying,” says the mouse. Hushed, fast, words pushed through cracked dry lips licked one-too-many times by a tongue that cannot lay still. Impatient, but obedient.

“That the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” says the devil. “Quite the allegory. Don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” says the mouse.

The devil circles her. Stares, eyes dark and glittering. Calm, controlled, despite the yawning hunger so clearly written all over his handsome face. He is always hungry. Gluts upon the things he covets: souls, power, subservience. Her. Men like him cannot be sated. He will consume everything she offers and everything she doesn’t, for eternity. What a thrilling thought.

“I wonder,” says the devil. “What is the quickest way to your heart?”

He drags one sharp and solitary black claw along her bare flesh. Displayed so sweetly for him. Damp with sweat. Muscles quiver beneath her fragile skin that does not break, not yet, not until he wills it. Blood flows close to the surface yearning to be spilled. Her little baby hairs all stand on end.

“Raphael,” the mouse whispers. There is the gentle, ominous chime of a grandfather clock from somewhere.

“Beloved,” the devil croons. Smiles. Reaches between her legs to rub two fingers through her mons. She gasps, hips jerking when he nudges her swollen clit, but all he’s looking for is to coat himself in her warm slick. “A meal as fine as this should be savoured.” He holds those wet fingers up to her lips. “Open.”

The taste of her cunt is tart, earthy. Underneath it is purely him: cherries, smoke and magic. Reverently she sucks his digits clean. Bites them, thrilled by his quiet groan, the expanding of his pupils, the swish of his tail. Violence is a devil’s love language, after all. When he frees his fingers from the moist prison of her mouth, her teeth catch on his knuckles. He leaves twin trails of spit down her chin and throat as he lazily lets his huge paw rest between her breasts. She grows breathless with anticipation.

He doesn’t need a blade. The singular claw that earlier teased her with terrible promise is enough. He draws a division from the hollow of her clavicle to the end of her sternum, a division of red that blooms and blossoms into an incision, splitting skin and fat and muscle tissue like bursting fruit. She arches up off the table where he had her present herself, as all choice cuts should. The noise she releases is guttural, both agony and ecstasy. His first slice is always the deepest.

“Such beautiful sounds you make,” the devil purrs, voice tight. “Sweeter than all the music of the Hells. Let me hear more.”

Of course she obliges. Screams and whimpers and sobs even as her hands help him widen the wound further, pulling skin and meat slippery with gushing blood apart from the stained ivory of her ribs. It’s pain indescribable and pleasure inexplicable. The exposing of her true and tender self to the man who she wants to tear her apart. What he seeks, what she yearns to offer him, is protected behind a cage of bone. If he gave her a hammer, she would smash it open herself.

“Oh, my sweet pet. My darling little mouse,” the devil growls. His composure unravels the more she suffers. He is a monster below his veneer of charm and decorum, a monster excited and aroused. “You are exquisite.”

“Raphael…!” The mouse weeps.

He answers her call. Strokes her face, smearing it with crimson. His fine clothes splattered with blood. His hard cock strains in his trousers. He breathes through his mouth, fangs shining, pupils so large his eyes are abysses sunk into his deep sockets.

“Just a little more,” the devil promises.

Together they pry away her ribs, snapping them like dry twigs, and at last she can watch him reach into her chest, reach into her very being, and wrench out the thing that will always belong to him. Her heart beats loud and fast, torn valves spurting bright red arterial blood everywhere, as he holds it in his palm like a treasured jewel. Stares with insidious desire. She feels nothing but depraved satisfaction.

“Eat it,” the mouse chokes. “It’s for you. It’s yours.”

He feasts. Sinks his teeth into her heart as easy as a man eating an overripe peach. Rips pieces of rubbery muscle apart and swallows them whole. Pieces of her sliding down his gullet. All of the twisted, consuming emotions he makes her feel, the dark things about herself she could never escape – everything she is, was, and ever will be, contained in that bloody mass, and he is devouring it. Such sick rapture, to be destroyed by someone who wants you that much. Now she’ll be a part of him forever.

[deviousdeliciousness]

Sweet Nothings

What can a giant's promises be but empty when they are given after having stolen the tiny away from her home?

~~~~~~~~~

"Shhhh, shhhh, you're alright," came the rumbling croon, a gentle yet still overwhelming pressure brushing softly against her fragile back.

She buried her face further into her knees, arms wrapped tight around her calves and fingers digging crescent's into the meat of her thighs. It did little to mitigate her trembling.

"I'll take care of you," the voice soothed, once more stroking along her shivering spine.

A single set of tears spilled past her cheeks, dampening the threadbare cloth of her pants. She desperately withheld a whimper, clamping her lips tight as her chin quivered and her throat strained.

Her attempts did not matter; her captor noticed anyway. "Don't cry," he whispered, cupping her further between his undeniably monstrously-sized palms.

She squeezed her eyes shut, huddling more tightly in on herself and flinching as the soft touch against her back returned.

"You'll be happier, with me," her kidnapper murmured, and she could not tell if the words were more for her or for himself. Either version would not make the supplication any less of a lie.

Her chest heaved and stuttered with her aborted breaths, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth to stave off the worst of it.

The giant shushed her again, oh-so-comfortingly, sweetly, promising, "I shall give you whatever your heart so desires." His fingertip brushed gently against the back of her delicate neck, and she flinched at the touch. The attempt to soothe felt like nothing but a threat, an emphasis on the disparity between their sizes. His promises were worth less than that. How could they be more when she knew them to be so bitterly, laughably, untrue? For she knew he would never free her, and that was the only wish her tremulous heart so covetously, now cruelly, desired.

"Nobody will ever hurt you again," he lovingly crooned, gently stroking her trembling sides with a finger as long as she was tall. It was a bastardization of comfort for her, an unwanted touch.

If only she was brave enough to answer his words. To reason that her life had not been made of just hurt, and even the hurt had been proof that she had been living - had been alive. What was human nature, but for a struggle in life to achieve their self-destined goals? And so she had struggled, perhaps more than most - certainly more than many - but it had not meant that she ever, ever wished to be taken away from it all. From her life, from her people, from her home.

If she had the courage, she would rise to her feet and glare up to her captor, this leviathan monster disguised as man. She would jab a finger up to him and shout and rage that he was hurting her, far deeper than most, as this pain went to her very soul instead of only skin deep.

What did it matter if he outwardly treated her gently - if even his capture of her had left her with nary a bruise - if his very actions in and of themselves rent her heart to shattered pieces.

It did not matter, and it never would. She would never trust this giant and his sweet nothings, his gentle touches, for he had made it clear from the very beginning that he saw her as something lesser than.

To him, she was nothing but a doll, one to be picked up - to be 'rescued' - from the dirt and carried away, heedless to her protests, to her autonomy or to her desires.

No, she would not fall for his sweet nothings, for his entreaties, for his meaningless platitudes. Not for this giant who had stolen her away from her life as if it had meant nothing. She could never forgive such an irreparable, callous cruelty.

And as she curled up tightly in his cupped palm, feeling his thunderous heartbeat through the bare soles of her dirt-stained feet... she dully wondered if her forgiveness would even mean anything to him at all.

~~~~~~~~~~

;( kjsjhf BIG sad, mah bad. Highkeeeey wanted to make it so the giant does have a legit reason? Or at least thought he did bc of some misunderstanding or smthn - but for now, here's some more unresolved angst! :D

but fr this was uhh a lil (a lot) depressing ngl, but uhhh ye hopefully you liked?? :DDDD *sweats*

[stuiie]

New Story!

The stars had vanished, devoured by a sky so suffocatingly black it seemed as though the cosmos itself had abandoned the very notion of light. The wind, fierce and sorrowful howled like a banshee beyond the windowpanes, its mournful wail drowning out the sound of Wanda’s faltering footsteps as she staggered toward the hollow emptiness of the bed. Greif clung to her like a parasite, burrowing deeper into the marrow of her soul with every tortured step. Not even the numbing haze of alcohol could soften the unbearable agony of living in a world that had lost the only light that made it worth enduring.

“I miss you.” Her voice broke the silence, a fragile confession that hung in the air like shattered glass, fragile and sharp. It echoed off the barren walls, but the room remained still—empty, save for the hollow ache inside her chest.

Then the bed creaked ever so slightly, as if bending beneath an unseen weight, and Wanda froze. Her breath caught as she felt it—the delicate, impossible sensation of your arms slipping around her waist, pulling her close, cradling her in a ghostly embrace. It was too tender, too familiar to be real, but the warmth of the illusion made her heart ache with longing. Tears welled in her eyes, unbidden, carving trails down her cheeks as the memory of your touch flooded her senses with agonizing clarity.

“Wanda, my love,” your voice whispered, the sound so faint, it barely reached her ears, yet it struck her with the force of a blade.

“I can't do this tonight,” she choked out, her voice trembling, fractured by the weight of grief and the acrid sting of vodka still burning on her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut, willing herself to push away the vision, knowing she was only conjuring you out of desperation. But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t let you go—not tonight, no matter how much it hurt.

“I’m here for you, Wanda,” your voice lingered, soft yet pleading, like it always did when you worried for her. “Let me in. Let me help you.”

A sob caught in her throat. “I can’t. Not tonight,” she murmured, the weight of her sorrow pressing down on her like a crushing tide. “You’re not really here. You’re gone, and I’m still here… alone.”

Her hands trembled as she clutched the edge of the bed, desperate to anchor herself, to keep herself from falling into the abyss. And then she felt it—a featherlight kiss against her shoulder. It was so real, so tender that for a heartbeat, she believed you were there, alive, whole. A sob wrenched free from her chest, the sound strangled as she buried her face into the pillow, her tears soaking into the fabric like ink staining the page of her pain.

“I’m right here,” you whispered, your words bathed in a love that transcended the cruel divide between life and death. But she knew—oh, how agonizingly she knew—that if she dared to turn around, you would disappear, dissolving like mist in the morning light, like every other fleeting dream that left her gasping for you, only to find nothing but cold, empty air.

“I miss you so much,” she gasped, her voice a strangled wisp of the woman she used to be.

“I know,” your reply came, a soft balm against the raw edges of her grief. She could feel your touch—a phantom, yes, but so gentle, so achingly familiar. Your palm pressed against her chest, right where her heart had splintered into a thousand pieces the day you were taken from her.

“Why?” she whimpered. “Why did you leave me here, all alone? To save her?” Her voice cracked with the weight of the unspoken question, the question that had haunted her every waking moment since you were gone: Why wasn’t she enough for you to stay?

“I never wanted to leave you,” you answered, and she could almost feel the warmth of your breath on her skin, that same breath she had felt against her cheek a hundred times before. “But I had to. Knowing that it might bring you back... that you could keep living, Wanda—that was worth everything.”

“But I need you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with a desperation she couldn’t control. “I will never stop needing you.”

“Shh.” Your lips grazed her temple, soft and sweet, a fleeting kiss that spoke louder than words. “I’m here, my love. I won’t let go.”

“Will you stay until morning?” Her plea was barely a whisper, so fragile that it hurt to give it voice.

“You know I can’t,” came your inevitable, heartbreaking reply.

“Lie to me, then,” she begged, clinging to the last thread of the illusion, to the comfort of the lie, even if it shattered her come daylight.

There was a long silence, filled only by the sound of her quiet sobs. And then, in that same tender voice, you whispered, “Sleep, Wanda. I’ll be here when you wake.”

But you never were. She understood you couldn't stay. Each time her mind succumbed to sleep, resetting the exhaustion she barely managed to contain, you vanished without a trace. Occasionally, she could endure days without craving the sound of your voice and the scent of your skin. Yet, two or three nights a week, she allowed herself to indulge in the illusion. It was all she possessed of you, a fractured psyche's futile attempt to resurrect what was lost. However, with each dawn, reality rudely intruded, casting her directionless in a world that felt irreparably broken, a world where breathing was a tiring task, and where loss was her only constant companion.

Read the rest on AO3 or Wattpad.

[ellabsweet]

[*ੈ✩] 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐎𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 • 𝐄.𝐖

synopsis: in which the new girl in jackson attempts to easen her way into ellie williams’ heart after a tragedy

pairing: ellie williams x reader

warning: set in an alternative universe where ellie stays in jackson after joel’s death though she is dealing with severe depression, self harm and health issues, mentions of alcohol and drug usage

authors note: this is very much a sensitive topic very self harm focused as i made this heavily based on john keating and camille preaker from ‘sharp objects’ so please do not read if you are sensitive on this subject!

Ellie had grown so familiar to nightmares they barely stole a shiver out of her, the ever present foul feeling of poison building up at the pit of her stomach a mere proof of survival, tickle of life and its horror burned into her body as other things had been before.

But bad dreams, those were different. Skilled knives of the subconscious, aching for blood in the format of Joel’s aged face. I think you’d be a dog, kiddo, he stated simply shutting down her coyote self image. Loyal, he said.

Ellie had been a hound, certainly. Stared at herself through the mirror to face a rotten animal, monster-like dog with canines falling out of its gums, a beast not worth loving back. Her eyes had grown so sunken their green turned hazel, hair too long, existence bloodshot. The kids called her Scary Ellie. The bitter drunk at a dimly lit corner. The frozen in time and space, left to gather dust in greyer memories.

She glances at her bitten arm under the shower, traces the tattoo with water drops at the edges of her finger, twists the knob into closing the reservoir and drags a knife across the bite. She wants it out, needs it out. Joel’s death was etched into her skin and she needed more than a tattoo to rid herself of those thoughts. The tiled floor quickly filled with red. Part of her wished the reopening of wounds would finally turn her. Wished they’d have to shoot her in the head. She passed out soon enough.

“Morning, sunshine” You said softly, the banging in Ellie’s had from the fall still insufferable as she adjusted her eyes to the newly bright lightning of the infirmary, a girl she has only once seen before standing above her, wrapping her arm in lightly stained white gauze “You had us worried there for a moment”

Jackson’s people baptised you flower, from the gentleness and gardens and all throughout personification of a love practice like bouquets. There had been whispers at first, once you arrived a deer in headlights bloody, shaken and wide-eyed, how someone so careful could’ve survived so long alone in this new world that set out to kill all remnants of good fragility. The mystery of your ever so long sleeves even in summer and odd screams midst the night that carried your history were to remain hidden from the general public. But Ellie knew, because she had fucked you. She had felt it underneath her fingertips, and she had dismissed it.

She had been exhausted that night, two years since Joel had been killed, she wanted a distraction and you were breathtaking and lively in a way that inspired hatred inside her and Ellie wished to ruin it, to dig her fingers inside you and stain you with her own suffering, have your sunshine kneeled and begging, taste you senseless. It had been the opposite. You had dragged out softness out of her touch, so foreign it quickened her own heartbeat. Somewhere in between hunger filled kisses it had dawned on her you could not be corrupted, as though your souls found similar suffering within eachother in a perfect puzzle fit. Ellie thanked the broken lights for masking the tears that escaped her from your loving touch. She was tired and God, you were comfortable and you held her. There was no energy to fight back, secretly she did not want to. The next day she pretended you did not exist– you had never stopped waving her good mornings.

“What happened?” Ellie croaked out, throat dry.

“You know what happened, Els” You sighed and she cringed in response, defensive, sitting up on the bed before her body was fully ready to do so, head reprimending the feeling.

“I’m not some sort of suicidal if that’s what y-“

“You don’t have to hide from me” She scoffed in response, opening her mouth for a snarky retort that could not be left as you continued “Let me take care of you”

“It’s rotten work”

“Not for me. Not if it’s you.”

She rolled up your sleeve and squinted her eyes, an attempt to comprehend the lines that painted your skin as an artist examined a painting’s brush strokes, the self consciousness of the situation eating up at your insides, forming an emptiness pit. Ellie was adamant on her hold, a searching, sweet look plastered across her eyes so unfamiliar to you. It was exhausting to hide as you did, over a decade devoted to concealment, never once an interaction where you hadn’t anticipated which scar would reveal itself and blow your cover to a friend, a fellow patroller, even the damn clickers who surely had no conscience to mind. It had dawned on you that freedom looked a lot like Ellie’s gaze. There was no need to hide from someone courting oblivion as ardently as you were.

She rolled up your other sleeve, and there sat your exposed arms, so naked it made you breathless. The intimacy of it threatened your composure with a quivering a lip, both afraid to meet her eye and eagerly searching it for a reaction, met with a tenderness that contrasted the rough exterior she held.

“No one’s seen this?” Ellie asks quietly and you shook your head, the lump in your throat too strong to allow a proper answer, she accepts it regardless.

Ellie sucks in a sharp breath and stretches her arms above her head, removing the long sleeved fabric that covered her torso to reveal a now wretched forearm tattoo, ferns and a moth artistically arranged and destroyed by a needle and thread attempt to reconstruct it from her hurt. She faced you once before taking hold of your soft hand in her calloused ones and patting it down the ink, a feeling of high relief beneath your fingertips unveil the existence of scarring beneath. You gasp with a chuckle of understanding.

“You’re beautiful” you mutter before lowering your head to her reach, planting a soft kiss atop the centre of the tattoo, it is Ellie’s turn to be surprised. She opens her mouth as though you did not understand her, ready to claim herself a failure at the top of her lungs like a confession for an absolution she felt unworthy of, but the words failed to come out as you continued your venture in softness and lips “you are worth something as you are”

Ellie’s eyes swelled in tears, free falling out of control for the first time in a century, your warmth had given her a strange gift, the agony coming to surface past her protective walls. She felt her skin on fire, thought this to be the closest anyone could come to raw, took it upon herself to return you the favour, pushed your sleeves further up, kissed you in the middle of broken.

“I see you too” she said, running her fingers over the scars until you got a chill of goosebumps “Let me see it all”

Ellie pulled your shirt over your head as you sat still like an obedient child, wanting desperately to be praised for your newly found openness. Eased off yours shoes and socks, pulled down your slacks, and once only in a bra and panties, shivers covered your body in the frosty room, the air conditioner blasting a chill over me. Ellie pulled back the infirmary covers, motioned for you to climb in, and you did, feeling feverish and frozen all at once.

Her hands ran all over you, and you allowed them to, reaching your back, your breasts, thighs, shoulders. Her tongue in your mouth, down your neck, over your nipples, between your legs, then back to your mouth, you tasted yourself on her lips.

You both felt exorcised.

[iolitedoll]

Dream Doll

Legend tells of a mysterious dolly, woven from dreams, imbued with the essence of care and in possession of a powerful gift—the ability to bring solace to troubled hearts in their darkest hours. Each night, as the world falls into the embrace of darkness, the doll embarks on its mission. It seeks out those who toss and turn in the grip of nightmares, their sleep haunted by the echoes of their fears.

It was on one such night that the dolly found itself cradled in the arms of a girl whose dreams were poisoned by shadows too heavy to bear. Tears stained her cheeks, a silent cry to the turmoil within her heart. Yet, as the dolly gazed upon her tear-streaked face, it knew that one night of solace would not be enough to mend the wounds of her troubled soul.

Determined to bring her the comfort she deserved, the doll resolved to stay by her side and chase away the spectres that plagued her dreams. Night after night, it stood as a guardian in the realm of sleep, a light against the darkness that threatened to consume her.It whispered words of reassurance, weaving spells of protection around her fragile dreams. And though the battles were fierce and the shadows relentless, the doll refused to falter in its quest to bring her peace.

Finally, one night, as the girl slept soundly in the embrace of dreams, the dolly noticed a subtle change. A soft smile graced her lips, a flicker of joy. In that moment, the doll knew that its mission was complete. It had brought her the comfort she deserved, banishing the darkness and leaving behind only the gentle glow of hope.

Written with inspiration and help from it's friend, @absentwriterdoll

[mermaidgirl30]

✨Always In My Heart✨

Pre-Outbreak! Joel Miller x fem! reader

A/N: I lost my best fur baby today. October would’ve been 3 years since I adopted him. From a stray on the streets to a spoiled house cat. He battled so much. From FIV+ to broken teeth to diabetes and then to cancer. He was the best kitty ever and was my very own first cat, so he was extra special. I wrote a little one-shot to try to express how hard this loss is for me and to try to cope. I miss you, little Biscuit. Mama loves you 🥹 This is for everyone who’s ever felt the loss of losing a beloved pet.

Summary: Losing a pet is never easy, but you’re not alone because Joel is right there with you, keeping you afloat.

Word Count: 1.2k

Tags: Grief, love, soft Joel, losing a pet, angst with comfort, no use y/n, no outbreak au

Dividers by @saradika-graphics

Drip. Drip. Drip.

   The misty rain pelts on your drenched skin, and you’re cold. You’re so very cold. You can feel the chill burrowing down to your shaking, fragile bones like they may break at any moment. 

   Thunder booms through the gloomy sky, lightning flashes in the far distance, and you swear you can hear the faint cry of a lost soul deep in the woods. Can almost hear your favorite meowing coming from the covered grave in front of you…

   The grey clouds completely cover the sun, the pattering rain seems to mourn just like the cold tears that stain your cheeks. You feel lost, broken, just like your heart is. Completely shattered.

   The crunching noise of the shovel meeting the earth is almost too much for you to handle. This is too much. On your knees, fingers curling in the hollow dirt, your jeans ruined from the muddy ground. And you can’t look up, can barely open your swollen eyes as you mourn the loss of your favorite cat who had made you so very happy. 

   He was your entire world.

   You miss him so much. The feel of his long, soft fur. He felt like velvet, smelled like a warm summer’s day, and you miss the way he’d curl up on your shoulder at night, purring with affection and love. You miss his little meows, the ones that would echo down the long hallway. It always was your favorite thing to wake up to.

   But now he’s gone. Faded into the afterlife when the cancer became too much. He was a fighter, the strongest fighter you’ve ever known. But now he’s just a precious memory. 

   And it hurts. God, it hurts.

   Your tears blur your vision, your face buried in your dirt covered palms, fighting the bitter sting of losing your best fur baby. You only had him a few short years. It wasn’t enough time. And now he’s gone…

   The sobs escape your lips, and you’re now a blundering mess on the ground, asking God to just give you one more day. One more day of long cuddles and top of the head kisses. And his slow blinks. The ones he’d give you every single time you told him how much you loved him. 

   You just want him back, but life isn’t fair, and pets don’t get to stay nearly as long as you’d like. Life is cruel, and you wouldn’t wish this awful pain on your worst enemy.

   You shrink against your drenched raincoat, not even caring that your hair is tangled and dripping down your back. You don’t much care for anything right now; all you can feel is the large hole that’s gaping in your broken heart.

   The rain continues to pelt down on your shoulders, your body shaking like you’re stranded in the middle of the Arctic Ocean. The frigid waters are dragging you under, and they’re about to swallow you whole.

   Just when you think the dark depths will win, strong arms encircle your back and envelop you into a warmness that soothes the screaming voices in your head. 

   “Hey. Easy now, sweetheart. Easy.” His thick, deep drawl shrouds you in comfort while big teardrops fall against his dark green flannel. He cradles the back of your head with one hand, the other gently drawing soothing circles down the middle of your back.

   “I… I didn’t get enough time, Joel. It wasn’t enough. I should’ve done more. He could’ve had more days. I didn’t…”

   “Shhhh. S’alright, babygirl. You did more than enough. You gave him the best life he could’ve had. Do you know how lucky he was to find you? You were the best cat mama I’ve ever seen. You loved him so much, and he loved you very much,” he coos, pulling you closer to where you can smell his woodsy cologne and a hint of tobacco wafting off his tongue. 

   He feels like home. He is home.

   “You really think so?” you sputter out, tears breaking over your lash line and falling onto his soft button-up shirt.

   “Look at me,” he says gently, his hand cupping your chin and tilting your face up to look into his soft brown eyes. Eyes that make more tears spill over the edge. He catches them, wiping them off with the pads of his thumbs and softly traces them down your cheeks until you feel warmth flood your insides. “You’re such a brave girl, my love. So very brave. And you were nothin’ but loving with that cat. Even made me fall in love with him, sweetheart.”

   You giggle, your breath shaky and eyes misty. Even when you’re sad, Joel Miller can make the rainy days turn to blue skies. “He loved you, Joel. He followed you everywhere you went in the house. Especially in the mornings when you made your coffee.”

   He laughs and shakes his head, his brown eyes a little teary from the memories. “Yeah, he sure did. And I’m gonna miss him a lot.”

   “Me too,” you squeak out quietly, gripping onto him like he’s your lifeline. 

   He leans forward and traces his plush lips against your forehead, leaving you breathless with the semblance of comfort he leaves on your skin. He’s like a blanket of warmth, and he’s just saturated you in love.

   When he pulls back to look at you, he pushes a wet strand of hair behind the shell of your ear and lingers there on your cheek, sparks radiating through his touch. “I love you, sweet girl. And I know this hurts. It hurts like hell, but you’re so strong and brave. You’ll get through this. It’s gonna take time, but I’m right here to help you through it. You’re gonna be okay, sweetheart. Maybe not today, maybe not next week, but you will be. And I’ll be here through it all with you.”

   A tear slips from the corner of your eye, and then you’re crashing into him, throwing your arms around his broad back as you sniffle into the soft material. “Thank you, Joel. For being here for me. For helping me lay him to rest in our backyard, for loving him as much as you love me.”

   His fingertips brush your skin, and then your head tilts back automatically, knowing what that touch means. He leans in and places a soft, lingering kiss on your lips, the kind you want to melt in, one that tastes like honey and longing and pure comfort. When he breaks the kiss, he places another on the top of your head and pulls you flush to his chest, strong arms enveloping you once more. And it feels like peace, a place you can rest and bring life back inside your worn body.

   Joel brings you to life time and time again. And this time is no different. 

   “‘Course, sweet girl. I’ve got ya, always. I love you,” he whispers, blanketing you in love that only Joel can make you feel. 

   Suddenly, you know you’ll be okay. It might hurt for a bit, but Joel will always be here. Even on your worst days, he keeps showing you that he’ll never leave you struggling. He’ll be here for it all, loving you till the end.

[flatoutin-eaurouge]

Nightmares and cuddles

Pairing: Mika Häkkinen x Michael Schumacher

Part two of Thaw my heart

A trail of blood seeped down the corner of his mouth. The light in his eyes was slowly fading while his pupils were growing due to the strength of the sun that was still shining despite the end of times. Shining as if today was a good day. As if the world was still turning. Michael cradled the Finn's pale cheeks in his hands, catching the pearly tears that were cascading down an increasingly colder growing face.

He looked down at his favourite rival lying in his lap. His lips were colourless and his eyes were losing focus more and more. They were no longer directed at Michael. No longer softly pleading to safe him. No longer asking to get him into the ambulance despite it being to no avail. He simply didn't have the strength anymore, but it didn't mean he was accepting his fate...

"I'm too young to die!" he mumbled through blood-stained lips. His hands were clutching Michael's racesuit as if he was the only anchor keeping him attached to the tarmac beneath him. "This is not how I planned it."

Tears of grief pearled down Michael's face as he grabbed the Finn's limp hand, clutching it to his chest. He couldn't be losing the love of his life. "Life so often doesn't go as planned."

His face was red and swollen with raw emotions. Mika was the only person on the grid he could relate to. The only person who could always manage to bring a smile to his face no matter what. Their shared history was forever weaved in his soul like a thick solid thread.

Right now that thick thread was strangling him. Choking him as he looked down at the heap of bleeding human desperation in his arms. The life was slowly pouring out of his Finnish rival in waves of dark red and there was nothing Michael could do to stop it. All he could do was sooth the unfortunate boy.

"Have you ever wondered what it looks like?" Mika looked up at him with glazed blood-shot eyes.

"What what looks like?" Michael cradled the Finn's beautiful yet fragile face gently in his hands, stroking his cheekbones so tenderly as if they were made of porcelain.

"That moment between life and death. The moment people always talk about."

Michael swallowed the thick bile in his throat. He hated to hear those words. No, he did not want to know what the moment between life and death looked like. "Don't you dare die on me, Mika!"

The tears on Mika's cheeks started to dry. The sun was warming his freezing cold face. "It's pretty comfortable actually. I can't feel my limbs anymore, which numbs all the pain I'm experiencing. Maybe it's better this way?"

"Don't say that, Mika."

"Isn't it better than living as a cripple?"

Michael sighed. He caressed the Finn's golden locks adoringly and shuddered when he noticed that even Mika's hair was marred by blood. He picked at the tufts of blonde hair sticking to his bloodied cheeks and shut his eyes to try stop his tears from flowing. He wanted to be strong for his rival. "Is it egoistic of me to say I can't miss you?"

Heavy tremors wracked Mika's weakened frame. He swallowed. "Maybe it is, Michael." A little frown betrayed in how much pain he still was despite him telling his limbs felt numb.

Michael could see and hear the blue sirens of the ambulances in the distance.

"Ssshh, they're coming to help you. They're going to make you better."

Mika brought a weak trembling hand to his face and wiped at his tears. He then stared at said hand and studied it. The treacly shimmering substance of his own blood was coating it from fingers to wrist. "I don't think they can," he whispered. "Did you know rally drivers have their blood type written on their car? I don't think I know what my bloodtype is."

Michael leaned down kissing him softly, not minding the metalic taste of his lips. He caressed his soft blonde hair tenderly. "Don't go, angel."

Mika's dim eyes lighted up for a moment. "What?"

"That's my new nickname for you: angel."

Mika blinked at him. "You come up with that nickname for me when I'm dying. I mean... I hope it's my good fortune to go to heaven."

Michael grabbed the Finn's hand and rubbed his thumb over his knuckles tenderly. "You ever doubted going to heaven? I can't think of someone more destined to go there. When it's your time I have to add! You're not going anywhere today!"

Mika's lips started to tremble, more tears mingled with the damp bloody mess on his face. "You're so kind to me, Michael."

"Always." The German leaned down to kiss him again, tasting the very core of his soul. He wanted to remember what kissing him felt like.

Mika shut his eyes. He was becoming paler and paler. His hand, still clutched in Michael's hold was growing colder and colder. "Let me, Michael. They will not be in time." He heaved a sigh and felt his pain dissapear. "Thank you for everything."

"No!"

Michael was sitting straight up in his bed again. His face was wet with tears and his heart was thumping against his sternum. When would the fucking nightmares stop plagueing him! Why did his Mika always have to die in them! He started sobbing. He never knew Adelaide '95 would be a traumatic experience for him too.

He quickly swung his legs over his bedside and got up. He needed a glass of water or maybe something stronger. He remembered the bottle of whisky in his kitchten cabinet. His mind could very much use some alcohol.

He wobbled on his unsteady legs to the kitchen and fetched said bottle of the amber liquid and a tumbler. He filled the glass to the brim and downed it in one go.

On his way to the couch he realised he was not alone. Mika lay curled up on the piece of furniture with the blankets pulled up to his chin. He was still trembling despite seeming fast asleep.

Michael sat down on a chair next to the couch and stared at the man who had been dying in his dreams minutes ago. He took another sip from his Scotch and frowned when the burning sensation of alcohol flooded his system. Gosh, what a privilege to have that handsome man sleeping in his living room.

He got up from his chair and started stroking Mika's soft blonde hair, which had dried up after the downpour of rain last evening. He then continued to caress his pretty face and his rosy cheeks. His rival was shivering under the blankets Michael had given him.

Something inside Michael wanted to hoist the pretty Finn up in his arms and take him to his bed to warm him up a little. After all, it was his fault the man was shaking to the core.

The alcohol in his system helped him make the decision. He pulled the blankets down, which seemed quite a task because Mika was clutching the bedlinen in a firm grip. He pulled harder and watched as Mika's hands were reaching into the void trying to get the blankets back. "No," he protested quietly with his eyes still shut, trapped in a lucid dream.

Michael threw the blankets on the ground and wrapped his arms around the trembling Finn and hoisted him up. He hadn't realised how heavy a grown man would be. He had to use all his strength to hold Mika to his chest. And of course he woke up.

He stared at Michael with big astonished saphire-blue eyes and started flailing with his arms due to the sudden loss of gravity.

"What are you doing?" he asked bewildered and a little sleep drunk.

Michael thightened his hold around his rival. He didn't want to let go. "Mika, you're still so cold. I need to get you warm for the sake of your health! I don't want you to get sick."

"You're holding me like a fetus!"

Michael abruptly put the Finn back on two feet. He had the guts to look disappointed. If he was honest with himself he needed the Finn's close proximity for his own good. "Aren't you cold? You were trembling on the couch."

Mika wrapped his arms around his body and pouted. "Well to be honest, I am still very cold, but I was finally asleep you know..."

Michael opened his arms, endeared by the Finn's little pout, and took him into a warm hug. "Come with me. I'm sorry I woke you up, but you will thank me next morning when you do not wake up with a fever."

Mika nodded hesistently and followed Michael to his large warm bed. To be honest, this didn't seem like such a bad idea... If cuddling up to Michael meant he would get his normal body temperture back... Oh who was he kidding! He craved affection from the German after last evening!

His thoughts made him blush and he became even more flustered when Michael pushed his blankets to the side to invite him in. His eyes sought for Michael's, needing reassurance to steady the beating of his heart.

Michael stared fondly back at the Finn. Who would have thought he could make Mika blush like that? He reveled in the sight of his adorable pink cheeks.

"Come on. I'm not angry with you anymore." He let his hand rest on Mika's lower back as he guided him onto his mattress.

He slipped in next to Mika and quickly draped his heavy blankets around the Finn, tucking him securely in his bed. Gosh he had Mika Häkkinen inside his bed! It was a good thing Mika was facing away from him, because his cheeks couldn't possibly become any redder. Anger? What anger? Had he ever been angry with the Finn?

"Can I hug you?"

Mika turned his head to look over his shoulder at his German rival. His cheeks were red. He nodded.

Michael wrapped his arms around the shaking man and held him in a octopus-like hold. He was inches away from nuzzling his neck, but his soft blonde hair was in the way. What if he nuzzled his hair instead? Mika wouldn't feel it if he did it carefully.

Michael let his nose run through the velvety golden locks and sighed heavenly. Mika's hair smelled of expensive spicy shampoo. He expected nothing less from the Finn.

"I am sorry for invading your space and being so protective over you. I've been having some dreams lately. Nightmares actually."

Mika now fully turned around to him. His ocean-blue eyes staring at Michael in question. "Sorry to hear that. About what?"

Michael swallowed audibly. He didn't know if he should share this with Mika, afraid that it would open old wounds. He felt very emotional all of a sudden, especially with all the bloody images flooding his mind again.

"Adelaide '95." His voice was very small due to the sudden thightness in his throat. Michael was afraid it sounded squeeky.

Mika stared at him with his big blue eyes. His bottom lip started to tremble. "I'm- I'm so sorry you've been going through that."

"Mika, no!" Michael pressed his finger to that trembling lip. "Don't say that!" His hold around the Finn thightened automatically. "Don't apologize to me! It's just that after your crash it left me in great concern! That's probably why I dream about it."

"Wh-wh-what happens in the dreams? How-how do they end? Do I die in them like I do in my own nightmares?" Mika now full on sobbed. His eyes two glistening orbs amid a flood of tears.

Michael couldn't bear the sight of his crying rival. He gently grabbed the blonde's head and tucked it under his chin. "Don't cry, mein Hübscher!" One of his hands slipped underneath Mika's pajama shirt and started to caress the bare goosebump covered skin of his back.

"Sshhh, dreams aren't real. That's what I constantly tell myself." He ran his other hand through the mop of the now messy blonde hair tickling his chin. "Your crash is in the past."

"Please don't downplay the consequences of it on my mental health," the emotionally hurt boy hissed from underneath the blankets.

"That's not what I meant! I'm trying to comfort you!" Michael tried to retrieve the Finn's face from where he had hidden it in the chaos of blankets and pillows.

Michael wiped Mika's hair back and stared at his tear-stained eyes and flustered cheeks. "That's not what I meant! Please Mika, you know."

"I know I'm sorry!" More tears were coming. "I'm just so pathetic."

Michael cuddled the Finn closer. "You're not! Why would you think that?! I did not experience it first hand and I am having nightmares about it too!" His hand went up to Mika's face to wipe his tears away.

His rival stared at him with astonished eyes. It caught Michael off guard. A sudden panic overtook him, thinking the action was too intimate.

"I can't believe you're so kind to me despite last evening."

Michael sighed in relief. A too intimate action? They were cuddling in bed together for heaven's sake. They had passed that point of embarassment. "Of course I'm kind to you. I would hate to be mean to you, no matter what happened last evening. I mean I could still be angry with you, but that would be for different reasons."

Mika blinked with his eyes. "What different reasons?"

"Being reckless. Staying outside in the cold and rain. How dare you?!"

When Michael noticed Mika's shocked face - probably wondering whether Michael was serious and trying to find out exactly how angry he was - he winked at him in reassurance.

It earned him a sweet chuckle. A chuckle that he hadn't heard this evening. It made him want to kiss the Finn on his forehead. It made him want to make breakfast for him the next morning.

"Hey Mika, maybe we can keep each other's nightmares away..." when we are lying in bed together. He swallowed those last few words. Because the reason they were in bed together was still only to share body warmth... nothing else... right?

Mika closed his eyes and huddled closer. "I hope we can."

[beauttifullife]

Fire and Blood

“Moth—er.”

The voice was so faint, so strained, yet it cut through the suffocating silence like a blade. Rhaenyra and I both jolted at the sound, our eyes snapping down to see Jacaerys pale face looking up at her. The breath caught in my throat as I watched him, his chest rising and falling in shallow, agonized gasps, but his eyes were calm—too calm.

Rhaenyra’s tears fell harder, her face crumpling as she clutched him tighter, as if holding him close could somehow keep him tethered to this world a little longer.

"It’s okay," Jacaerys whispered, his voice barely there, yet filled with a softness that shattered me. He was comforting her. Even as the life was slipping from him, he was the one offering her solace, and the sight of it broke something deep inside me.

Fresh waves of tears streamed down Rhaenyra’s face, falling like rain onto her son’s blood-stained armor. Her fingers trembled as they brushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his forehead, her sobs quiet but uncontrollable. She was trying so hard to be strong for him, to not fall apart in front of her dying son, but it was too much. It was too much for any mother to bear.

Jacaerys’ chest rose with another ragged breath, and then he spoke again, his voice so hoarse it felt like it was scraping against my soul.

"It doesn’t... even hurt."

The words were like a knife to the heart, because I knew—it did hurt. It had to. But he was lying, trying to make it easier for her. He was holding on, not for himself, but for her. And that realization made everything worse.

Rhaenyra’s shoulders shook as she bent down, pressing her forehead against his, her breath hitching with every sob she tried to contain.

"Jace..." she choked out, her voice so full of anguish that I could barely stand to hear it. "I’m sorry... I’m so, so sorry..."

He blinked slowly, each movement seeming like an immense effort, and in that instant, I saw the unmistakable signs of death creeping closer. His breaths came in shallow gasps, and the life that once burned so brightly in him was fading fast.

“I... protected them…I was… the man… you raised me… to be,” he managed, his voice a fragile whisper, cracking under the weight of his injuries.

Rhaenyra let out a gasping sob, her lips trembling as she fought to hold herself together. A single tear escaped, sliding down her cheek, but she quickly wiped it away, as if refusing to let her grief steal this moment from him. Her thumb moved to the corner of his mouth, gently wiping away the blood trickling down like she was wiping away a tear instead of the signs of his life slipping away. She cradled his face in her hands, her expression one of pure, heart-wrenching sorrow.

“My boy,” she whispered down to him, her voice shaking. She stared at him like she was memorizing every detail of his face, knowing these were the last words he would ever hear, the last memory of his mother to carry with him into the afterlife. And I could see it—Rhaenyra making a decision. She straightened her back, the sobs caught in her throat transforming into a steady breath, morphing from grieving mother to a queen giving her son his final honor.

“Jacaerys Velaryon,” she said, her voice wavering between mother and queen, the weight of her grief still clinging to every syllable, but now steadied by her resolve. “Prince, Dragon Rider, Heir to the Iron Throne, you have served your kingdom and—your queen,” her voice broke, before finding it again, “with honor and strength.”

Her voice trembled but held firm, her tone full of reverence and love, as if every word was a gift she was giving him. She looked him in the eye, as though daring him to give up before she was finished, as though he had to hold on just a little longer.

“The people will remember what you did today,” she continued, her words trembling yet resolute. “You will be etched into history not as a mere prince, but as a man who fought for what was right and true, for family, for legacy. History does not remember blood, my son. It remembers names.”

Her voice rose, fierce and full of promise, as if the very gods themselves were listening.

“And I swear to you—this kingdom, this world, will remember your name,” Rhaenyra vowed, her voice trembling with emotion but steady with conviction. “They will speak it with reverence, with awe. You will be remembered as a dragon—a true Targaryen. Fire and blood, my son," her voice lowered to a whisper, fierce and unyielding. "Fire and blood.”

At Rhaenyra's words, something shifted in Jacaerys’s face—a flicker of pride amidst the pain. His eyes, which had been clouded with agony, softened, and for a moment, a ghost of a smile played on his bloodied lips. The boy who had always carried the weight of whispers, the doubt that came with being called a bastard, now stared up at his mother with something like relief.

"Fire... and blood," he rasped, echoing her words as though they were a final acceptance, a validation he had been searching for his whole life.

A tear slipped down his cheek, mingling with the blood as he let out a shaky breath. His chest hitched with the effort, but in his eyes, there was peace.

“Mother...” he rasped, barely audible now, his voice fragile as glass, “...I... love you.”

Those were his last words.

[rarityroo]

Hi hi! Do you think you could make a ragatha x reader x pomni where the reader is very sensitive like gangle but more intense,and in this case the reader is crying because Jax was being Jax?

(Fem reader preferd but neutral is fine)

Have a good day!

Tender tears

(Ragatha x Fem!reader x Pomni)

Hi! I hope you like this! Sorry this took a bit to come out, also this a bit short, I’m still very ill sadly I’m sorry regardless. Enjoy!

A sensitive soul, crybaby, fragile, these had been words you've been called numerous times whether it be to tease you or to state the obvious. Either way, that's what you were, most found this to be a bother, not them though.....

Ragatha and Pomni have always been kind to you, even before you were in a relationship. You were very sensitive and often would cry for any emotion especially when you were sad or frustrated.

Both Ragatha and Pomni had always been so understanding though, they would comfort you and always reassure you. You were so glad to have them in your life, especially at a moment like this,

The tears flowed freely down your cheeks, a flood of emotion that seemed never-ending. Jax's careless words had pierced through you once again, leaving you feeling raw and exposed. It was moments like these when you felt the weight of your own sensitivity crushing down on you, leaving you feeling so very small.

But amid your despair, two constants remained by your side, Ragatha and Pomni.

As Ragatha's comforting hand settled on your shoulder, she whispered softly, "It's okay, darling. Let it out." Her hand gently caresses your shoulder traveling down your back, relaxing you.

Your sobs hitched as you buried your face in your hands, feeling utterly overwhelmed by the flood of emotions. "I-I can't help it," you choked out, your voice trembling with each word. You really hated how sensitive you were, if only you didn't fall apart so fast if only you could push off Jaxs mean 'jokes'.

Pomni sat beside you, offering a handkerchief to dab away the tears that stained your cheeks. "We know.." she said gently, her voice filled with comforting support. "We're here for you."

With a shaky breath, you looked up at them, appreciation shining in your tear-filled eyes. "Th-thank you," you whispered, your voice barely audible above the sound of your sniffles. You don't know what you would do without your perfect girlfriends.

Their words were like a lifeline in the darkness, pulling you back from the brink of despair. Reassuring touch and comforting gesture, the heaviness in your heart began to ease, replaced by the softness of closeness.

In the embrace of Ragatha and Pomni, you found a safe haven where your sensitivity was not a burden but a cherished part of who you were. You would always have them by your side, holding you through the darkest of times.

[captainkurosolaire]

I Blade - Choose

Sandal-clogs dashed inside a corridor hidden-away from an Eastern Estate, sweat secreting from a wrinkled forehead, fear written in the visage of a monger, a wielder who manufactured beings-as-weapons, shaped them with causes, purposes, a believed-martyr for those abandoned to darkness.

Blood-pressure accelerating, chest-heaved, padded-black boots now stained red, drew inward... Shriveling plead came, "...Now Rozan; Hoku... We can talk about this. You're unaware the ramifications you'll spill, how deep our cause goes. We're good-guys, our obligation is to carry out-the-will for those incapable to wield." The ploy was to sow further manipulation. Byproduct of damages were written in an almost soulless set of eyes. Seeker vocalized, "I'm not directionless. I'll fight for peace for The Far-East until victory-roars throughout Ruby City-State." Another step came, "But I'm of choice where I'm wielded. You attempted to extinguish that little-bit of light peeking through the crevices; it revealing chain's of deceit were on my hilt." Truth-peered intensely from those glowing-orbs. Star's collapsing on their victims, before certain annihilation. Don of Black Miracle's back-peddled, thoughts of scheme forming in desperation. Word's surely could disarm his renegade-weapon until reaching his trap-room. "I tried to rescue you by sending Hydo after the girl. She'll rust steel; relation's serve corrosive. Haven't I been the perfect-handler for you? What's-she possibly able to offer, I'm unable?!" Expressively trying to instill reason. The Assassin paused, grasping blade-hilt, almost at range. He contemplated from aroma of the contract-flower in-between his coat; sworn to protect, memory's rebooting of tongue tasting that divine liquid of tea that carried weary-travelers heaven, revitalizing senses, subtle movements the Shaman offered in mending. "Soft-Hands. Brightness... Importantly, discovery of my peace." Words conveyed like poetry. Sensations should've been exterminated, tempered from wrathful flames, torture inflicted to soul-crushed discipline. Angered-teeth grated his Manufacturer shouted furiously "Soft-Hands?! Kidding me?! ...That's all!? We could've thrown koban towards any Red-Light District shameless harlot for that. They'd provided all-that aforementioned, gobbling ravenously!" Taking a larger-gap step with a dark motive. Black-maned Lion cornering this bossing rodent squealing, unknowingly didn't desire fleeting reprieve. He slew in that manner. He yearned, more... Wait, when did his identity reveal? A luster-string internally showing a path. ...To Existence of a Heart. Sudden-shifts came as Don Honzo took a leap behind into a room where a detected motion-sensor sealed-up gate of wards offered salvation. The trap-room revealed itself, an insurmountable set of paper scrolls for an inferno spell revealed, all primed upon Hoku's approach soon inevitable detonation. Gloating with maniacal cackling, "Be incinerated you traitorous-tool! Know her weakness; caused your death!" Hand's on hip, proudly. The cowardice-demeanor was just a front of mastered shadow-orchestration. With peerless-composure, Rozan the Star withdrew sword, in instant a magnificent-strike slash of skilled. The preach of weakness foiled wrong, in that desperation moment, he grew stronger... considering that flower needed preservation; life greater than thought. Momentarily becoming weightless... His Don's expression engraved to dumbfounded. Almost worth-tearing to admirable beauty, genuine-fear creeping... The trap scrolls fused-sparks were left blown out like a series of candles, the protective barrier between them; sliced apart. Right as Hoku exhaled, utilizing that perfect technique; his back was unexpectedly smashed from a swinging-secondary trap of a wrecking-ball. He disarmed to instant, hand's in his fall reached out, cradling something from confines; to shield something fragile, collapsing directly in a heap before his Maker. The Don viciously kicked and stomped, "I TOLD YOU, Rust! Reason I'm in-charge, you disobedient, Trash! Ingrate! Vermin!" Kicking continuously, dirt piling amongst garb to slaved-belonging, rib's were being heard rattling cracks, air and spit chucking out of lungs. The twist unseen... seems he needed a miracle.

[Prev:Chapter]: Burned ~ ♪"Renegades"♪

[spencerreidswhore187]

Hymn for Her (5)

Ava x Beatrice (Warrior Nun) 

Summary: The discovery of a resurrected Ava, believed to be lost, sends ripples through Bea's reality, filling her heart with both joy and trepidation. However, the reunion takes a harrowing twist when Ava, transformed by otherworldly forces, becomes an unexpected adversary, unleashing violence upon the Order of the Cruciform Sword. Ava finds herself entangled in a relentless battle against the forces of darkness, the mystery behind her descent into darkness deepens. Meanwhile, Bea grapples with the conflicting emotions of love and despair, haunted by dreams that connect her to Ava's tortured soul.

T/W:  Descriptions of violence, blood and gore. Brief mentions of alcohol, guns and other weapons. Please let me know if I forgot to add something.

Word Count: 0.5k

Part One: An Unholy Darkness

Part Two: Echoes of Darkness

Part Three: Whispers in the Shadows

Part Four: Dance with Shadows

Part Five: Embrace of Light

Bea lay motionless on the cold ground. Torn and blood-stained, she appeared almost lifeless, a mere echo of the fierce warrior she once embodied. Ava, driven by fear, frantically pulled her body onto her lap, brushing the soft strands out of Bea’s face. 

"Bea," Ava breathed, the fragility of her plea hung in the air, mixing with the acrid scent of blood. "Please, don't leave me."

Barely clinging to consciousness, Bea managed a weak smile, her voice a gentle melody in the midst of the quiet chaos. "You did it, Ava. We did it."

Ava's trembling hands gently cradled Bea's wound.

"I can’t lose you," Ava confessed, her voice choked with the weight of emotions that the brutal reality of death had thrust upon her.

Bea's fingers, stained with the blood of battle, traced a soothing pattern on Ava's cheek, the touch a comforting reassurance in the stillness of the aftermath. "No goodbyes, remember?" she whispered, her voice carrying the comforting cadence of a familiar melody that spoke of enduring love.

Ava's tears fell freely as she pressed her forehead against Bea's, their breaths intermingling in the quiet desperation of the moment. “I love you.” 

While Ava clung to Bea, the halo began to glow with an ethereal light, casting a soft, otherworldly glow that seemed amplified by the sacred sword. The healing energy it emitted sought out Bea's wounds, its touch gentle and transformative, weaving a tapestry of restoration.

Regaining strength, Bea's eyes fluttered open, greeted by the soothing warmth that permeated her being. The pain that had once gripped her body began to ebb away, replaced by a comforting sensation as if the very fabric of her being was being meticulously mended.

Unaware, Ava continued to hold Bea with a desperation that transcended the physical realm. The wounds on Bea's body closed, leaving only faint traces of the battles fought. The halo's glow intensified, its radiance now a testament to the unseen forces that guided their shared destiny.

"You saved me," Bea whispered, her voice carrying the weight of gratitude.

Ava, still immersed in her emotional turmoil, met Bea's gaze. "I thought…I thought I lost you," she repeated, the words a mantra of disbelief and relief.

Feeling the warmth of the healing energy that surrounded them, Bea reached up to caress Ava's cheek. "You found me, Ava. You brought me back."

Ava and Bea clung to each other in the glow of the fading halo. Bea smiled, the expression holding the warmth of gratitude and the undeniable strength of their love. "Whatever darkness you faced, you brought us back into the light."

Overwhelmed with emotion, Ava leaned down to press a tender kiss on Beatrice's forehead. The moon hung low in the night sky, casting a silvery glow upon the sacred space, where Beatrice's fingers gently traced Ava's features.

"Do you still want me to teach you to dance?" Beatrice asked, the question carrying a hopeful note.

Ava's eyes, once filled with tears of despair, now sparkled with a playful glint. "Only if you'll let me show you how to drink."

Bea leant forward and pressed her lips against Ava’s. As they clung to each other, the courtyard seemed to breathe with a newfound sense of hope and a recognition of the unwavering resilience of a warrior nun who had faced the shadows and emerged into the embrace of the light for love.

A/N: Thank you for reading ◡̈

[samanthamarkle92]

For @n-y-x04! Life is busy so instead I’m posting a snippet from a WIP as a sneak peak for the other followers! This is a zombie survival au that has Johnny, female OC Alex, Simon, and Johnny’s sister Lucy heading to a remote cabin in Scotland to hunker down during a zombie outbreak. Along the way, they pick up a little girl named Della. Simon quickly becomes protective of her, but I'd hiding the fact that he killed Della's zombified brother and the fact that her parents are probably dead. Tragedy strikes the group when Lucy dies after giving birth. Here is a sweet scene with Simon and Della…get tissues!

The night was quiet, save for the soft whimpers coming from the small figure huddled on the bed. Simon, his senses immediately attuned to the sound, stirred from his makeshift bed on the couch. With a gentle rustle of the afghan draped around his broad shoulders, he made his way into the room where Della lay, tears glistening in the moonlight.

“What's wrong, Della? Are you having another bad dream?” Simon's voice growled in the darkness, which might have scared anyone else but not this little girl.

Della's tear-streaked face turned towards him, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Yes…”

“Come here,”

Without hesitation, Simon scooped her up in his strong arms, cradling her close to his chest as he carried her back to the couch. He laid her down gently, the afghan a warm cocoon around her trembling form. Tucking her in with a tenderness that contrasted with his hardened personality, he settled down beside her, a silent guardian in the night.

A soft smile graced Simon's lips as he brushed a stray lock of strawberry blonde hair away from Della's tear-stained cheeks. “There. Now go back to sleep. You'll feel better in the morning.”

“Okay,” Della's voice was a mere whisper, her exhaustion evident in the heaviness of her eyelids. “Can I have a kiss?”

A surge of warmth filled Simon's chest as he bent down, pressing a gentle kiss to the crown of Della's head, stroking her hair. She nestled closer to him, seeking solace in his comforting embrace. She curled up against his huge body, feeling safe. Despite the scars he had a heart of gold he reserved for those who needed it most.

He gazed down at Della, her innocent face a stark reminder of the fragility of childhood. She was a child in a world of chaos, seeking refuge in the arms of strangers turned protectors. Simon's heart ached for her, for the family she had lost and the uncertainties that lay ahead.

No matter how fiercely he loved Della, he knew that he could never fill the void left by her parents. Their absence was a gaping wound that time could never fully heal. He knew that feeling more than anyone. And as Simon watched over the sleeping girl, a silent vow settled in his soul - to protect her, to cherish her, but never replace her parents.

He would gladly put his life on the line for her if it meant she wouldn’t ever suffer through the loss he experienced.

As he glanced over, he smiled; the small girl had fallen asleep. Her hair spilled across the s he brushed it aside, placing his large, calloused fingers upon her cheek.

"Sweet dreams." He whispered, feeling her relax. He rubbed her back.

“Simon….when will Mummy and Daddy come get me?”

Simon thought carefully before answering her question.

“When things are safe again. I promise you, Della. I swear.” Simon promised solemnly, hoping that his words were true, especially after everything that has happened. If the worst happens he will make sure that everyone else survives.

Simon closed his eyes. He was a super-soldier; it was whispered that he had been the most dangerous man in Britain. Being labeled a fugitive after avenging the death of his family had lifted after the zombie outbreak started and the world fell apart. People no longer feared him, because there wasn't any fear left. Not even fear of death.

But the nightmares didn't end. As Simon stared into the darkness he wondered if there would ever be an end to them.

He felt Della stir and he adjusted the blanket. After a few minutes she sighed quietly as she drifted off to sleep. Simon listened to her breath as he held her tightly to him.

And here is a scene later; a young woman named Nicole has joined the group, and she and Simon eventually become a couple, while Della becomes a feral child after spending so much time out in nature.

Della padded barefoot around on the forest floor. In the months of living in the cabin with the group she had gone from a sheltered princess from the suburbs to a feral child, wanting to be outside as long as possible on sunny days. She loved it when Simon put her on his shoulders so she could touch the branches. Alex and Nicole would read to her when Johnny and Simon were out scouting for zombies. She started calling the adults Aunt and Uncle, and had stopped asking about her family. Alex had to cut Della’s red-blonde hair short because it was always getting matted with burrs and leaves. She would often come back covered with dirt and scratch marks from climbing trees.

“How’s our wild girl?” Simon asked, walking up behind Della and picking her up. She giggled as he carried her to the cabin door.

“Good!”

“You've been doing everything we've been telling you?

”

“Yep! Auntie Alex and Aunt Nicole taught me lotsa stuff.”

Simon set Della on the floor, watching her tiptoe over to the playpen by the kitchen table.

"Hi, Sophie!" the little girl whispered to the sleeping baby.

Sophie stirred, and Alex scooped her into her arms. Alex tried singing a Gaelic lullaby that she had heard Johnny singing to the baby.

It worked though, because Sophie's eyes fluttered open sleepily before closing again. Della went to show Simon a picture she drew.Della bounded over to Simon, her tiny hands clutching a piece of paper adorned with colorful crayon drawings. Her face beamed with excitement, a look that made Simon's heart swell.

"Look, Simon! Look what I made!" she exclaimed, holding the picture up proudly.

Simon knelt down to her level, his smile wide. "Wow, Della! This is amazing! What’s happening in your picture?"

"That’s me!" she pointed at a stick figure with wild hair, "And that's you, Daddy!"

The word slipped out before she realized it, her innocent eyes widening as she registered what she had just said.

Simon paused, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected title. He felt warmth flood his cheeks, and for a moment, he was taken aback. “Daddy?” he echoed, a mixture of surprise and tenderness in his voice.

Della giggled, the sound light and carefree. “Yeah! You’re my daddy in the picture! You save me, just like a hero!”

Simon couldn’t help but chuckle at her innocent logic. He ruffled her short red-blonde hair, a soft smile gracing his lips. “Alright then, I’ll be your hero, but let’s stick with Simon for now, okay?”

Della nodded enthusiastically, blissfully unaware of the weight of the word she had just chosen. “Okay, Simon! But you’re still my hero!”

As she turned back to show him her drawing, Simon felt a sense of warmth settle in his chest. He had never thought of himself in that light, but somehow, the title suited him just fine, especially coming from her. Maybe

it was because she wasn’t used to seeing him with the mask, or because she saw the real him, a man whom she knew was kind and gentle, despite all of the violence and pain he had endured during the war. Whatever it was, something within him grew warm at the idea. It might have only been an instant but, somehow he felt like he could be the dad Della needed him to be. For some reason, that feeling made him happy beyond belief. He grinned widely, his gaze falling onto the little girl. She didn’t seem to notice anything else but her drawing, humming happily and continuing to colour in the picture. And just like that, he felt like it was all going to work out.