#but she is like. Hollow. There is nothing going on with her other than abusive mom and capitalist

[lollytea]

The Blight family are so interesting IN THEORY. In execution they are....😬

[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

[reminiscingtonight]

Russo: derby, concussion, care

Derby Day (Alessia Russo x Reader)

[WOSO Masterlist]

“But it’s the North London Derby!”

Alessia huffs and sinks lower on the couch.

“A little blood never hurt anybody.”

Beth doesn’t make eye contact.

“You don’t get it. You’re not a footballer.”

Leah opens her mouth but quickly shuts it when she sees the look on your face.

The three of them are in various shapes, one with an egg on her forehead, another with two icepacks strapped to both ribs, the last with a makeshift ankle brace constructed out of the finest frozen peas from your freezer.

“Honestly, if someone came in here right now they’d think I abused you all!”

Alessia turns her pleading eyes towards Viv but gets no help from the Dutch woman. “She did warn you guys.”

You’re pacing back and forth in front of the three of them. You’ve all been in this position since Viv tried to drop Alessia off at home nearly an hour ago. You took one look at the broken carpool and all but ordered the four gunners into your house.

A last minute work mishap made you miss out on the derby day, but that didn’t stop you from dropping Alessia off at the Emirates before the game. Beth and Leah met the two of you with grins, all but waving off your words of caution before sweeping your girlfriend away.

“I highly recall telling you to take care of yourself, Alessia, did I not? And what was it that you said back to me?”

Your girlfriend mumbles sweet nothings into her sweatshirt, nearly disappearing into the massive thing. You’re sure if she had it her way she’d melt right into the couch.

“Louder! I can’t hear you.”

Your attention’s quickly taken away when you hear Leah’s not-so discrete snickering. She pales when she makes eye contact. 

“Unless the next words out of your mouth is apologizing for not keeping my girlfriend safe like you promised, you shut that mouth, Leah Cathrine.”

Beth snorts before realizing her mistake. 

Your nose flares angrily. “And what do you have to say for yourself? Getting sent off for something as stupid as blocking the keeper’s kick? Honestly, Viv must have the patience of a saint, putting up with you.”

The brunette’s sitting on the other side of the room, watching everything with thinly concealed amusement. A small tweak had her watching the game from the stands. Of course there’s nothing more fun that playing in a North London Derby, but with the high fouls and flying boots that unfolded at the stadium today, Viv would be lying if she said she wasn’t glad to be a spectator. Especially if being sidelined saved her a lecture from you.

There’s another hot reprimand on the tip of your tongue when you feel a gentle tug on your sleeve.

“Babe?”

Alessia’s got the widest eyes, frown set upon her lips as she tries to appeal to your soft side. You’re still mad, but you try to lower your temper at the clear discomfort written across her face.

“My head really hurts. Can I go to bed?”

When Alessia got hurt it took everything in your power not to drive straight to the stadium. Viv had texted you a quick update when Alessia was being checked out, reassuring you that it looked worse than it actually was.

You couldn’t stop yourself from replaying the video over and over, heart breaking every time you watched her head bounce off the ground. But you chose to believe your friend, waiting with nerves while you awaited your girlfriend’s return.

Though all that worry flew right out the door when you caught sight of the other two injured girls. 

“Well I think that’s our cue!” Beth takes her chance to leap forward, hands pulling at her vice captain to follow her. “Goodnight, Russo, Mrs. Russo--” 

Beth chokes on her words when you grab ahold of her collar, stopping her before she can take another step towards the door.

“Now where do the two of you think you’re going?”

The two blondes exchange nervous looks. 

Leah clears her throat. “Home?”

She swallows hard at the hollow laugh you let out.

“Nice try. Captain Nothing’s-Wrong and her sidekick,” you ignore the dirty look Beth gives you at her assignment, “congratulations, thanks to your clear inability to follow the simplest of instructions, the two of you have won yourselves the Alessia Russo night watch shift.”

And with that, you take a seat next to Viv, turning on the TV to something random while you ignore the three cries of protest.

[obvi-the-best-soph]

"(ABUSE TW) Alexia notices the bruises on your body"

alexia putellas masterlist: here explanation of wtf this is: here

genre: angst warnings: abuse, abusive father, bruising (nothing too graphic though.)

16. You're 16. And playing for FC Barcelona Femeni. That in it's self is something other girls your age could only dream of. But you never really dreamt, you just had nightmares… not that you would ever even consider telling anyone else that fact. You were Barca's newbie, but still, the immediate golden girl, you're pretty, and extremely good at football, so good that when you signed, Alexia Putellas had immediately been assigned to being your mentor, effectively your main coach, but she was also required to spend time with you outside of trainings, games and team events. Alexia was more than happy to spend this time with you, but you always pulled out at the last minute, giving Alexia a weak excuse and apologising the next time you saw her in person.

It wasn't that you didn't want to go out with her, more that you… couldn't. Your father didn't let you leave unless it was for something to do with school or football, but you didn't want it to seem too suspicious. You couldn't imagine the punishment you would get if he found at you'd been telling people the things he'd do to you, but Alexia had noticed, she always noticed.

This time, you two were in the gym after the rest of the team had left, she noticed all the bruises up and down your arms and shins, one of them on the back of your thigh shaped suspiciously like a belt buckle. Alexia asked, and you blamed it on being clumsy and laughed, as always. But then she really began to look, she noticed how the bags under my eyes had been getting darker, how my cheeks had hollowed, how I always had bruises covering my body, not small brown ones either, ones deep shades of blue or green or purple, how the muscle me and Alexia had been working so hard to build was slowly disintegrating, leaving you looking much paler and skinnier than before…

Finally, Alexia couldn't take you stupid weak excuses anymore, she had to say something, she loved you like a mother to a daughter, and she was seriously worried.

Alexia: …

[magics-neptunes-things]

Harassment

Hi everyone!

So this is the shittiest thing I ever wrote and it took me forever. Please let me know what you think anyway. It's for a request from here.

Also I haven't corrected spelling or syntax, it was the one thing too many.

Enjoy ♥

TW : Past relationship abused, kidnapping, violence, angst.

______________________________________________________________

Since her comeback to Barcelona, Ona is your little ray of sunshine. It’s not at that moment that you met her, you know her since she started to play in Manchester United. Yourself playing for Manchester United too, you met there. You only played together one year, before you went to play to Lyon for a loan for one year. And after that, you find yourself to FC Barcelona, where you met Ona again.

You always had a crush on her, I mean how could you not? But nothing ever happened between the both of you, you were maybe to shy for that. Before Barcelona, you never said anything to her about your feelings for her. You even tried to forget her when you were at Lyon, with some French man you met around football stadium.

Things were great with him at first, but it soon started to get strange. And, at last, violent. He was a manipulative, jealous and violent man. But you didn’t know a lot of people in France, and you didn’t want to talk to your teammates about what he was doing to you. You are clumsy by nature, so you just said your bruises were from falling or hitting you on basically every surface in your flag.

When your loan was finish, he asked you to stop football. Well, he required. But your agent didn’t let you and you’re forever thankful for him about that. He makes you move to Barcelona, and you broke up with your boyfriend at the same time. He wasn’t happy with you, clearly not. But you threatened to press charges if he didn’t leave you alone. Since then, you’ve never heard from him again. And this is a great relief.

No one in your current team knows about your story with him. Along those year you were still talking to Ona though, even if it wasn’t regularly. But you were more than happy to be in the same team again. Ona seems too and since day one you literally weren’t apart.

You helped Ona to choose the missing furniture for her flat and you both have a key from the other flat. You like cuddling watching TV with her, you like when she sleeps on your shoulder during travels to another city for a game, you like listening to her talking about her family. You like her laugh, you like her smile, you like her smell, you like her freckles, her hair, her eyes, her arms, everything about her. You like her. You love her.

You weren’t really discreet about it though, because some of your friends of the team started to tease you about it. Cata is one of your best friends in the team and she’s maybe your number one teaser. She’s kind enough to not doing it in front of Ona, but she received more than a slap behind her head because of it. You couldn’t help to stare at Ona when she’s away from you, your eyes attracted to her like magnets.

Ona can ask what she wants, you will always say yes. You didn’t say a word about your attraction to her anyway, you’re way to scared to lose her for that. You don’t know what you would do if Ona flew away from your life. She’s your everything and you better have her as a friend in your life than don’t have her.

********

You’re at the end of a game in the Johan Cruyiff stadium, enjoying some laugh with Cata and Lucy about Cata’s awkwardness in the video the admin post on Instagram where she thanks the Culers about their support.

You don’t have to turn around to know who owns the hand that gently rests in the hollow of your kidneys, its softness and its warmth recognizable between a thousand. Ona smile back at you and you pass your arm around her shoulders.

“Great game Señorita” you congrats her.

“Thanks. You were good too.”

She sends you a wink and you smile, turning to the stadium to go sign some jersey and take pictures. Ona didn’t let you go and you didn’t too, enjoying her closeness more than anything. Fans are speculating about a relationship between you two, but you never talked about it to Ona before. She didn’t, so you just follow her lead. You have to release her when you’re near the fans though and you start talking with the people waiting for you.

Minutes passed and you are coming slowly to the entrance of the tunnel giving access to the locker rooms. That’s when you saw him.

Your ex-boyfriend.

His evil smile on his face, he’s looking at you dead in your eyes. You froze, your hands suddenly shaking. It’s like all around you isn’t here anymore. What is he doing here? What does he want?

You almost jump out your skin when you fell a hand on your back, turning yourself to be faced to Ona and Alexia.

“Is everything alright?” the brunette asks while Alexia looks at you attentively.

“Yeah” you mumble “I’m just tired.”

You look again where your ex is standing and he’s still looking at you. You let Ona drives you to the changing room, where you get ride of your kit quietly, deep in your thoughts. You block his number when you left France and all his social media. You even didn’t really think about him those past weeks, being more focused on your job in the team. And, you have to admit, your relationship with Ona.

You take a long, hot shower, hopping he left when you will get out of the stadium too. When you get out of the shower, almost all of your teammates left too. There is still Ona, Alexia, Marta and Caro. The last three were talking too fast in Catalan for you to understand, but Ona seems to be waiting for you. She gives you a smile, far from suspecting where your mind is spiraling.

“Are you ready to get home?”

You almost say you prefer to go home alone, scared that the man is somewhere waiting for you. But when you realize that the other three women are leaving too, you nod. At least you will be with more force if he tries to talk to you. Or worst.

You’re on edge during your walk to the parking, not listening to what the others are saying, looking around you discreetly. Well, you think you are, but Alexia and Ona exchange an questioning look behind you. You manage to go in Ona’s car without seeing him, after saying goodbye to your friends.

“Do you want to come at my home or are you too tired for it cariño?”

You look at Ona for some seconds, before answering. You are scared to go home to find him on your doorstep, but if he’s following you, you don’t want to put Ona in danger. You know what he’s capable of. In other hand, he doesn’t know what Ona’s car looks like.

“I can come, if it’s ok with you”

“Of course”

Ona smiles at you, taping your hand with hers before turning on her car. It’s dark outside and you don’t see a lot, but you don’t see him waiting outside with some fans. Ona didn’t stop to say hi, only waving at them and you’re secretly really relieved about it. You slept at Ona’s tonight, feeling a little more in security while you cuddle against her in her bed.

********

The next time you see him, is when you’re running late for training. You had a shooting to promote the new adidas boots who take longer than you thought. You wrote to Ona to tell her you will be late and she answered to take your time and drive safely. You did, but when you stop your car, you jump outside your car, throw your bag on your shoulder and start almost running in the entrance.

“Hey, Y/N!”

Without other thought, you turn in the voice’s direction, thinking it’s a fan or something. But it’s not. It’s him, once again. He’s alone, you’re alone and you can’t make a single move to get away from here. Even when he’s walking in your direction.

“I see things are great for you know. Great car, great teammates… Great friends”

Your heart beats too fast and you swallow nervously before answering him. He’s now standing only one meter from you.

“What do you want?”

“I want my girlfriend, you, back. You left me without any choice and a threat, but I decided I’m better with you.”

“The threat is still on.”

Your voice is weak, and you feel pathetic. He seems to think the same, his laughs making you shivers. But before he can say anything else, you hear someone calling your name behind you.

You breath a little better when you realize that is Alexia and she’s walking where you are.

“You’re not coming? We are late.”

You nod, following her lead silently.

“See you soon Y/N” your ex says behind you.

You flinch but answer nothing to him. You don’t look back either, focused on your feet while you’re still walking with Alexia.

“Do you know him?”

You gulp, not really knowing what to answer to that. Yes, you know him, but it’s not really something you want Alexia to know. But she continues, still talking.

“You didn’t look really comfortable. You know, if someone disturbed you, you just have to say something and the security will take him away, right?”

“Yes, I know” you smile “Thank you Ale.”

Alexia smiles at you and pass an arm around your shoulders, taking you in the changing room. You don’t really know why you don’t explain what happened with him. You’re ashamed, but you know she wont judge you. Like Ona wouldn’t, Cata and all your friends and teammates. It’s just something you hate talking about. You never did, to anyone.

Since that day, you are always with someone to go to training or even the games. It’s usually Ona, sometimes Cata too. You are more at Ona’s flat than yours, scared to find yourself face to him. Ona’s flat is secured, you need to have an electronic card to access to the building and the parking lot. Yours isn’t.

Ona seems to realize that something is wrong with you. She hasn’t talk about it for now, but sometimes when she looks at you, you can find concern in her eyes. You are closer than ever though, and you must fight everyday your will to kiss her. It’s even harder when you’re cuddling against her like today in front of her tv.

You smile when you feel her lips kissing your hair, raising your eyes to hear. She smiles back, but she has the same concern look in her eyes. With her hand, she puts back some of your hair behind your ear.

“You know you can count on me cariño, si? No matter what?”

“Of course, Ona. Why are you saying that?”

Did Alexia talked to her about the time she saw you with your ex? You’re nervous suddenly, something you usually aren’t when Ona is around.

“I just feel like something is happening to you. You’re not like yourself, you’re always thinking, like something is constantly confusing you. I miss hearing you laugh.”

“I’m sorry” you mumble, sitting up. “Do you want me to leave?”

“What? No, I’ve never said that!”

Ona groans in frustration, rubbing her forehead. You don’t really understand what she wants from you. If you’re annoying, you would better go home and face whatever repercussions you will have to. Ona takes your hand, slightly stroking your fingers with her thumb.

“I don’t really know how to say that, and maybe the timing is wrong. But I really care for you, like maybe not in a friendly way. Well, it’s not maybe, I do care about you. Because I like you, a lot.”

You haven’t look away for a second, but you still have trouble understanding what she really is saying. She likes you a lot? Like, like like? Your confusion must be writing on your face, because Ona smiles and comes to sit closer to you.

“I like you. I want to take you on a date, have you for myself everyday and try to make you happy. Is it something you want to too?”

“I’m waiting for it since day one, Ona” you admit, blushing.

“Perfect” Ona grins. “And now, I really want to kiss you.”

You didn’t let her kiss you; you kiss her first. Leaning in her direction, you put your lips on hers, testing their softness for the first time. They are soft and sweet, as if they were made for yours. Ona kisses you back, her hand finding her way to your hair, holding your face against hers as she deepens the kiss. Soon her tongue is on your bottom lip, asking the entrance of your mouth and you lost it.

No one ever kissed you with so much passion. And no one ever makes you feel this way.

********

It feels weird to go to the training the day after your first kiss with Ona. You spend the night to her flat, enjoying her presence next to you. She drives you to training and you met Cata and Mariona on the parking lot. They are used to see you both coming together so they didn’t say anything, even if Cata wiggle her brows when Ona isn’t looking. You roll your eyes, discreetly pinching her ribs, making her yelp.

There is no way that you talk to her about last night right now. You want to enjoy the memories a little more before being teased even more.

Ona seems amused by your little fight, and she gives you a knowing look, who makes you smile. You confess some things yesterday, and the fact that Cata knows about your crush for her was in.

The training went great, your teammates regaining your lost bubbly personality. You make your drill with Ona, simply unable to stay away from her. Things got bad again though, while you were changing in the locker room after your shower.

You’re joking with Cata while Ona is talking with Mariona and Alexia when Fridolina come back to the changing room, Mapi and Ingrid following her.

“Hey Y/N” Frido says, making your gaze go to her “You never said anything about your boyfriend!”

“What?” you frown.

Next to you, Ona froze, her head turning quickly in your direction. You share a look with her before turning to Frido again.

“What are you talking about?”

“Your boyfriend” she repeats, smirking.

“I don’t have a boyfriend.”

Mapi rolls her eyes before looking at her phone in the pocket of her jeans. You are always lost when she opens it, scrolling for some seconds before putting it in front of your face.

You suddenly turned pale.

It is in fact a picture of you with your ex, looking happy and in love. It was in the first days of your relationship though. You never took pictures after he started his abuse.

“He shows us the pictures because the security won’t let him passed” Mapi explain.

You don’t know what to say. Your heart is pounding. But you soon realize that he’s here, some meters from you.

“Where is he?” you ask in a small voice.

“Wait, you do know him?”

Ona’s voice is a mix of surprise, incomprehension and disbelief. She doesn’t look at Mapi when she snorts and show her her phone again, only looking at you. You can’t lie to her.

“I do, but it’s not what you think Oni, I swear.”

“Don’t Oni me.”

The others seem lost about your interaction with Ona, only Cata seems to understand what’s happening. You never saw Ona looking at you the way she is, with so much cold and almost hate.

“Ona let her explain, maybe you…” Cata tries.

But Ona brutally stands up, taking her bag and leaving the room. You try to get up to follow her, but Mapi stops you right after. You know she loves Ona and probably only want to protect her, but she makes you lose time.

“What have you done?” she asks coldly.

“Not now Mapi, please. I will explain, but now I have to catch her.”

You don’t let her answer anything, standing up to try to find Ona. But you’re not able to and when you reach the parking lot, she has already left. You came with her this morning, so you don’t have your car to go to her flat. You thought about picking a bike or something, until a car stops right next to you.

You don’t have to see the face of the person inside it, you know already.

“Get in the car, or I’ll follow her. Now.”

What could you do? There’s no way that you let him go after Ona, he seems to knows what link you have with her. You don’t hesitate one second, but that’s doesn’t mean it’s easy to do. Your hands are shaking once again when you open the passenger door.

Meanwhile, in the changing room, Alexia had observed the interaction without saying a word. She was analyzing everything. When you left, she asks Mapi to see the pictures she showed you and Ona and she recognize him almost directly.

“She was talking to him last week, in the parking lot when we both arrived late” Alexia frowns.

“So she knows him! He’s her boyfriend!” Frido says with exasperation.

“I’m not sure… She didn’t look at ease, he was talking but she wasn’t. She looked almost scared.”

Ingrid’s frowning too, like Alexia she was quiet during the little scene before. She doesn’t want to believe that you will cheat to someone, whatever if this person is Ona or someone else. Something was disturbing her since the beginning.

“He said he will wait for her outside” she remembers her friends and her girlfriend.

“What?!” almost shout Cata

The Majorcan woman doesn’t hesitate. Like Ona and you did, she runs in the floor, Alexia following soon after. But they arrived to late, only able to see you getting in your ex’s car.

********

You don’t say anything during the journey. You don’t know where he’s taking you, you don’t recognize the streets anymore. Ona is still a big part of your thoughts; you have your phone in the inside pocket of your jacket, but you prefer not to use it for now. Maybe you will need it after. You’re scared too, but it’s not something new when you’re with him.

“Where are we going?” you ask some minutes later.

He looks briefly at you, but only answer with a grimace full of disdain. You took the opposite direction from your apartment or Ona’s, so you’re relieved to see that he didn’t decide to go after the girl you love. You don’t know what he planned for you, but you regret not being able to tell Ona that you love her before everything shattered. At the same time, how could you have imagined the turn of events?

You really start to worry when he leaves the busy roads for small roads, where houses are becoming fewer and fewer. When it stops at the roadside, just before the start of a forest road, you turn in its direction.

"Get off" he does simply by picking up his phone and car keys.

You put your attention around you. There are only trees and a rocky path that starts a few meters from where the car is stopped.

"I said, get off!"

You jump, but you obey what he orders you, opening the car door. The air is a little cooler than in the city of Barcelona, here in the shade of the trees. You swallow before delicately closing the car door. He shows you the way to follow with a nod, making you pass in front of him. He must fear an attempt to flee from you if you walk behind, which may indeed happen.

"Where are we going?" you ask again.

But he doesn’t answer you, pushing you in the back to make you move forward. What you end up doing, eyes screwed to the floor so you don’t twist an ankle with all these stones.

“You never learn” he says some minutes after

“What?”

You frown, turning slightly in his direction. With the time passing, it looks like you lost the ability to understand him. Reading in his mind.

“I told you to stop football. You didn’t and then you left me? Who do you think you are?”

You bite your lip. He seems angry and that’s never been a good thing. You try to slow down a bit, scared to arrive to his destination.

“People online are saying that you’re shagging this Spanish girl. Is that true?”

You’re just denying it by shaking your head negatively. Technically, you’re not lying to him. You and Ona never took that step.

“Do you realize what people think of me? My girlfriend leaving me to play football in Spain and flirting like a slut with other people?"

“I’m not your girlfriend anymore” you mumble.

You know you’re going to make him angry, but you don’t care. You have a hard time with the way he talks about Ona, not to mention the gratuitous insult you just took.

As you expected, he reacts brutally, grabbing your arm and turning you around, stopping you in your walk and drawing you towards him.

"That’s what you believe. You’re mine and if I can’t have you, no one else will."

Before you have time to fully realize what it involves, a pebble rolling sound behind you causing him to release you and turn in the opposite direction. But there is no one and even if you managed to run away without him realizing it, you don’t know what exit you can find to save yourself.

When two paths present themselves to you, you choose the one that continues to descend. Unfortunately, he sees you doing, unlike what happens in suspense movies. A few meters further, it finally happens what it was supposed to happen on this stony path. You twist your ankle and fall heavily. You don’t have time to get up that he’s already next to you, looking furious.

You try to get up anyway, especially when you see him picking up a big stone at your feet.

Then several things happen in the fractions of seconds that follow this movement. With an instinctive gesture, you protect your face with your arm, what you imagine your last thoughts turned towards Ona.

But you hear other steps, loud voices and a cry of pain that is not yours. When you stand up, your ex is lying on the ground, Cata’s shaking her right hand in pain and Alexia seems to hold your ex on the ground with a foot on his chest cage. Behind them, Mariona is on the phone.

"What are you doing here?" you stutter, getting up as best you can.

"We followed you" Cata simply replies.

You accept her valid hand to get up, limping slightly because of your ankle. You watch as your ex-boyfriend insults Alexia deeply in French, before you turn your attention to your captain.

“I don’t speak French” the blonde smirk.

“Help is on his way” Mariona says soon after.

She comes for you and take you in her arms, a hug that you give her back happily.

“How’s your hand?” you ask to Cata over Mariona’s shoulder.

“Hé I've had worse”

You smirk too before releasing Mariona, you pat your cheek slightly. You wait for only a few minutes for the rescue team, leaning on Cata to relieve your painful ankle. They take your ex in one car and take him to the nearest police station. They inform you that someone will come to ask you some questions at the hospital, where your taken with Cata to check your injuries.

********

You told everything to Cata, Mariona and Alexia as the take you to the hospital. They listened, never judging you. You felt stupid to hide all this without talking to anyone, but they never said anything about that too.

You are sitting in your hospital bed, talking with Cata when the door of your room is suddenly open. Turning your head, you recognize Ona’s silhouette in a second. She doesn’t seem sure of herself though, waddling from one foot to the other on the doorstep.

“You can come in, Oni”

“I’m going to call my mum” Cata says, jumping from the chair she was sitting until now.

She smiles at you and pats Ona shoulder before get it out and closing the door behind her.

Ona’s looking at you and you’re looking at you. She took a few steps inside the room but is still far away from you.

“Ona I…”

“Look I know…”

Of course, you have to talk at the same time. This makes you smile and Ona smiles too, making your heart fluttered a little. Her smile has always been something magical for you.

“Go on” you say simply.

“I’m sorry for running away without taking the time to listen to you. Don’t be mad at her but when Alexia called me to ask me to come here, she told me what happened. And why.”

You swallow with difficulty, not really sure of what Ona thinks about that. You’re still not very at ease about this part of your past, but if someone must know, it’s Ona. Unless she isn’t interested in you anymore.

“So you know” you whispers.

“I know that it’s your ex-boyfriend and not your current boyfriend and that he was kind of following you around here. Alexia said there is more, but that it’s better if you talk about it yourself.”

You are thankful for Alexia’s care, but in other hand you wouldn’t have been against the idea of not putting words about it. You pat the bed next to you to invite Ona to sit down, taking a deep breath before talking.

“You don’t have to share anything if you don’t want to, Cariño.”

“I know. I just don’t know where to start” you sigh.

Ona doesn’t say anything, only grabs your hand to interlink your fingers together. You let her, of course. Her presence is everything to you right now, so you have to make an effort for her and talk. Ona waits patiently, playing with your fingers.

“Ok, so I’m going to be very straightforward” you begin, waiting for Ona to nod before talking again. “When I met him, I was desperate to forget the feelings I hade for someone back in Manchester. I was to shy to talk to her and I don’t know. He was very kind and caring at first.”

You bite your lips, you saw that Ona almost interrupt you to ask who this person was, but you prefer not to tell her now. You are almost sure that she will feel guilty about all this and you don’t want that.

“But after some weeks, he began to become jealous, possessive and controlling the messages I sent, the people I talked to. To avoid arguments, I ghosted a lot of people. I went to training, to games and then I went home right after. I haven’t made many friends in Lyon. But he was never satisfied. When my contract in Lyon was finish, I wanted me to quit football. I refused and left for Barcelona when he was out with friends. I told him not to talk to me again if he if he didn’t want me to press charges. I did it until two weeks ago.”

Ona doesn’t say anything, but the expressions on her face are talking for her. You can see in her eyes the anger caused by everything you said. A silence pass and it’s now you who play with her fingers.

“Did he hit you? Don’t lie to me.”

Ona’s eyes are intense, and you struggle to keep eye contact with her.

“I never lied to you, Oni” you mumble before answering the real question. “Yeah, I did. No one saw it, you know how clumsy I am. The all believed that I fall in the stairs or something like that.”

Ona is fuming, but you can see how much she’s trying to control herself and not just exploded right now.

“The person you were in love with, before him, doesn’t know about all this?”

“She didn’t know about my feelings at all. Why?”

Ona shrugs once again before answering you.

“I was wondering if you were in a middle of a breakup or something. You didn’t say you were with someone when we were at Manchester.”

“I wasn’t” you simply say. “I would have told you if I was with someone.”

You don’t want her to ask you who it was, but you know the question is coming as soon as Ona opens her mouth.

“Who were you in love with?”

You look at her for some seconds before saying “no” with your head. But Ona is stubborn and she looks at you with her best puppy eyes.

“You just said that you will never lie to me.”

“Ona…”

She knows that you can’t resist her when she looks at you like that. She can ask you anything and you would just give her, no matter what it is.

“Ok so let me guess. Was it Leah?”

“Galton? No” you laugh lightly.

“Alessia?”

“Nope. I mean she’s cute, but I prefer brunette.”

“Maya?”

“Guess again sweetheart.”

You’re smiling now, really amused by Ona’s guesses. The fact that she doesn’t say her name is pretty funny, but at least you don’t have to lie to her. After the fifth name, she starts to have trouble to find another brunette in your former team. And then you saw the understanding in her eyes. She stayed silence for some seconds, and you let her. There is no way you would say it first.

“It was me.”

It’s not even a question. Your throat is too tight for you to talk, so you just nod. And you see Ona’s face fall.

“I- I didn’t know.”

“I know, Oni. I worked hard to not show you anything. No one knew.”

“I should have guess though; you wouldn’t have to live the hell he makes you live.”

Your hand always in hers, you take her a little more against you. She looks sad and you don’t want to see this on her. Ona deserves only happiness. Nothing else.

“We don’t know where we’d be now if I told you about it back then. What I’ve been through is not easy, but you’re part of my life now and that’s all that matters to me."

Ona is looking everywhere else than you and that gives your stomach a strange sensation. You release Ona’s hand slowly, your stomach wriggling a little.

“You don’t want me anymore.”

Like Ona before, it’s not a question. It’s an affirmation and this time Ona gaze is on you almost immediately. The sadness in your voice almost break her heart and she put her hand on your jawline to make you look at her.

“Of course I do. I’m in love with you too Y/N. I think I always had. I’m so sorry…”

“Don’t. I beg you. Don’t excuse yourself.”

Your face are only a few centimeters from hers when you talk, and she just closes the last gap between you to kiss you. You melt at the contact, passing your arms around her to feel her everywhere. What you had to go through wasn’t easy, as you said. But you know that in Ona’s arms, you will be ok. She will make everything better, like she always did.

[avocado-writing]

Hi, I really like the way you write BG3 party members! I had a thought for a while and wanted to request the main party with a Revenant!Tav? Imagine all the angst that comes with Tav only seeking vengeance on their killer, knowing that their time is limited (revenants have only 1 year to enact their revenge). Or maybe the companions try to find a way of making them 'alive' again, if you want a happy ending? I just think it has a lot of potential and want to know your thoughts!

this one is a bit angsty, so reader beware

My beautiful boy Astarion understands the need for revenge, and is committed to helping you get it if you help him kill Cazador. The two of you stay up late at night to discuss tactics, how you will enact your brutality upon the people who deserve it… but then Astarion realises that you do not talk about what comes after, like he does when he considers a life without his abuser. He does a little research and finally finds what a revenant is. It breaks his heart to think that you’d die at the end of your quest because… well, he loves you. He begs you to reconsider. That there are other ways. You don’t need to be like him. But you take his cheek in your hand and tell him there is no other path for you, so the two of you must just enjoy the time you have together. If he finds a way to cure you, he’s yours forever - if not, the time you have together is sacred. He wastes not a second.

Gale immediately researching about how to lift your curse, that the two of you may live a happy life together after you get your revenge. You tell him not to bother, it’s too much effort, he needs to move on and find someone better - someone with a life worth giving to him. He deserves proper, warm, and tender love, something your dead heart isn’t capable of giving. He does not listen. He doubles down, desperate to keep you in his arms. Maybe he finds some secret forgotten rite which allows you to live after you’ve killed the person who wronged you… or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he watches you die and pass on peacefully when you’re done, then does everything he can to ascend to godhood and bring your soul back into his arms. Either way, nothing will stop your wizard. 

Wyll listens to your story with a heaviness in his heart, but he knows he wasn’t upfront about his past either… but that does give him an idea. One night, with no way to understand how or why, you feel your curse being lifted, life returning properly to your body. When you seek out your Blade he tries to act pleased, but there’s something weighing on him. It does not take long to realise that he has given up his soul in its entirety to Mizora in order to restore yours. You cry and wail and beat at his chest pathetically. How could he make such a trade? You are not worth it. He holds you at arm’s length to look you over and tells you you’ve always been worth it, and he’d make his choice a thousand times over again. You love him so utterly that you're brought to silence. You vow to make the best of this gift he’s given you, with him by your side.

She knows what it is like to live your last days, does Karlach. The infernal engine in her will kill her sooner rather than later, so she indulges with you. Rich food, fine wine, long evenings of partying and celebrations of life. At Baldur’s Gate you hold her after she kills Gortash, and she begs you not to follow her suit, because revenge isnt worth it. This confession just leaves you empty. There is nothing left after except hollowness. And maybe you listen to her, the two of you find a way out of your curse and go on to Avernus to live out your happiness there (or what you can muster of it) or maybe you ignore her, or your time runs out, and she is left to face the Absolute alone - and lets herself burn on that dock, because a life without you isn’t a life at all.

Lae’zel is excited about your revenge. Enthusiastic, even supportive. She does not understand the nature of your curse. Many a long evening is spent training with her so you may sharpen your abilities, and she gains a great respect for you as both a warrior and a person. Either you find a cure which allows you to be together… or too late does she find out what your revenge brings. She holds you in her arms as you pass, your final words ones of love as your body goes limp and your soul passes into a different plane. She takes a lock of your hair and keeps it on her as a reminder. It is all she has left, after all.

Shadowheart is a great supporter of you… as a Sharran. She pushes for your revenge, evangelising the merits of you killing the person who wronged you, as it’s what Lady Shar would want. But then, as a Selûnite, she begins to think differently. Life is sweeter than she believed. There is more to it than suffering, and she wants to experience the loveliness of it with you by her side. She spends her nights poring over tomes to try and cure you. Maybe she finds a way with her new goddess. If not, when you pass, she keeps you in her heart forever, trying to move on with the guidance of her new goddess, but always feeling just that little bit empty without you.

Taglist:  @ghosti02art @sadandanxiouswtf @yeethaw13 @trappedinlimbo15 @infinitely-kat @dhampling @wereallbrokenangels @tilldeathdonugget @useless-contributions @beardedladyqueen @snoozeeebee @hopeful-n-sad

[wttcsms]

time, mystical time (cuttin' me open, then healin' me fine) ; simon "ghost" riley.

pairing simon "ghost" riley x f!reader  word count 3.3k  synopsis snapshots of the defining moments in ghost's life. content contains slight angst, mild descriptions of alcohol abuse (ghost's father) + domestic abuse (non-explicit desc., but the act itself is mentioned various times), a bit of tiny look into my take on ghost's background, nsfw content, slight size kink, breeding kink, creampie, domestic fluff, pregnant!reader in some scenes, children (dad!ghost) author's notes takes place in this au & honestly is a lot more enjoyable of a read if you read that fic (+ the other connected one shots [go on my masterlist]). fun fact: simon is referred to as simon in the scenes with only you and his family. he's ghost anywhere else.

His mother had always told him that as a baby, he was always rather quiet. Scared her half to death, she would say, ‘cause he’d rarely ever cry. Even the doctor got worried when he first came out. 

Looking back at his childhood — perhaps the lack thereof — Simon assumes it’s probably instinctual. With a deadbeat drunk of a father armed with a heavy hand, being quiet probably saved Simon’s life more times than he wants to admit. He’d be knocked upside the head for the littlest of reasons, shouted at for even less. 

I’m the man of the house. 

His father’s slurred justifications for doling out unfair punishments ring through the dark halls of his childhood home. Simon hears it while he cowers inside his closet. His room is dark because his father doesn’t believe in nightlights, and mum got slapped hard for daring to go against his wishes and trying to sneak Simon one. She thinks he didn’t see it, but Simon sees a lot more than he should. Since then, he’s been sleeping in the dark. It’s not so scary anymore. 

There are scarier things that lurk in the light, anyway. 

It’s stuffy in the closet, and he knows it’s stupid to hide here because dad will find him any second now. The punishment is bad when he gets to drinking, and it gets worse whenever Simon tries to hide. 

A loud thump against his door makes Simon hold his breath. Then, the door bangs open from the weight.

Kicking doors open comes second nature to Lieutenant Riley. 

The loud crash of the door popping from the rusty hinges shocks the poor girls previously trapped behind them. All of them stay huddled together, staring fearfully at the loud, big men toting even louder, bigger guns. The hollowed cheeks, hopeless eyes, and array of bruises on their skin makes him sick. It’s a hot summer’s day, and Simon hates that after all this time, his observation from his childhood still stands true:

There are scarier things that lurk in the light, anyway. 

A bit hypocritical, he supposes. After all, he walks around in broad daylight, and he’s certainly no saint.

With the help of the rest of his extraction team, Ghost makes quick work of herding all the girls out of this depressing underground prison and out into a free world. He’s careful to be gentle with his touches, nothing more than a gentle guiding hand. Even with his gloves, he can’t be certain he’s not tainting them. Sins don’t wash away as easily as blood does. 

He’s the last one to leave, but he doesn’t exit alone. 

For a while, he felt a tight grip on his arm. Someone’s been clinging onto him this whole time, and with everything that’s happened, he can’t find it in his heart to shake them off. With no other distractions present, he finally turns to see who’s gotten so attached to him.

This is it. 

This is the moment where Simon Riley claims his life begins.

It’s such a juvenile feeling, he thinks. Waiting for his phone to ring, wondering why you haven’t texted or called. It’s so silly. So what he saved your life? It’s not like you owe him anything. It’s his job. He had a duty. Nothing more, nothing less.

Besides, he’s an asshole. Not the type of asshole who thinks he’s entitled to your company since he rescued you, but the type where Soap and the rest of the team aren’t too surprised he doesn’t have anyone to come home to. 

He can’t sleep. 

It’s been weeks since he gave you that burner phone. Surely you would have called, even sent a simple “hello”, if you really wanted to. He knows there’s not much to do in that facility. He knows that you haven’t been sleeping well. He knows that he should go to sleep; he’s got an early flight to catch in an active warzone, and there’s no way in hell he’s gonna get any semblance of rest as a result. 

Instead of sleeping, he’s grabbing his own burner phone off the nightstand and staring at the screen. It’s a simple enough task, really. He can just head straight to his contacts list and click the only one that’s there. Isn’t it traditional for the guy to call first, anyway? Or is he just fooling himself into thinking that you’re waiting for him to make the first move? Do you want him to make the first move? 

He’s never experienced this before. This newfound, boyish anxiety. The equal mixture of both hopelessness and hope churning in his stomach every time he sees you; do you think of him as much as he thinks of you? The question is then followed by a decisive no. He hasn’t survived this long because of blind optimism, so there’s no point in indulging in it now. 

Will you come back then? 

You looked up at him while asking this question, and you looked like an angel unfairly punished to walk alongside man. He wanted to spend the rest of his life constructing a stairway to heaven that you could use to make it back to your rightful home. When you look that beautiful and then proceed to ask him a question, what else was he supposed to say besides,

Whenever you want me to. 

Perhaps God truly is as merciful as he is all-seeing, because after a minute of contemplation and staring longingly at your contact, his phone screen lights up with the notification he’s prayed for (the only thing he’s ever prayed for, really). 

You’re calling him. 

And true to his word, he’s on his way. 

He’s never said I love you before, and as a result, he’s too scared to make his first attempt to do so, even though you just told him those three words yourself.

(He might tower over you, but looks can be deceiving. Simon thinks you’re much stronger and braver than him, in all the ways that matter.)

I love you.

He resists the urge to beg you to say it again and again and again, on repeat for the rest of your lives. 

He doesn’t say it back immediately, but he does let you take off his mask for the first time.

He doesn’t realize that the wide-eyed, awestruck, soft gleam in your eyes as you take him in, fully, for the first time is the same starry-eyed look he gets whenever he looks at you. He has a feeling you’re well aware of it, but now he finds the courage to confirm it.

“I love you.” 

And with a smile that could bring him back to life, all you have to say is, “I know.”

His mask is in your hands, after all.

“You never quite outgrow it, do ya?” Tommy’s got his hands in his pockets, but Simon can still picture the wedding band on his younger brother’s finger. He had been happy when Tommy tied the knot with Beth, if not a bit jealous. 

Now, though, Simon’s got his own wedding band. It’s tucked underneath his uniform, hanging from the same chain his dog tags are. It rests against his chest, in a spot closest to his heart, right where it — you — belong.

Dad’s dead. Tommy says mum cried, but he couldn’t understand why. After all, she’s the one who faced his wrath for the longest. She’s been on the receiving end of all his harshness. She’s the one who’s taken the most hits, the hardest hits. Simon nods in agreement but doesn’t tell his brother that he thinks he might know why.

Simon knows his mother is a good woman. A long time ago, his father wasn’t the man he knew growing up. He doesn’t know when the change in his personality happened, and Simon somehow feels like it’s his fault. He was the catalyst, the trigger. While she was pregnant with him, that’s when the violence and the drinking and the anger started. He knows mum isn’t crying to mourn the man he became; she’s just finally safe to grieve about the man she loved and lost. Simon hasn’t been able to face her in a while since he’s come to the conclusion that his being born was the cause of everything horrible that has happened to her. 

“No, I suppose not,” Simone says. The house feels smaller than he remembers, but when he walks into his childhood bedroom, he’s transported to darker times. The room is as big as the whole world again. This room, this damn house, is his only world. He’s nine and cowering in fear again. He’s little again. He’s scared again. He wants to run away, but his scrawny little legs won’t let him. Dad won’t let him. 

Then he blinks and realizes that the room hasn’t changed all that much.

Within the next week, Simon gets the house demolished and the land sold. 

“Ta-da!” You present to him a knitted, baby-blue blanket. The beginning stitchwork is sloppy at best with considerable improvement the further he looks. Between every thread, Simon can practically feel the love that’s stitched in it. 

“You like it?” You ask him, looking at him expectantly. 

“It’s perfect.” 

“Liar!” Your laugh rings through the cabin, and Simon feels like he’s being bathed in sunlight from the warmth of the sound alone. It’s distinctly yours, and he doesn’t want to be the barbarian who just takes and takes, but he wants it all to himself. He wants to catch it from the air and stuff it in his pockets and save it for when he’s in a foreign country and can’t sleep at night. 

“Why would I lie? It’s perfect.” You’re perfect.

“I messed up, like, five times trying to get this damn thing started! And it was so hard to get into a good groove since Simon Jr. thinks he’s a little football player. He’s been kicking like crazy!” To prove your point, you get closer to Simon and take one of his large hands, placing it on your growing belly. He’s sitting, surrounded by tools and pieces of a crib that he’s trying to build, and all he can do is look up in admiration at you, the most beautiful woman to walk this earth, an angel too good for this world, the mother of his child, his wife, you. Your hand is on top of his, and you squeeze it gently, and he loves the way the diamond on your wedding ring glitters in the sunlight. 

“He’s a strong one, alright.” Simon chuckles, feeling the way his son bumps against your belly. 

“Must get it from you, then.” 

That’s funny. Simon was just about to say that he’s pretty sure he gets it from you. 

When he’s with you, Simon likes to take things slow. He can be rough at times, demanding and conquering you with nothing but brute strength and vulgar compliments. Like a true soldier, you take all of his transgressions in stride. 

Tonight is one of the nights where Simon will indulge and finally take things slow. He likes to savor every moment he gets with you because no matter how much time has passed, the pessimist in him doesn’t stop reminding him that time is fickle, and the future is never promised. 

But Simon wants to build a future with you. Simon has built a future, but he’s greedy. So, so greedy. He wants more, he wants all of you, he wants everything you’re willing to give him. The way you part your legs for him, how you willingly — lovingly — let him in, even though nature resists.

No matter how many times he’s split you open on his cock, even with the slickness of the previous two orgasms he so happily wrung out from you, there’s still resistance as the width and length of his cock struggle to slide into your cunt. 

“It’s okay, love, let me in.” His whispers of reassurance are barely heard over your little whimpers. You’re nodding, trying to be a good girl for him, but the fact of the matter is that Simon Riley is incredibly too big. He is a god among men, and you find yourself squeezing his hand tightly as the first few inches of his cock make its way into your warmth. 

“I know, darling.” He mumbles, but his gentle words are spoken roughly. Desire coats every syllable, and his voice is gravelly. He’s holding back, restraining himself from giving in and giving it to you roughly. His hand, so much larger than your own, squeezes back. He’s slowly pushing more of his length inside your needy cunt, and you moan at the feeling of being complete. 

You don’t realize the tears that are welling up in the corner of your eyes as he completely enters you, the tip of his cock perfectly pressed against your cervix. Simon’s always been good at mixing pain and pleasure, and tonight is a testament to that. 

“More, please.” It comes out like a weak, little whine, and Simon is putty in your hands. Completely malleable to your every whim and desire. His love wants more? He’ll give you everything. 

Your lashes are wet with your tears, and he watches as tiny streams of tears fall down your heated cheeks. Your face feels warm to the touch, Simon realizes, as he leans down to kiss away your tears. Poor thing. You must have exerted yourself too much when you were thrashing around earlier as he refused to remove his mouth from your precious pussy until you came in his mouth. 

You’re no match for the sheer strength and power of Simon, who’s built like a Greek god and probably just as powerful. You surrender to the overwhelming sensation of his cock stroking in and out of your cunt, and you’re damn near shameless in your greed and desire for more. 

“Cum in me. I want you to give me another baby, wanna grow our family with you.” You toss your head back in pleasure, feeling the way his grip on your hand tightens at your words. The two of you move perfectly together; you wrap your legs around his waist as his free hand grips your hip to keep you steady. 

“Yeah? My wife wants me to fuck another baby into her?” Simon grunts, doubling his efforts to ensure that his cock hits deep enough to press against all the spots that have your walls tightening around him. 

The throbbing of his cock and the allure of expanding your family with Simon, with having a part of him always, even after the two of you have left this earth, is enough to send you over the edge. The ecstasy is all-consuming; all you know is Simon. You feel him to the depth of your core, his heat pressed against your own, your shared bedroom heavy with lust and love. 

He loves the way your body goes slack from the intensity of your orgasm. It lets him know that he’s fucked you just the way you deserved to be fucked, filled to the brim with his cock and his cum and all his love. He kisses you hard, savoring the natural sweetness of your lips pressed against his own. He muffles your moans as you feel the endless stream of his cum spilling inside of you, the warmth of it all being almost too much to bear. 

“Mmmf,” You pull back from his kiss, just so you can look him in the eyes as you give him his favorite reminder in the world.

“I love you.” 

He responds with another deep kiss. It says enough. It says I love you, too, and we’re going for a round two. 

He has all the time in the world with you.

He doesn’t feel any pain. That’s odd.

He looks back to the last minute. He heard the distinct sound of a gun firing, and he stumbled a bit as fate had its cruel fun and allowed the bullet to miraculously hit him in the one area his bulletproof gear just so happened to miss. What are the odds? 

He looks down. A dark stain is forming on his uniform, and the spot only continues to grow bigger. He moves a hand down to where the stain is at — it’s wet. A fresh wound. Fuck.

The sentiment is shared with Soap, who for once in his life doesn’t have anything smart to say. Ghost wants to say something cheeky, then. Just to keep him calm. It worked with Tommy. 

What’s the matter? Don’t worry about me. Should’ve seen the other guy. Almost had him in the last round. 

The words, Ghost realizes with growing dread, don’t quite come so easily.

It’s like his brain knows what he wants to do, but nothing is going as planned. Soap is saying something, but he just can’t quite make out the words. Johnny, speak proper fucking English, why don’t ya? 

No. That’s not the issue. Ghost frowns, but he doesn’t think Soap notices because of his damn mask. He can’t speak for shit, and he can’t hear, either. Actually, now that he’s really trying to take in his surroundings, everything’s a bit hazy, too. Like someone’s put some stupid film over everything, and stuff’s all slightly blurry. Just out of focus, just out of reach. 

“—get you home, alright?” The words sound all jumbled up, and Ghost only really catches the last end of whatever Soap’s blabbing on about. He’s a good kid. Great soldier. Stellar human being. He mentioned something about going home, but that’s just silly. The mission isn’t over yet, get it? They can’t go home ‘til the mission’s complete. 

“—don’t close your eyes—”

Home sounds nice. Warm vanilla in the colder seasons, jasmine with equal hints of something fruity and floral in the warmer ones. You fill the house with these scents, even matching your daily perfume to it. Doesn’t matter much to him, though. He hugs you close to his body and breathes in deeply, and he can still smell just you. No perfume will ever compare. 

Oh, and a busy kitchen. You’re covered in flour, his son sits on the counter, his daughter in her high chair. The entire kitchen comes to life, and every time he sees all three of you giggling in unison, his favorite sound of all, this kitchen becomes his whole world. This is what he goes to war to protect.

Baby blue walls and a crib. Crayon drawings of a stick figure family. Watching his daughter’s first steps and his son clinging to your legs. 

Maybe Soap’s right. Forget the mission. He should just head home.

But first, he’s really fucking tired. He’ll shut his eyes just for a minute.

He blinks a few times, eyes struggling to adjust to the light. Light slaps against his face were the cause for his waking up. A damn shame, honestly. He rarely dreams, but when he does, it’s of you, and he was dreaming about something certainly worth remembering for the next time he’s reunited with you. 

He rolls over to confront whoever dared to ruin the one good rest he’s had in a long time, only to come face to face with bright, innocent eyes the same shade as his own. 

“G’morning,” his son says, the words still clumsy on the two-year-old’s tongue. When Simon doesn’t answer immediately, he resumes slapping his father’s face.

“I’m up, buddy.” 

The little toddler claps his chubby little hands together in pure joy. 

“Dada home?”

Like a sight for sore eyes, you appear in the doorway, gently opening the door and pushing it open. You’ve got your daughter in your arms, and you look ready to scold the young boy for disturbing Simon until you realize that he’s already awake. There’s that smile of yours that Simon loves so much, the one he swears could bring him back to life.

“I’m home.”

author's note i intended for these little scenes/glimpses of his life to be the things ghost sees as he's bleeding out on the field. get it? the whole "life flashing before your eyes" thing BAHAHAHA. don't worry, he's alive and very much well, enjoying much needed domesticity with you + your little family. the last scene is him fucking u good and well, and that's the lil dream he was having. muahaha

[sepublic]

What’s further absurd about Camila being more of a mom to Hunter than Luz in fanon is that. Camila and Hunter have two(2) solo interactions across the entire show and it’s Hunter kneeling to Camila to say thanks and her telling him not to do that, and then her pulling him out of the water. Thats it, the scenes transition to Hunter and Gus talking or the group worrying about Hunter. But then we see Camila interact with Luz at the end of the episode, in fact she has MULTIPLE interactions with Luz that episode and in general!!!

Meanwhile Darius is right there, he was mean to Hunter once, but he made up for it in the same episode by validating Hunter, looking out for him, giving him a way to talk to his new friends! He worries about Hunter in Hollow Mind. When the kids reunite with their parents, Hunter has nobody until Darius shows up.

And if y’all can forgive Eda for being immature with King a few times in S1, you can do the same for Darius. If you can forgive Alador’s abuse and neglect towards his kids by embracing their forgiveness, Darius is nothing. Darius is basically the only adult to actually talk to Hunter directly besides you know who and Eda, but that was twice and she was making fun of him the first time. Raine also showed concern but I barely see that dynamic.

It’s insane because it’s not enough that Hunter needs love from an adult for these people, they need it to be Camila’s love specifically!!! Despite Luz’s entire arc and the show in general being kicked off from Luz feeling like her mother didn’t love her enough by sending her to that reality check camp. Oh, Hunter needs someone kind for him because of trauma? Luz also has trauma, S3 has her go on a thinly-veiled suicidal rant.

Istfg I see Camila and Hunter more than I see Camila and Amity, and at least Amity is basically her daughter in law, plus it’s Amity getting away from her two abusive white parents. Meanwhile people denying Darius are demonizing him for being a black man who was mean once.

He’s not even Luz’s brother, and I’m sure part of the insistence of Camila as Hunter’s mom is an extension of that; Except the ‘Siblings’ dynamic between Luz and Hunter is inaccurate and exaggerated, esp in favor of Luz and King or Vee! We see so much fanart and fanfic of Camila just hanging out with Hunter even casually without angst, but not her own blood daughter.

Like yeah maybe it’s fun to explore the two-month period in the human realm and how Camila was the only adult these kids had; But people continue to hype her up as Hunter’s mom in settings outside of that timeframe!!! We see Luz come out to her mom and everything, we have her being raised by her mother! And Camila taking care of Hunter would not suck so hard if Luz wasn’t completely overshadowed, if Hunter wasn’t everywhere and inserted into everything! With fans insisting Hunter’s a Noceda and NEEDS to be in group photos like that, insisting on joint custody as if Luz and Camila don’t have that much of a relationship with Hunter to begin with and Darius is sufficient, crying about how he deserved more in the finale! Boohoo.

I’m gonna be real here, Hunter fans are the weakest link in this fandom despite being the most prevalent at this rate. They’ll rather make up stuff for him to talk about than acknowledge other characters, or even take other characters’ moments to give to him; Like remember when Luz had a nightmare sequence where she was dressed in Belos’ clothes and felt the weight of everyone’s accusations, and then some fanartist made a piece of that happening to Hunter instead??? I have to see Camila hugging Hunter while he wields String Bean, who is Luz’s Palisman when Waffles is right there without a confirmed creation date, so they could’ve easily been shortly after the finale!!!

It is SUCH an admission of envy and unconscious racism that y’all need to take traits and moments that belong to other characters and give it to your white boy to enjoy them, instead of enjoying these characteristics with the characters they actually belong to! And don’t make this about you and how you personally aren’t consciously racist or whatever, because this is about a group trend and PoC should not have to bear the burden of screening every individual of guilt. And yeah it is racist, hell it’s basically the Mammy archetype where a WoC is expected to prioritize her white charge over her own child.

And don’t even try to argue you’re innocent because you’re a PoC, PoC are just as capable of white favoritism and I speak from experience! For chrissakes everyone we’re snappy about this because being gentle about it has never worked for PoC. If you feel upset by this than actually do something about it and learn instead of wallowing in self pity or even denying it.

[cheynovak]

Complicated

Characters: Soldier boy x Y/N Female character     

Summary: Y/N, a young personal assistant to Soldier Boy (Ben) and Crimson Countess, is caught in a whirlwind of events that shatter her sense of stability. After accidentally witnessing an intimate moment between Ben, Crimson, and another woman, she’s left shaken and unsure how to process it. The following day, Crimson casually invites her to join them, which only adds to Y/N's confusion.

Warnings: 18+ hurt pain TRIGGER WARNING: mentioning of rape/ sexual abuse. If you don't want to or can't read this, please skip to next part in this story.

English is not my first language 

*This story is my own original story, please do not copy my work, reblog/comments/likes are appreciated* 

part 6/?

He just opened the door and walked out, leaving me alone with nothing but the empty space he’d left behind.

Weeks passed, and I hadn’t seen or heard from Ben, officially statement: secret mission. At first, I tried to push it out of my mind, telling myself this was just what he did—he came and went on his own terms. But the longer I went without seeing him, the worse I felt. Worse than when I’d left Kevin, even. At least with him, I’d known why it ended. But Ben had left me without a single explanation.

What did he mean when he said, “You are loved”? The question haunted me, playing over and over in my mind. Did he mean he loved me? Was it some twisted way of telling me he cared? Or was he saying that I’d be loved someday, by someone else? That thought was like a knife to my chest—because what if I’d already given my heart to someone who wouldn’t give his back?

I tried to keep my distance from any member of Payback at work, hoping they wouldn’t ask about it, hoping they wouldn’t even notice I existed. The last thing I needed was to be asked why I hadn’t been around Soldier Boy or why he hadn’t been around me. I couldn’t face the humiliation of admitting I didn’t know where he was or if he was even coming back.

As days turned into weeks, the silence between us grew unbearable. So I packed my bags, leaving behind the life I’d been building with him—or rather, the life I’d been building in his shadow. I found a small, cramped apartment on the other side of the city. It was nothing like the glamorous place Ben had provided me. It smelled like damp wood and cigarettes, the walls paper-thin, the floors uneven.

But it was mine. And at that point, I was angry enough to prefer it. Angry at Ben for disappearing. Angry at myself for caring so damn much.

In the middle of that anger, though, there was something else. A deep, aching emptiness. I kept picturing Ben giving his loft to some other girl—someone else to play with when he was bored, someone else who’d wait around for him like I had. Maybe someone who wouldn’t ask for more, someone easier to forget.

I hated the thought of it, hated the idea of being so easily replaced. But no matter how hard I tried to move on, that cold, hollow feeling wouldn’t leave me. And the worst part was knowing that, even though I was furious, I would’ve taken him back in an instant if he just showed up and gave me a reason to.

But he hadn’t.

And maybe he never would.

Tonight was my first night off in ages, and after sitting in my small, smelly apartment for what felt like hours, I knew I couldn’t stay cooped up any longer. I needed to get out. Working for Vought had turned my social life into something non-existent, leaving me with no friends to call up for a night out. But it was 1979, and I didn’t need an excuse to go out by myself.

I pulled on a short skirt and high boots, the outfit giving me a small boost of confidence. I left my place and wandered into town, the neon lights of the city buzzing above me, drawing me in. Eventually, I found a nice pub with good music, a place that seemed alive, filled with strangers dancing and laughing. It felt like the escape I needed.

But as soon as I walked in, I spotted Kevin. My stomach dropped. He was with a group of his friends, sitting at the bar, laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. At first, I tried to act like I hadn’t noticed him. I didn’t want to run off and look like I was afraid. But I felt his eyes on me the moment he spotted me.

He kept looking, and I could feel the tension building with each passing second. The way he stared, the familiar intensity, sent a chill down my spine.

I tried to ignore it, ordering a drink and pretending like I was just another patron, but the awkwardness became unbearable. I kept stealing glances over my shoulder, knowing he was still watching me. After a couple of drinks, the atmosphere of the pub no longer felt exciting or freeing. It felt suffocating.

I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to leave.

As I pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped out into the cool night air, I breathed a sigh of relief. The sounds of the city felt less pressing out here, and for a moment, I thought I’d managed to escape him. I started walking down the street, eager to get home and forget the whole night.

But little did I know, Kevin had followed me.

Before I realized what was happening, he caught up to me, grabbing me by the arm and pulling me into a small, dark alley. The suddenness of it knocked the breath from my lungs, fear rushing through me like ice in my veins. His hands were all over me, rough and insistent, and no matter how much I pushed or squirmed, he was stronger.

"Kevin, stop," I pleaded, my voice shaking, but he didn’t listen.

I didn’t want this, but he didn’t care. His grip tightened, his hands roaming over my body like he had some right to me. The fear was paralyzing, every inch of my skin crawling as I struggled against him.

I needed to get out of there, needed to fight back, but his strength and his size kept me pinned in place. I could feel the cold, damp bricks of the alley behind me, the rough texture scraping against my back as he pressed me into the wall. Every inch of me screamed to run, but I was trapped.

I tried to scream, but Kevin’s hand clamped over my mouth, silencing me. Tears streamed down my cheeks, my heart pounding in my chest as panic took over. Oh, please, God, no, was all I could think, the words like a desperate prayer echoing in my mind.

In a moment of frantic instinct, I kicked him as hard as I could. My boot connected with his shin, and for a brief second, I thought I had a chance. As he stumbled back, I turned to run, but before I could even take a step, another pair of hands grabbed me roughly from behind.

His friends.

They had turned the corner, and now I was trapped between them, my escape cut off. Fear washed over me like ice, my body trembling as I realized I was completely surrounded. My voice broke as I started begging, the words falling from my lips in a desperate, shaking sob. “No, please… please, no…”

Tears blurred my vision as I backed up, only to bump into Kevin again. His breath was hot against my face, and his voice dripped with cruel satisfaction as he leaned in close.

“Let’s see what you’ve learned over these past months, you slut,” he sneered, his voice thick with malice.

I froze, my entire body going numb. His words were laced with all the hate and control he’d always tried to have over me, and in that moment, I knew what he was planning to do. I tried to pull away, to fight, but the weight of his friends’ presence and the fear coursing through me made my limbs feel weak, powerless.

I was trapped. Trapped and alone. And all I could do was beg for it to stop.

--

I tried to walk home, but my legs felt like they were moving on their own. My mind kept repeating what had just happened, the memory of their hands on my body, their grins, their laughter—it was twisted pleasure for them. They enjoyed it. I wanted to cry, to scream, but it was like I’d run out of tears. The emptiness was worse than the pain.

Somehow, I ended up in front of Ben’s building. I didn’t even realize I had come this far until I was standing at the entrance. My feet had carried me here, to the only place I could think of. I stumbled into the elevator, leaning against the cold metal walls as it took me up to his penthouse. I didn’t know why I was here. Maybe I just needed to see a familiar face, to feel something other than the hollow, aching void that had settled into my chest.

When I reached his door, I knocked once, weakly.

From inside, I could hear the unmistakable sounds of moaning, women’s voices tangled with each other. I flinched, a fresh wave of nausea hitting me. My body tensed, and I immediately regretted coming here. What was I thinking? Just as I turned to leave, the door swung open.

Ben stood there in nothing but a silk bathrobe, his expression already irritated before he even fully saw me. “What? Miss the luxury already, princess?” he snapped, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His eyes were cold, dismissive, like I was just another annoyance interrupting his night.

I turned my head over my shoulder, trying to hide my face. “Sorry… this was a mistake,” I whispered, or at least I tried to. My voice was barely audible, cracking under the weight of everything.

But as soon as he saw me—really saw me—his expression shifted. The irritation vanished, replaced with something else. His eyes scanned my face, taking in the smeared makeup, the cracked lip, the red, swollen eyes from crying. The bruises that were probably forming under my skin.

He didn’t say a word. His face tightened, his jaw clenching as he turned away from me. “Wait here,” he muttered, his voice low and tense. He walked back inside, and I heard the confused murmurs of the girls still in his penthouse.

A few moments later, the door opened wide again, and I saw them—half-dressed, their clothes hastily thrown on, their makeup smudged from whatever they’d been doing with Ben. They didn’t even get a chance to put their shoes on as they stumbled out, looking irritated but confused, clutching their things to their chests. Ben stood behind them, his face hard, his hand gripping the door frame so tightly his knuckles were white.

Once they were gone, he turned to me, his green eyes burning with something I couldn’t quite place. “Get in here,” he said, his voice rough, but not angry anymore. Not like before.

I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do. But my legs gave out before I could think, and I collapsed into his arms, the weight of everything finally catching up to me.

Ben stood there, his usual cool, detached demeanor gone as he took a long look at me. He noticed everything—the ripped skirt, the bruises on my legs, the smudged makeup. His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t say anything. Instead, he walked over to the bar and poured me a drink, offering it to me without a word. I took it, my hand trembling as I brought the glass to my lips.

He watched me for a moment, and then he knelt down in front of me, his gaze softer than I’d ever seen it before. “What happened?” he asked, his voice quiet, low.

I couldn’t bring myself to answer. The words were stuck in my throat, a knot of shame and fear keeping them locked inside. I stared at the floor, my fingers gripping the glass like it was the only thing keeping me together.

Ben waited, his eyes searching my face for a clue, for anything that would explain what had happened. But when the silence dragged on, he didn’t push. Instead, after a beat, he asked gently, “Do you want to shower?”

I nodded. It was a small movement, just a slight dip of my head, but as soon as I nodded once, it was like something broke inside me. The tears came all at once, harder than before, and I couldn’t stop them. I shook my head, trying to get it together, but it only made the sobs worse.

Ben’s face softened even more, and he reached out, gently placing his hand on my knee. “Shh, shh. It’s okay,” he murmured, his voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to his usual harsh tone. “You’re safe now, alright? You’re safe.”

I couldn’t stop crying, my body shaking as the weight of everything came crashing down on me.

“I’ll get the water running,” Ben said, standing up slowly. “It’s okay now. Just take a minute.” He paused for a second, looking at me like he wanted to say more, but instead he just nodded to himself, walking toward the bathroom.

The sound of running water filled the silence, but Ben’s words echoed louder in my mind. It’s okay now. But I was not.

I stood there in the bathroom, the warm steam from the shower slowly dissipating, but it did nothing to ease the cold pit in my stomach. When I looked down at my body, I noticed the bruises—dark, ugly marks that trailed up my thighs and near my core. My chest tightened, and before I knew it, tears were streaming down my face again, silent and unstoppable.

Ben had left a babydoll dress for me to wear. Normally, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now… I couldn’t even imagine putting it on. Not after what had happened. Not with these bruises on my body. I stared at it for what felt like forever, unable to make myself leave the bathroom.

Hours passed. I lost track of time, sitting on the cold tiles, feeling more exposed than ever. Eventually, there was a soft knock at the door.

“Y/N,” Ben called gently from the other side. “You okay?”

I hesitated for a moment, then stood up and slowly unlocked the door. When I opened it, Ben stood there, concern etched across his face. He took one look at me, at the towel wrapped around my body, and then at the babydoll dress still untouched.

“Why haven’t you changed?” he asked, his voice soft but curious.

My lip trembled. I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud. The words wouldn’t come. Instead, I took a step back, my hands shaking. I felt like a small child, vulnerable and terrified, but all I could think was maybe I could show him?

Ben’s eyes narrowed as he watched me. His gaze shifted, and then it happened—he saw them. The bruises. His expression changed in an instant, his eyes widening as the realization hit him. His face, once filled with concern and confusion, twisted into something darker. Pure fury.

“Who?” he demanded, his voice low, dangerous. “Who did this, Y/N?”

I backed away, my whole body trembling now, and I started crying again. I couldn’t stop it this time. The memories came flooding back, overwhelming me, and I couldn’t get the words out. I just shook my head, trying to catch my breath between sobs.

Ben’s hands clenched into fists, his jaw tightening as his face contorted with rage. “Tell me who the fuck did this!” he shouted, taking a step forward. His voice was thunderous, raw, and filled with a burning anger I’d never seen in him before.

I collapsed onto the bathroom floor, shaking my head. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t say it out loud. But Ben’s fury didn’t waver. He knelt down beside me, trying to pull me into his arms.

“Please, Y/N, you have to tell me who did this,” he said, his voice quieter now, but still shaking with barely controlled rage. “I’ll make them pay.”

But I couldn’t stop crying long enough to respond. All I could think about was the horror of what had happened, and the terrifying thought of what Ben might do next if he knew.

Ben let go of his anger for a moment, the fire in his eyes dimming as he looked at me. Without a word, he left the room and returned a few minutes later, holding an old shirt and a pair of sweatpants—his own clothes. He handed them to me gently, his expression still tight with restrained fury but softened by something more protective.

"If you tell me where you live, I’ll pick up some clothes for you," he offered, his voice quieter now, trying to keep calm.

I shook my head immediately, panic rising in my chest. My hand clamped onto his wrist, desperate and trembling. "No, please don’t leave me," I whispered, my voice hoarse but clear. It was the first real sentence I’d managed to speak all night, the first words that didn’t feel broken by the weight of what had happened.

Ben’s eyes softened further, and his body seemed to relax as he knelt in front of me again. He reached up, covering my hand with his. "Alright," he said softly. "I won’t leave."

There was something different in his tone now—not the arrogance or the frustration I’d grown so used to, but something steady, grounding. He stayed still, waiting for me to decide what I needed, not pushing, not demanding. Just being there.

The tears slowed, and for the first time since everything happened, I didn’t feel completely alone.

--

Please like, share or comment when you liked the story. If you liked this, please check out my masterlist for other stories.

Tag list:-> If you want to be added let me know what you like to read! If anyone feels like you're tagged too much, also let me know please. :)

@kr804573@nancymcl@suckitands33@mostlymarvelgirl@globetrotter28 @jackles010378 @hobby27 @winchesterwild78 @deans-baby-momma @soab1967 @livingdeadblondequeen

@ladysparkles78 @whimsyfinny @kamisobsessed @jensens-bonnie-on-the-side @ferrersbiggestfan @spxideyver @kamisobsessed @deans-queen @yvonneeeee @deangirl96 @libby99hb

[venusvity]

Chloe is the only member with a SoundCloud account, and even then, she's not very active on it nor makes it publicly known she has it. It's a public secret among constellations; either you know about Chloe's SoundCloud, or you don't.

2020 ; YOU WERE BORN BACKWARDS

This song had actually been online for a couple of months before constellations found it. Even then, they questioned if this was actually Chloe as it sounded nothing like her typical style of music, using much heavier and darker themes than anyone expected from the bubbly idol. Despite this diverging greatly from her idol image, many of Chloe's fans greatly appreciated "you were born backwards" because to them it felt like a look into the "real chloe" not the image presented to them.

2020 ; HE WILL NEVER CHANGE

HE WILL NEVER CHANGE garnered attention for the album cover as well as this being the first song Chloe publicly claimed and promoted. She posted a link to the song on her Instagram story, saying, "I made this all by myself :)" but fans would be more interested in the unreleased photo of then Cicada member Hyojin, silently confirming the rumors that the two were dating at the time. Though fans did find it peculiar, she confirmed their relationship through a song about a toxic and co-dependent relationship.

2021 ; GIRLHOOD, WOMANHOOD

GIRLHOOD, WOMANHOOD is about the very human state of dissatisfaction and the fact that Chloe is always chasing something, which has been all her life. This song is about the feeling of not being able to fully control your life. Shockingly, this was the song that got fans worried about Chloe's wellbeing, as if all the other songs before this weren't a clear sign of something going on, but the concerns were mainly directed at the company mistreating Chloe instead of her mental health.

2021 ; GOOD MEN DIE QUICK

GOOD MEN DIE QUICK is Chloe's thoughts about toxic masculinity and masculine norms in society. The lyrics can be interpreted as representing how men view women as objects, as well as depicting beauty standards and the pressure on women to always appear pleasant. This song would get Chloe the "feminist" label and have her receiving backlash for months, though she never publicly responded to it or claimed to be a feminist.

2022 ; IN THE BACK OF HIS CAR

What is called her most disturbing song, IN THE BACK OF HIS CAR, is described by fans as a horror movie experience from its haunting sound production to its horrifying lyrics. You're either in awe of it or concerned for Chloe's well-being. This would be another song she promoted on her Instagram story, many constellations deeming this a cry for help from her, with the caption, "i'm very proud of this one :) i composed, produced, and wrote it all by myself" this is also the song that gained Chloe her "coquette" status on Tumblr and Tiktok.

2022 ; WORD VOMIT

WORD VOMIT is another one of Chloe's songs that just makes you worry for her. There's something about how abuse, especially childhood abuse, often makes its survivors believe that with love comes pain. That love laced with pain is what they deserve, so they subconsciously seek it out. It's what feels familiar despite how destructive it actually is. Though the song is beloved by many, some interpret it as Chloe glamorizing abuse, which her fans will dox you for saying.

2023 ; CYCLECYCLECYCLE

After a year of nothing, CYCLECYCLECYCLE would hit Chloe's SoundCloud, taking a much softer and more raw production than her previous releases. The song has been interpreted as releasing old fears and accepting that they will always be a part of you instead of closing the door. It's a song about healing that leaves you feeling hollow due to its melancholic and bare instrumental. This song would have brief virality on Tiktok for its heart-jerking lyrics, making some of the saddest edits you've ever seen.

2024 ; OBSESSED

After another year of forgetting the password, Chloe would log back into her SoundCloud to release her most well-known track there, OBSESSED. Being a relatable Pop-Rock banger about being too invested in your man's past relationships, many people demanded an official release, which Chloe has yet to give. Fans were happy to see Chloe release something on her SoundCloud that has them dancing instead of worrying about her well-being.

[justjams2003]

The Desire to be Loved- 5

Summary: Love is Desire's first creation. As Cupid she shoots her arrows of love and rips them from people's hearts too. Occasionally, shooting a soulmate arrow. What does she do when her first Soulmate arrow in 100 years is between Cupid and Dream?

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x OFC Love/Cupid/Venus (you know how these beings have millions of names) (Also technically it could be an x reader because love is sort of anthropomorphic but in this story a she)

Warnings: Manipulation, threats, crying, cliffhanger, unedited, kind of like enemies to lovers, soulmate au, cursing, gore, snake slander :(tell me if I miss any.

Word count: 1,8k+

Dividers by: @hyelita

Tags: @intothesoul @briskesby coffeebeforewater @i-voluntears @dreamingblueberries @idkamt @deniixlovezelda @lmg-stilinski24

Masterlist

What overcame him can only be described as fury. Utter rage. As if he himself were not Dream but Destruction. Desire had not put the humans in danger, it is true that he was not stupid enough to do that. However, they did harm Cupid. There’d be no other explanation for his hollow puppet following after Dream.  

Morpheus doesn’t see warm brown eyes staring back at him, but instead malicious glowing gold. Like a slithering snake watching his every move, deciding when to strike again. And he’s used Cupid’s body as the tall grass that he’s used to hide from Dream. Or rather, a second skin from which he can crawl inside and out when needed. Just another way to abuse her.  

Dream’s pale hand wraps around the puppet’s neck. “Come out and face me, you unhuman abuser.” The creature’s expression changes to that sinister smirk that Desire has trademarked. She speaks but it is not her. It sounds painful. The voice sounds to be physically crawling with claws out of her throat. “You know where to find me.”  

The puppet does what puppets do when their master lets go of their strings, she falls limp, then disappears. The dream-maker curses and within seconds steps into his gallery hall. He grabs the heart of Desire and his boots hit the red glass walls of Desire’s realm.  

“What did you do with her?” His voice is rough and his jaw is locked. “She is my creature you cannot have her.” The younger brother snipes with a pained attitude, clearly displeased with his older brother catching him in his shenanigans. “She is not something to be owned.” The rougher voice replies just as quickly.  

Desire’s lip is raised in disgust. He sits upright on his throne, crossing his legs and leaning forward. “I breathed life into her flesh, I can take it away just as easily. That makes her mine to own.” Dream steps forward. “Perhaps. But it is awfully cruel to keep Love from loving merely because the free will you gave her is awakening.”  

Desire scoffs, “This is not love this is desperation. She’s nothing but a pet, I made her to be used.” This ticks Dream off. He does he same as he had with the marionette, grabs Desire right by the neck, threatening his life. “I will summon every nightmare that I have ever made and ever will make to haunt every frame that your eyes show you. You think that Endless do not too have dreams? I see, do not think I do not.”  

Desire clenches his jaw. He knows that Dream speaks the truth and anything Dream can conjure would be 100 times more terrifying than he could. They swallow, their eyes look for a way out but can’t find one. “She’s in Despair’s realm. I don’t know where.” Dream doesn’t say anything, just squeezes Desire’s neck tighter. “I don’t know where! I don’t know what despair she has, I gave her the perfect life!”

Within those words Dream knows what haunts Cupid. He remembers the horror in her eyes and the way the blood dripped to the floor like sticky syrup. The way it coated her golden hair, making look like wet copper, a rusty pipe. Most of all he remembers how she wailed in despair.  

She can’t escape it. She can’t escape this nightmare. Each time she tries to stop it from happening, it does happen. No matter what she does or doesn’t do. The heart always ends up beating in her hands. She holds the soul of the lover pumping blood until it shrivelled up and grey in her arms.  

At this point, she’s given in. She sits on the floor in the corner of the room it all happened in. Even when she does this, the organ still ends up pouring her hands with blood. The tears she cried at first matched this boundless drip but now it has ended and there is nothing left in her soul. Only the fear she has for herself and just how cruel she has become. 

“Cupid.” She doesn’t hear. All she hears is the man that at no time has ever stopped crying. Grabbing at his chest as he dies of a broken heart. That and that pump-pump-pump as the cardio vascular muscles pull and contract trying to save a person who stands no chance.  

“Cupid!” In between the gasps of a dead man and the point where all blood drains she hears it. Him. Has he come to fulfil his promise of finding her? Of saving her? Why did it take so long? Why did she have to break this poor soul’s heart over a million times before he found her? 

“Cupid!” Her gaze snaps. It is him. The scene restarts again. The man’s crying starts again. No, no, she can’t do this again if there is some glimmer of an escape. Her head finally raises from the position it’s been locked in for all this time. “Call again.” Her voice is rare but the other one isn’t. 

“Cupid!” There it is! A mirror in the corner of the room that ripples when the voice calls out. She lifts herself. Her knees crack as she does and her legs have long since gone into pins and needles. But anything is better than that blood curdling scream that comes now. She jumps, she jumps every time. The heart shows in her hands again and again she wants to stop and cry. 

“Cupid!” She mustn't become distracted, this is her only chance! She must come to him herself or else she can never escape this hell. She places the heart down, the man cries even louder at this. She flinches but in her last moment of strength ignores his pleas for her to stay and comfort him. She’s tried that before.  

Her hand, smeared red with blood, reaches to the mirror and then through the mirror. She feels a soft hand, a cold one, a pleasant change from the burning blood bound to her hands. A gasp of relief escapes her and she steps closer. She can just barely make out his face and those glowing blue eyes.  

“Come to me, Cupid. I have found you.”  

With one step through the glassy mirror, relief falls on her shoulders. More like tumbles down. Peace comes within the instant. And suddenly she can breathe again. Glades upon glades of ceaseless flowers that jump and dance in the wind and the sun and the colours that plummet from their petals.  

The mountains too are painted in vibrant images of a thousand hues. The suns first early rays comes from the right and cast a shadow behind her. Bees and birds and butterflies bound from beautiful buttercups. What looks to be fairies, made from which she is, tend to the flower field.  

The hand that holds hers helps her as she hunches down in the hibiscus flowers. The tule of her dress surrounds her in a image of a flower’s petals spreading in the face of the early mornings rays. Her hair seems to match the colour of sunshine and Dream can hear his own heart beat in his ears.  

“You made this for me?” Her eyes, this time like hot honey on his tongue, look up to him. She squints against the sun shining down on her. Her button nose scrunches up as she does. A coy smile shows his white teeth against those pale lips. 

“I did not.” Her brows furrow, “Then who did?” He tilts his head to the side, the sunrays hit her eyes again, he notices and moves back. “You did.” Cupid turns back to face the flower meadow. “Me?” He nods, allowing her to think. “You started out as something merely made by Desire...but it seems your affect on the humans has made you into something more...”  

His blue eyes don’t seem to match the blue sky and it’s all she can think about. “This would be your realm.” He explains to her, he can’t seem to look away. It’s strange, a pout forms on her lips. It runs over Dream like a crashing wave you cannot run form. He cannot stop when he is already crouched down beside her and his thumb pulls on her bottom lip. 

“Why the frown?” Her cheeks match the colour of a dusty rose. She takes her head back from his grasp and her eyes scan the scene. “I was hoping there’d be someone to talk to.” Dream feels his heart soften like wet clay. His knees give in and he sits down next to her in the flower bed. 

“You are lonely?” Her small hands takes the delicate petals of a flower between her fingers. “I’ve only ever talked to Desire.” Dream scoffs at this. “That is sure to cause a lonely heart for his company is only about themself.” He stands out in the colourful field. “You could make some company.” 

Dream suggests and her brows pull together. The Endless gently plucks the flower she holds from her hands. He seems to summon a bundle of sand which so carefully trickles onto the flower. The daisy sprouts eyes and appendages and a mouth. It’s eyes look all around before settling on Cupid. 

“Hello.” Love smiles and brushes the petals again. “Hello. Go, play.” She says, letting the now mortal flower jump around in the meadow. “Thank you, but I was hoping something with more substantial consciousness.” Now it is Dreams turn to furrow his brows. 

“I could give you the gift of choice. To chose when the humans can see you and when they cannot, just as I come and go.” He suggests to her, wanting to do almost anything to keep her happy. “You just saved me from eternal hell and now wish to gift me more?” She is unused to people being kind. 

“If it sets your heart at ease we could call it an exchange.” Her eyes jump from his eyes to her sharp jaw and then back. It’s hard to keep focus when he’s not looked away from her once. “What for?” Dreams allows the arrow to appear in his hands and then places it in hers.  

She smiles now at the sight of the arrow. “What would you like me to do with this?” She asks, her eyes reading the names over and over again. Dream smiles, “Is it our names written?” He asks her, his eyes only hold softness, no anger. 

Cupid nods, not trusting her voice. “I’d like for you to keep it. And only when you feel the statement is correct may you pierce our hearts with it.” Suddenly tears pool in her eyes and she shudders trying not to cry.

A choice. He’s given himself the chance to earn her love. He’s given her the choice to love him or not. Her first choice ever and it seems it will be the most important one she’ll ever make.

Part 4~Part 6 (coming soon)

[some-pers0n]

Albatross makes me sick. He makes me ill. How does one even get to a point like this. I don't understand. The fixation on this one character is so strong.

In other words, here's that ramble I promised. It's literally just me talking about the massacre with supporting context from my fic that I haven't even written about yet. Why? He makes me that diseased.

I think there's something to be said about the nature of a character who's life begins with violence and ends with it. Albatross discovers his magic via trying to defend himself against Sapphire and Lagoon, and his final few moments alive are spent taking the lives of Lagoon and anybody else in a general vicinity.

He never wanted this. If anything, he wanted his legacy to be more than that. He wanted to be remembered as more than an animus who hurt others. Lagoon defined him as a monster who could barely contain himself, and Albatross believed it. He didn't want others to remember him as such. He wanted to be known as the first SeaWing animus, not some...beast.

I don't think he snapped. He didn't "go insane" or whatever generic trope. I think he was tired. Exhausted. It had been many decades of abuse under Lagoon. When it happened, it was more of a result from years of build-up and pressure finally being released all at once. Tensions are high. Albatross found out that he's going to be replaced by Fathom and likely killed off by Lagoon. Swiftly disposed of as soon as he was obsolete, just like with Marlin. He went in wanting to have a civil discussion, but when things turn worse, he couldn't control himself.

Albatross wanted to see Lagoon bleed the same way Sapphire did all those years ago. He always felt selfish and horrible for this. What kind of person wants to hurt another? That was such a life altering moment. Besides, they were all kids! Little dragonets. They were playing around. They...they didn't mean what they said. It was Albatross who overreacted. It was his fault for it all.

Yet, he hated her. Lagoon was a constant tumour in his life. From that moment on, he was under her control. She would dictate how his life would go. She arranged him to be married with Marlin. She had him have dragonets in hopes that he would have an animus that could replace him. She had him do party tricks. He was like an wild pet to her. Beast of destruction and chaos who had been beaten into submission. A chained lion who wanted little more to be free. An animal who hated the parties they were forced to preform at. A feral creature who wanted to bite and twist the head off the one who trapped them.

He didn't want it to end like this. He always feared it would be like this, but he wanted to avoid it as much as possible. Praying, pleading with himself. He tip-toed around using his magic as much as possible, believing that trying to "preserve his soul" would keep it at bay. Those were just myths. Legends. A lie he would quietly repeat to himself when things seemed most bleak.

But, he couldn't contain it. Since learning that he was being replaced, he knew it was up. Lagoon would send some assassin after him and have him be killed swiftly and like he was nothing. He was nothing to her. His life was meaningless. He was nothing more than her lapdog. This party, some hollow excuse for Lagoon to show off to some SkyWing diplomats, might be the last night he was ever alive.

He had nothing to lose. He wanted something in his life to be of value. To be remembered as more than a footnote in history.

And it happened. That argument. It only cemented what he wanted to do. Like the cracks in the dam finally growing weak enough for the water to burst through. He killed her. Slit her throat and left her dead on the floor, lying there like how he found Marlin all those years ago.

And he loved it. Who wouldn't? After years of being trapped and jumping through flaming hoops for the sake of entertainment, not just biting at the hand that feeds but mauling it entirely was exhilarating. He heard the screams. He heard the cries and shrieks. It was powerful to finally have some semblance of control. Of using his god-gifted powers.

He knew he was going to die this night either way, so why not take down as many as he could? Reason and thought slipped away rapidly as he devolves into pure instinct. Something he once feared he now embraced fully. He feels the freedom and joy of standing up and being seen as the force of nature he was destined to be. Not a servant for others, but an animus. A god.

I think Manta and Eel, his daughter and son, tried to reason with him. The books mention this explicitly. Manta is trying to reach Albatross. Trying to calm him down, Fathom rationalizes. Manta and Eel see their father, who they know has struggled with this all his life, and want to try and help.

This isn't him. They can help him though. They try to reason with him, but he's wild. He's full of paranoia and anxiety. All of these thoughts spill out of his mouth with no filter. It's a mess of "I'm sorry"'s and sentences that seem more like half-formed words stringed together. Manta and Eel try grounding him, but...Splash comes from behind. One of Lagoon's own dragonets. She tries stabbing him in the chest, but he reacts quickly. He kills her.

Albatross breaks further. He assumes that this was a play from Eel and Manta to kill him. His own children. The dragons he loves most. How could they do this to him? Did they never love him? Did they always see him as this force? They wanted to kill him too. They wanted him dead just like the rest of him.

He kills them both. He finishes off the rest of the scraggles, leaving him with only one target in mind: Fathom. He wants to talk with Fathom more than anything. He wants to have one last conversation before either of them dies. The screams have been silenced. It is just him and Fathom that matters.

He finds Fathom in the storage room. He can smell his fear. He monologues and rambles, finally letting these innermost thoughts out. Fathom was just like him. Fathom would've gone down the same path he did had Albatross not...done this. It was necessary. He talks about how he wasted his life before finally striking. He wants to put Fathom out of his misery. To him, he sees it as less of revenge for replacing him, but rather as a means to ensure he would never have the life he had.

But, Indigo attacks instead. He lashes back, fatally wounding her, but Fathom kills him before he can fully do it. The spears plunge into his body. He should be dead, but...he survives enough to stay standing. He remains there, looking at Fathom. He's hunched over Indigo, sobbing and pleading with her to live.

The shock of the spears sobers him enough to have him realize what he's done. His legs shake as he struggles to stay standing. Fathom looks back at him, asking him why he's done this. Asking him why he's not killing them right now.

Albatross winces. He sees the hatred and fear in Fathom's eyes. He tries to speak, but blood gurgles in his throat. The look he gives Fathom says it all though. He murderous rage had subsided. He was...sorry.

But it was too late for apologizes. He had killed dozens. He truly was that monster.

He staggers out of the room and eventually back into the main hall. He finds the statue of Lagoon he had built for her all these years ago. He steps by the corpses of SkyWings and SeaWings he barely knew, yet already mourned the deaths of. He stumbles as he rests his head on the fountain. It's grand. A beautiful piece of art.

He dies there, bowing to the statue of Lagoon.

...he remains there still. The main gimmick of the fic is that Albatross's spirit has survived. He's restless. Unsatisfied. Bound and chained to the abandoned Island Palace for a couple millennia. As a ghost, he wanders the halls. He only ever truly becomes visible and noticeable on certain nights, where the moons above align in such a way.

He cannot rest until he feels he can. The one thing still binding him to this mortal realm is his want to be remembered as more than a monster. More than anything, he wants to be known for what truly happened. To be seen as more than a mad animus.

Eventually, Turtle and the rest of the Jade Winglet come around. It's been thousands of years since the massacre. Turtle is frightened and fearful of it all, but when nightfall comes and the moons shine down from above, he meets the spirit of Albatross by the beach. A specter with a spear still lodged in his body.

Turtle, despite his fear, slowly realizes that Albatross means no harm. Albatross simply wants to tell his tale. His story. This is the framing device of the fic. Albatross telling his entire life's story to Turtle over the course of one night.

By the end, Turtle is in tears. He's crying after hearing about the massacre. He's been through so many ups and especially downs with this story. He feels guilty for ever believing that Albatross was a murderous monster.

They hug perhaps, with Albatross apologizes for subjecting him to such a tale. Turtle tells him that he wants to make up for everything his however-many-great grandfather had been through. He says to Albatross that he wants to spread this story. He's a writer. He wants to put it to paper. Spread to the masses the truth.

And...Albatross smiles. He feels so happy. Finally, after all of these years, somebody listens and trusts him. Somebody, despite viewing him as a horrible monster at first, learns how...broken he was. How horrific it all is.

The sun peaks over the horizon. The night is over. With it, Albatross is fading away. It would be several years before something like this could happen again, yet Albatross doesn't think there will be a second time. He's happy. His one wish, to have his legacy told to another, was fulfilled.

He says goodbye to Turtle and disappears in the blinding light of the sun, leaving the dragonet all alone. Now? He has a story to tell. A tale he wouldn't let others forget. For Albatross's sake.

[hezuart]

Btw have you seen Disney’s wish and if so what’s your review on it? And how would you Rewrite the story? To me it had interesting contact about your Wishes being a part of yourselves and without it you feel hollow but too bad it was written poorly. The “Villain” Magnifico kind of had the point of not all of the wishes are supposed to be granted Example “My Wish is to get a Rocket Launcher to aim that Talking Goat and the rest of This Freaking Kingdom!” With that said next is Asha! There is no reason for her to be “Adorkable” or “Quirky” we already have Princesses and Characters like that! let them have their own Personality Already!! One problem with Asha is she should have been Magnifico’s Apprentice for a long time in the start but instead of selecting her to Be His “Apprentice” throughout the Movie 🤦🏻‍♀️ and have you seen the Concept Arts?👀 Spoilers! King and Queen are supposed to be Evil Together! and The “Star” is supposed to be like a person or it? That comes from the stars? it would’ve been cool to named it “Stardust” instead of “star” the concept art looks so Amazing than the one we have now and Also No Comedy in this movie it’s to Boring and so as the Songs 😴 we’ve been ROBBED! (The Animation is Nice but I wouldn’t compare it to Spiderverse or TMNT or Puss in boots or The Bad Guys🤔) Anyways what do you think? I want to know your opinion, see you!🙋🏻‍♀️

I might write a review if I have time, but omygod Disney's Wish is SOOOOooooo bad. SO bad. The characters are flat, its nothing but forced in references to other Disney movies, the plot is boring, the songs have all this bravado and make them not catchy- the setting is supposed to be in the Mediterranean but all the animals are from the USA implying they are all invasive species brought over from the settlers of other countries- the comic relief characters aren't funny- the goat himself should be deleted he is so annoying- The star is like, ultimate magic. He made animals sentient, he can make things fly- he can change the size of things like a giant chicken- but he can't open a fcking roof? He can't grant people's wishes? He sort of implies he left that power to Asha, but she sucks at magic. She's the worst person to be handling it. The entire marketing campaign for this movie was about how the villain is "classic Disney". He's NOT???? He's just a narcissistic traumatized(?) control freak King. But then he touches a dark book of magic and now suddenly he's 100% evil and there's no going back for him. Even his wife implies that the book changed him, that the dark magic corrupted her husband beyond repair. The dark magic influenced his personality to make him darker, but he wasn't a legitimate true villain. Classic Disney villains have always been full of themselves. They always manipulated and abused people. They aren't afraid to hurt and kill people. They relish other people's suffering. This King is not like them. They were trying to make him sympathetic from the beginning with actual real reasons to control the kingdom as he does. They do a 180 on his personality. Dude fled from his previous homeland ravaged by war, and has been serving his kingdom for years, he's basically customer service and people can be demanding and needy. Asha herself takes the opportunity to try and weasel in her grandfather's wish through her apprenticeship application and the King is like "Yep. Here we go again."

But the way they show those reasons make his entire operation look stupid. They're like "Look how evil he is for not granting wishes because his judgment is slightly skewed. Look at how evil he is for not returning the wishes because he's------- idk, a control freak? Due to his trauma?" The concept art is definitely better than the final product. I feel like it would have been a decent movie with the original concept. But what annoys me the most is that Disney thinks this is a celebration of 100 years of Disney. It's not! They're only really celebrating the last decade of quirky flat characters, mostly 3D animation, and poor storytelling. The thing that makes me the most angry out of the whole movie? The wishes. The entire concept is nonsense. The bad guy claims that Asha's grandfather's wish is too dangerous to grant. The wish? He's singing to people. fcking WHAT. "I want to be an exclusive tailor." "I want to be a sailor!" "I want to sing to kids and inspire them-" THE PEOPLE OF ROSAS ARE SO STUPID.??????? THEY CAN ACHIEVE THOSE CAREERS ON THEIR OWN. THE KING OF ROSAS. IS A SORCERER.

We have TWO wishes that are actually physically impossible and magical. "I want to talk to birds!" "I want to fly!" ARE YOU TELLING ME. THAT NO ONE WANTS TO BECOME A FIRE-BREATHING DRAGON AT WILL? HAVE TELEKINESIS? BE A STRONG BODYBUILDER WHO CAN LIFT BUILDINGS? READ MINDS? SEE THE FUTURE? OWN A GIANT CHICKEN THAT GIVES GOLDEN EGGS? WISH TO BE A FAIRY TO CHANGE THEIR SIZE AT WILL?

THOSE. ARE ACTUAL DANGEROUS, UNACHIEVABLE WISHES WHY ON EARTH WOULD YOU HAVE A WISH OF WANTING A CAREER AS A FARMER WHEN YOU COULD WISH TO HAVE TOTAL CONTROL OVER PLANT LIFE AT WILL? THE PEOPLE OF ROSAS ARE SO DUMB I CANT WITH THIS IM SORRY IM SO MAD AT THIS MOVIE And the wishes themselves like- people don't have the same wish forever. Someone in the crowd even asked, "Can we change our wish?" It's implied maybe they can even have more than one. They also straight up forget their wish when they give it up to the King? This whole thing feels like a weird metaphor for real life in a magical setting. It doesn't make sense to me.

One of my friends said they heard a theory that this entire movie is secretly a jab at Corporate Monopoly Disney, how they won't let anyone else be magical (monopoly), how they only choose 12 wishes a year to grant (Internships), and how the wishes they choose to grant are useless to the kingdom because anything else more creative or inspiring is a threat (regurgitated sequels, uninspired stories, boring formula) and how the ending is about defeating the "villain" (Disney) and moving on to try and achieve your dreams yourself (Form a Union, start your own businesses, take back animated media) and viewing the movie through THAT lens is actually incredibly metaphorically genius and made the movie less terrible for me, intentional or not But yeah anyway, Wish is bad. I keep telling people. Disney is so dumb. THIS is what people want for a Disney celebration: CROSSOVER. DISNEY CINEMATIC UNIVERSE. Disney will probably do it badly but I'm telling you, people have been wanting this for YEARS.

They did it with House of Mouse, they can do it again.

[secret-fungi]

A warm gun

rating: M

Hurt/comfort angst

pairing: Vesper/ Nova

words count: 3485

tws: emotional distress, adult language, sexual themes, implied past abuse, talks of manipulation, coercion and violence, self hate.

spoilers for S2

summary: A line in the sand had been drawn long before they met, before they circled around each other, and that line in the sand would remain even after the smoke cleared.

Vesper watched the catcher’s every micro expression, her multitude of emotions all flitted across her features like the fluttering of lashes. She desperately wanted the catcher to tell her that she chose the right thing, that her faith in her was not in vain but the catcher only let out a heavy, weary sigh, Like she had been dying to tell the other woman for a very long while and couldn’t bring herself to. Her shoulders dropped and she seemed to give up instantly.

What bitter truth could be revealed in the hollowness of silence? How long could a lie last? And did it mean that nothing true could come from it? 

She wondered if she would beg, if she dropped her knees or cry, what would she do to fool her? 

The catcher did none of those. She simply smiled at the woman, a horribly stricken expression she didn’t bother hiding settling into her face, in the pores and fine lines, every inch of her seemed to wear that expression, as if by being caught in one lie she decided to drop all pretenses. 

“Not even Ex Vatican spies?” she asked humorously. “Is that what you are?” Vesper asked in return. “That’s what I want to be.” she assured. “But?” Vesper urged. “I’m in too deep.” she said, then after a moment her face fell. 

“How deep?” she found herself asking “Deep.” The catcher replied “He raised me.” she added.  Vesper knew that, of course she did, but something in the way she said it – the heaviness and sorrow of her tone –  made it feel new. It made the theories of how a priest raised the catcher more substantial, and the thoughts that came to Vesper’s head made her frown, and so she wrapped her arms around the woman, pulling her closer and as soon as she touched her, the catcher flinched. 

What cruelty have you faced to expect it from every open hand? Vesper wondered to herself. 

The catcher let out a mirthless laugh, a bitter, hopelessly sardonic thing that didn’t sound anything like her usual laugh. “He only wanted me for this job, Vesper.” she whispered, a bitter truth that every part of her seemed to have trouble admitting. 

“And I can’t even do it.” She said. 

A small, barely noticeable smile creeped onto Vesper’s lips that fell as she listened to the catcher's tone. She wasn’t pleading, or trying to justify herself, and of all the ways Vesper guessed the catcher would sound, resigned was not on the list. She sounded as if she had learned of her death, and maybe that is what stopped her from reaching out to the other woman. “You expect me to believe this is real?” she asked. “No.” she replied. “So you’ll still do as He wants?” Vesper asked, at this Nova shook her head against her shoulder. “I can’t… hurt you.” 

“Why?” Vesper asked. For a moment it seemed like the catcher was chewing on the question, worrying her bottom lip as she thought of the right words. “Does it matter?” She asked, “Of course, why you’re doing something and who you’re doing it for matters a lot.” The older woman replied. 

The catcher leveled a knowing look to the other. They both knew what she stood to lose if she sided with them, the catcher stood at the edge of a collapsing cliff and though there were people standing below holding a tarp for her there was no place beside them.

No, there was no place that she could go. To take care of her own would mean to be alone. At least for a while – No matter what she did, It would hurt her, but that was always the risk, and that had always been known, and as she looked at the woman she was faced with two sides that saw this fact as a necessary sacrifice. 

Maybe, if she was more noble or something more than she was-  braver, kinder maybe – she wouldn’t mind the pain, maybe then the choice wouldn’t be so personal, but she wasn’t so it was.

The choice wasn’t who would hurt her the least but rather was, and maybe always would be, who’s heart could she stand to break, and who’s blood could she stand to be stained by.  

And the older woman never did make that list. 

Nova’s hands remained at her side, almost afraid to touch the other woman, she stayed, crumpled against the woman silently waiting for the blade to connect. Nova thought that was cruel, in some strange way that she refused, but neither of the pair made the jump that they would inevitably have to make. 

The pair knew many truths, most of which they let lay by their feet, like how fragile this was. Because you never love your enemy, you don’t take them to bed and kiss them good night, you don’t hold their hands or hold them when they cry– you don’t show mercy.  Vesper wasn’t known for hesitating. Nova knew this, she was warned by her father, by Vesper herself, by every single person that crossed the woman’s path, by everyone that tapped on the catcher’s slack jaw and warned her against it, and still she remained. 

And maybe it was that knowledge that kept the catcher eerily still in the woman’s arms, kept her from answering the woman’s question. Because she knew, just as Vesper did, that it didn’t matter what the catcher said, truly. Just as She knew that it didn’t didn’t matter what Vesper promised in turn. They both wouldn’t believe the other until the end came, until the gun was drawn and aimed, until the smoke cleared and they could see who had been hit, and until that moment it didn’t truly matter.

They both knew that this would end- This would be the worst — the cruelest thing that either of them could do. There was no way to lay at her feet without bruising your knees, no god is merciful even ones that looked like her. 

Knowing that this - whatever you wished to call it, be it; lust, love, a quick fling, a manipulation tactic that went astray, a really horrible fucking idea, or a new religion, whatever you called it,  They knew that this was finite - and that made it all the better. A line in the sand had been drawn long before they met, before they circled around each other, and that line in the sand would remain even after the smoke cleared.

The catcher’s eyes landed on the woman’s lips, a small, traitorous thought chiming in; If there is a place in heaven for someone like me, I hope it's next to you. Then, ashamed at the thought, she looked away, glancing behind the woman focusing on the painted petals on the walls. 

A small earnest wish that made her furrow her brow, made anxiety settle in the base of her stomach and come up to the back of her throat, that earnest desire made her fingers twitch and her breath speed up. that contemptible thought was something not exactly new but not something she had truly known before, as if she knew it’s face but never its name- it was a fearsome thing, Trembling and horribly volatile. 

There was an end, there always was.

“What will you do?” Vesper asked the catcher, and for a while she waited for a response, but the catcher only tensed and stopped breathing but that only lasted for a while. She wanted the catcher to tell her that she was loyal, that she had decided to do the right thing and that she was with her, but the catcher remained silent, and something in that was more confirmation of who’s side she was on then anything she could’ve said.

“Are you going to kill me?” She asked “What? Christ- Nova No!” “Do you have a cell waiting then?” “Nova.”  The catcher leveled a look at the woman, and in turn the woman leveled the very same expression.  “I’m not going to kill you.” “Not even if I ask nicely?” “Nova.” Vesper emphasized, but the catcher only cracked a self-deprecating smile before she warned the woman; “It’s easier to kill your enemies.” “You’re not my enemy.” She stated firmly, taking hold of the woman’s face. 

A melancholic flicker flashed across the catcher’s eyes before they dropped to the other woman's lips before she said “I should be.”  “But you’re not, are you?” Vesper asked. “No.” She admitted. “Then, neither am I.” She promised, her thumb swiping the tops of the catcher’s cheekbones. 

Nova knew, as well as anyone else, that she was a fool. The worst part of being one was that she couldn’t explain why she fell into the trap. Maybe she was starved for attention, maybe she liked the woman’s smile, maybe she got addicted to the tingling feeling the woman’s touch left, or maybe she didn’t ever truly wish to cleanse the world of people like her. Though she tried to understand, she truly did– it only ever led her to a memory she couldn’t quite remember, a whisper of a voice that wasn’t there.

She questioned what that could be, her biological family? A trick that the blonde woman had somehow played? Her soul? If others had souls then maybe hers sought out where she belonged.

She knew– that maybe this was the lies from her heart, those sinful wishes she was promised she’d have. She promised once that when those whispers came she’d hold her breath and turn away, but she found that promises lonely children make rarely hold up in adulthood. 

Nova was such a fool. But she had always been. In a thousand lifetimes, and a million redos, she didn’t think she could pull the damned trigger. For that long while Nova was quiet, Vesper’s eyes darted around her face, trying to read the catcher’s thoughts on it. Her silence felt grave and deathly, as if she was relaying a harsh prognosis. Like she was already dead. So, Vesper tried to sooth the catcher’s fears.

“You can have a home here, I can help you.” She assured. The breathy laugh that escaped the catcher’s lips made her hair stand on edge. So Vesper pulled the other’s face to look at her in hopes of keeping her from her gloomy thoughts, grounding the catcher in the reality of her words, but still, the catcher’s eyes didn’t land on hers.

“You can stay with us.” Vesper promised. “I can’t.” “Why not?” “I can’t live with it.” she admitted “where will you go, then?” Vesper asked, and for a while it’s quiet again. “I can’t go back, Vesper.” She said after a moment, in a firm tone. She didn’t blame the other for the quiet accusation, but she didn’t enjoy it. “You can’t or won’t?” “both.” “I can’t because I won’t.” she half joked, her smile was somehow genuinely amused and horribly somber at the same time, as if she had broken a bone in a rather silly way and while she saw the humor in it, it hurt too much to laugh at that moment.

“You think he’ll order you to kill?” Vesper asked. Nova's eyes landed on the woman’s and for a moment Vesper watched something dance within them, something haunted and longing all at once, but as soon as it came, it was gone, chased away by the catcher’s rapid blinks before she nodded. “I know he will.” “Why won’t you do it?” 

“You know why.” came the response, only then did she reach for the older woman, her fingers wrapping around her slender wrist in an attempt to pry the woman’s hands from her face. 

Somehow, it felt like the woman was mocking her with her touch, and it made her want to cry, it burned, everything within her hurt at the woman’s touch, and still foolishly she craved it, but now that she was given it she found herself being burned alive. There were questions and pleads, and all the things they left at the door, and there was her – looking at her like she almost wanted to force the words from the catcher’s lips, her brows pinched and her lips tugged downwards at the corners, light eyes falling upon the catcher’s lips as if willing the truth to fall from them but in the end they were only just passing flowers through a gap in the fence. 

“Tell me anyway.” Vesper requested, her hands still firmly in place. Nova’s eyes once again traced a petal on the wall, and after she finished one she jumped to the next one. The final nail in her coffin was admitting her feelings, and when the woman gave her the hammer Nova found that she couldn’t do it. 

Even if it was for the best she let that version of her be lowered into the ground, to rot and be forgotten, and even if she herself had killed that version - in some minor way - She couldn’t do it.

 In the intimacy of the moment, it was easy to let yourself slip, even just for a moment. And just as they had done from the beginning, they let themselves fall into the illusion that they were just happy to have the other’s company, for no other reason but enjoying it. Nova glanced back at the woman to find her eyes still on her. The blonde woman was a breath away and miles apart.

Somehow, the small whisper of a distance between them wasn’t close enough, but it wasn’t much of a distance they had to go for the pair to meet, but still, neither one of them were quite sure who pulled the trigger first, just that their lips had met, for the first few seconds, they were sure this was a mistake, Nova’s hands stayed frozen mid air and Vesper’s stayed on the catcher’s face. 

Truly, on the list of horrible fucking ideas, on cruel acts you can do to your enemy, loving them must be at the top of the list. 

Where is bravery when you need it the most? away with joy more often than not. 

Almost as soon as the older woman started to pull away, Nova’s wide eyes closed and her hands found their way to the woman’s face, pulling her closer and keeping her in place. This small gesture caused a sly smile to be pressed against her lips as she dived deeper, noses bumping, in a clumsy excited way. 

Neither of them minded, not much. though they both knew that this should have bothered them, they should have pulled away, but instead their hands had found their ways to each other, desperate and greedy, as if searching for the other’s heart.

Nova thought to herself that even if the other woman brought out a knife, she would be okay. She supposed that was love, allowing your blood to sweeten a kiss. 

Knowing that it was wrong did not cut the sweetness of the other’s lips. Vesper's hands dropped to the catcher’s hips, her nails sinking into the rounded meaty part. The catcher found herself straining to keep the woman close like a flower reaching for the sun. The soft sigh of relief that could have come from either of them was swallowed by the other, and the muffled noise that Nova earned by tugging the other’s hair. 

Soft. She was so soft. The curl that framed her face, her lips, her skin, the way she looked at her – The weight of what the catcher was giving up didn’t feel quite as heavy when the older woman looked at her like that. 

Like despite it being a terrible idea, she was a fool too.

You couldn’t quite tell who was more desperate, the woman who’s slender fingers drew teasing little circles on the top of the other’s hips, or the woman who hitched said leg to the woman’s hip, drawing her closer, both of them greedily took in the other, swallowing and savoring every soft sound the other let out, every intake of breath when the blonde woman tugged at the catcher’s swollen lip- it was intoxicating, and ruining. 

Definitely, they would learn to regret this — but neither minded.

Vesper wondered but didn’t allow herself to ask if this was just a forbidden thrill that the catcher caved into, instead she dived into the other, allowing golden water to pull her from the shore.

There was always an end, and with each second they only marched closer to it.

 Closer.

 Closer.

Closer still as the fabric of the catcher’s skirt rode up, slender fingers chased it, earning a gasp that broke their kiss, and it only took a moment, before her kisses trailed down the catcher’s jawline and down the length of her neck. There was something rather nice about marking the young spy with her lipstick, a flag in the sand. 

With each kiss the end was closer, a game of roulette. With each kiss the catcher’s once hesitant fingers dug into the other, much less hesitant now.  Absently she had a thought she knew was trouble: If ever there was a heaven, it must be soft– Soft like silk sheets, soft like a ribbon soft like you. And all she could think was how very nice it would be to be tangled around her. 

Neither one of them were particularly eager to part, not even when the catcher separated, chest heaving and eyes clouded and half lidded, no they stayed, foreheads pressed against each other breathing each other's air, dazed and flustered. 

For a long while they stayed, both flushed and frantic.

Truly, It didn’t matter what the catcher said, because her eyes told the truth. Vesper thought to herself as she stared into the catcher’s eyes. The gun wasn’t warm anymore and Vesper wanted to ask when it was she had fired it, She wanted to know. But the catcher kept everything trapped behind her teeth, firmly hidden away. 

She minced her words, her thoughts and feelings, condensing them and stripping them to only be facts. The reality of the situation as if it didn’t affect her. 

The silence somehow felt judgmental, as the catcher watched the other woman attempt to regain a serious expression. Nova was struck, watching the flushed woman turn away, and as they often did, her eyes trailed down her neck, watching as her breath seemed to get caught in her throat, as fixed her hair.

Nova wondered but didn’t allow herself to say it out loud that the other woman was rather cruel, to still be using her feelings against her, because she couldn’t blame the other woman. She knew from the start who Vesper was, and from the start Vesper knew her, It was Nova’s own fault that she was obvious.  

Nova pulled back, letting her head rest against the wall, still encased in her arms.  “You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t let feelings get in the way.” She said, “You always end up paying for them.” “Is that a threat?” Vesper asked, a brow raised high as she tried to fix her tousled hair.

Nova arched a brow at the other woman. Something so amused in her gaze. “I can’t hurt you.” she said softly as if it was confession and a curse all at once. “You can.” “I don’t want to hurt you.” the catcher corrected, her hand reaching to fix the woman’s now smudged lipstick.  “I know.” Nova grinned, watching the soft gaze that fell upon the other’s face as the older woman’s thumb swiped across her bottom lip. 

“I should have become an ex-spy sooner.” Nova finally jokes, watching as the woman paused, looking at her with her brows raised in surprise before laughing. Nova liked her laugh most of all, it reached her face before it reached your ears, it seemed to travel up from her feet and to the top of her head before it spilled out, it was the kind of laugh that made you want to sit back and watch, made you want to stay up all night coming up with stuff to make it happen again. 

“You should’ve.” “Who knows how many times that would’ve happened if you had.” She jokes in return. “At least twice more.” Nova said “at least.” she agreed.

It was too late now, to escape or pretend that they didn’t know the other’s feelings, For better or worse it was always her. The line in the sand was drawn and as the catcher looked at the woman she was determined to go wherever she led her. 

For better or worse it was always them. 

Fate holds a warm gun, smoke still trailing from the muzzle as resistance lies dead on corner of hate and acceptance. Love was a warm gun, and someone always had to take the bullet,

[zephyrrr101]

Happened, Happening and Will Happen.

Pairing: Robert Baratheon x Named Targaryen OC

TW: Abusive Words, Mention of Forces Intercourse, Harrasment, Mention of Incest and Death, Robert Baratheon being and ass, All of ASOIAF warnings.

Note: English is not my first language, hons. You can tell me if I made a mistake somewhere. Don't know why this took me this long despite having everything in mind of what I wanted to do.

Part One

Alyssanne couldn't believe it was actually happening. She was really standing in front of the door of the Great Sept, many guards around her to stop what was left of King's Landing's population to reach her.

More like to stop her from running away.

She couldn't believe that she was standing there in a white dress, a dress of a maiden about to be wed.

Jon Arryn stepped inside the door of her chamber, closing it behind him as he looked at she hesitantly. “I hope it would be better if we could sit down for this talk, my princess,"

"Why?" She asked, hands clenching at the fabric of her dress as she stood away from him by the window that overlooked the Blackwater Bay. "What is it that we must sit for?" She wouldn't have been this rude to him but these were not pleasant times. At least not for her.

Jon Arryn sighed, it was evident that he was not ready for this coming conversation, "It is of utmost importance that we talk and I think you would find it better. Please, I mean no harm to you."

"Just like that man means no harm to me or my family?" Jon did not miss the disgust in her tone. It was enough to understand that no sympathies were going to work with the young girl. "I know you are here to tell me what would be done to me, Lord Arryn. Do us both a favour and just be done with it."

"I understand that this is not something you will want, but the small council has come to a decision. We all agree that you should wed King Robert within a sennight."

She looked at him in utmost shock, her mouth hung open in shock. A wave, no, a storm of emotions was flowing through her. Was it anger? Pity? Relief? Or was she going mad just as her father?

Whatever it was, it all this was enough to elicit a laugh out of her mouth. "Say again? Wed to Robert Baratheon? You all must have lost your minds!” She hissed at him.

"There are still those who had supported your brother—"

"Of course they are!" She scoffed, "and I am to a bargaining lot for you all to quell it down, aren't I?"

"The king does not like this arrangement any more than you do, princess. You must marry him. Or you would be put to sword. Would you rather be dead?"

"There is another way! Let me go! Let me leave Westeros. I will sail across the Narrow Sea, find what is left of my family and you can assure your King Robert that none of us will ever return to threaten his reign!" Her words were strong but the plead of last evening was still present.

"You have my apologies, princess, but the King has declined to even think of this. His words are clear. You must marry him to settle Realm's peace."

She had tried to argue with the new Hand for a few more moments before he had sorrowfully left her alone as she had started to weep.

It had taken Ser Barristan a good few hours to make her understand that it might be best for her to accept this marriage, as this could be a way to stall time for her younger siblings and maybe with time she and Robert could even come to love each other. Her siblings could be allowed to come back home.

Alyssane knew it was all just hollow words. Robert Baratheon was a man as stubborn as mule. If he wanted to kill Viserys and Daenerys, he would stop at nothing. But the decision was made. There was little she could do alone in a place where everyone now was loyal to Robert Baratheon. How did the Small Council convinced him for this marriage will forever be a mystery for her.

The doors were opened. And in front of her was a hand which belonged to Lord Stark.

Eddard ‘Ned’ Stark. The new Lord Stark.

Since no one from her family was there to give her away, it was him who had volunteered himself.

From what she knew, he was almost, if not more, of a brother to Robert. Last she had seen him was before the rebellion at the tourney at Harrenhal, the damned tourney.

She had danced with him after Rhaegar in the music where partners were changed. He had been utmost respectful and she found him the most handsome man after Ser Arthur. She remember dreaming of maybe marrying him one day too.

Now all was lost to a mistake made by her brother.

It never extinguished her surprise how he didn't throw insults at her considering it was him who had dealt the most casualty at her father's hand. His father and brother killed. His sister raped by her brother. She respected him, perhaps she felt comforted that it was him giving she away.

"I hope you will be able to find some solace in your coming life, your grace," He spoke as her hand left his and was placed in calloused one of her to-be-husband in moments. She didn't want to but she had glanced at him for once and looked away, never raising her eyes until she didn't have to.

Robert looked as if someone had forced him to eat and swallow sourest of lemons. She couldn't help but clench her jaw at sight of her father's crown on his head. It belonged to Rhaegar. And Viserys after him. Not Robert. He did not deserve it.

Time passed, the septon spoke his prayers and her Red and Black Targaryen cloak was changed for the Golden and Black one that House Baratheon.

"I am his and he is mine." She had never felt much more empty or false words leave her mouth. She did not even realise when he had pulled her close and kissed her until their lips had met. It was painful. Not just in her mind but in reality. He was rough. As if trying to pour all his anger in one act. The people cheered and she held her tears back.

The ceremony ended just quickly in her mind and now she was sat on the royal table with Robert beside her, sinking into cups and getting handsy with the maids that were serving food and wine.

She wanted to feel humiliated. She wanted to feel angered but she didn't. If anything she was much glad that Robert would give into his drunken state and fall unconscious soon.

She could feel Stannis' glare on her. From the day she received the news of wedding to this day, Ser Barristan had been kind enough to tell her what was happening around the palace. Stannis had been made Lord of Dragonstone. Something which she think he did not like. Well, Stannis rarely did like anything. Even before this damned war.

Jaime Lannister stood by her side as her sworn shield. This was the perfect jape from Robert. He probably hoped that the Lannister knight would stab her from behind as well.

Kingslayer, they all named him.

Her father was a monster. She knew. Had also been a witness and victim of it all first hand.

But to be forced to face the man who killed him, she hated it. It was a punishment. A punishment for the crimes she hadn’t even committed.

She hated him.

She hated him.

She hated him.

She hated him and all she could do was push around the food on her plate, try to swallow what was in her mouth and try to forget where she was, copying Robert’s method.

She wondered if things would have been different if she had married Rhaegar as her father had originally wanted. She, by no chance, loved Rhaegar as a husband or a lover but knew that she was hale and healthy to be able to bear children that Rhaegar would have wanted.

Rhaegar’s three children.

Her brother was obsessed with creating the Conquerors reborn, always saying how a dragon must have three heads.

She only wonders if she didn’t cry to Cersei Lannister about her hesitance to marry Rhaegar, the golden haired lady would not have promised to her that she would never have to marry her brother.

She wasn’t a fool. She knew that her freedom of few year was a boon from Tywin Lannister or Lord Varys, perhaps. She also knew how the Warden of West desired to marry his daughter to her brother.

As much as she loved Cersei, she knew she wouldn’t make a good queen, especially not for Rhaegar. But at that moment Alyssanne hadn’t cared. She was free.

She was free.

Until she wasn’t.

She felt hands around her, pulling her away from her thoughts and her chair it was when she noticed men surrounding her, some grinning, some scowling, some drunk, some sober.

Her turns to look around her only to find ladies surrounding Robert. And it finally clicked her.

The horrendous Bedding Ceremony.

Lords, old and young, all started to grab her, taking hold of her gown and veil from various parts. She even felt one hand grasping her pearl necklace before pulling at it, the pearls shattering against her chest and they fell, jumping on the floor, before stopping.

Her necklace.

It was a gift from her mother, the Queen Rhaella. And now it was broken. Alyssanne felt tears come in her eyes.

Was this how it was going to be?

Was she was going to taken away from every little thing about her family one by one, just like how men tore at her clothes, was she going to torn to be left as nothing.

The way from the Grand Hall to the Maegor’s Holdfast has been long enough, it had felt like eternity to Alyssanne. The men grabbing and pulling at her skin, as the picked up her bare self, she could feel one of them having too much of a tight grip on her, it almost made her cry more.

But she took a deep breath, and kept her eyes around the places she was being carried through, ignoring the hands fondling with her.

That archway, she remembered hiding there when she was playing with Rhaenys.

The inner kitchen, she had stolen lemon cakes with Viserys there.

The broad banisters of the serpentine stairs, she remembered how Elia had shown her a way to slide on them, but both of them ended up falling on the stairs. Thankfully there weren’t any injuries that would be needed to alert anyone, for it was only them and Ashara Dyane.

Ashara, another good friend claimed by the war.

How many names had she forgotten and would be reminded like this every time, with every breath and step she took in the place.

And she felt coolness under her feet, her eyes snapping to the open doors of what ones used to be her father’s chamber just a moon before.

The men around her and the women who had been waiting outside the open door all pushed her, surprising her with the fact that she hadn’t fallen face flat at floor.

There was loud thud of the doors closing.

Alyssanne pulled her hands around her, feeling a sudden chill around her.

He was here.

The women being outside was just a confirmation.

But she couldn’t bring herself to look around for where he was.

She’d rather ignore it to the end of the world if she could.

Only it wasn’t in her hand.

“Stop being so prudish,” she heard Robert behind her. “You are just like you brother.”

“I’m not my brother!” The reply was out before she could consider it. Well, what’s the worse he could do now? She thought and continued. “Nor were my mother and little brother and sister. Why are you punishing us? Rhaegar’s dead.”

“Aye, he is. Haven’t forgotten. I killed him, after all.” Robert walked over to her, his feet thumping on the floor. Despite the number cups and flagon he’d finish, his voice was as clear as the moon that was shining in the dark sky. No cloud of slurs, nothing.

He had gotten close. So close that she could feel his skin on hers and stiffened at the feel of it.

Alyssanne crashed in him, her hair being pulled at the very base of her head and winced, trying not to cry at the feel of her head being tore into half.

Robert tilted her head towards him. A sneer and hatred, that’s what outshined on him. And she closed her eyes as he pulled her more towards him, his rough beard felt like scratching her cheek as he spoke in her ear.

“I killed him, hit my hammer right in his chest,” His breath smelled of all the alcohol he had drunk. “Do you know what they call the place when I killed him? Ruby Ford. All those rubies fell off that place? son of whore when I hit him.”

“He’s dead, Robert.” Alyssanne whispered, her breath strangled.

“So is Lyanna!”

“It’s not me who killed her!” Alyssanne grasped at his hand, trying to pull it away. She went as far as digging her nails into him but there wasn’t even a grunt. It was as if he was made of iron or something.

“Shut up, you whore!” Robert spat, his hands moving, one of them, grabbed her from her waist and under her knees. And the next moment she was on the bed.

Alyssanne gasped, her breath leaving her for a moment, a moment she missed where Robert had climbed the bed, a moment in which he was on her.

Her senses came back to her when he shoved her legs apart, sat himself between them in front of her core.

No.

No!

No!

No!

“No!” Alyssanne gasped, pushing herself away but to no avail.

Robert had grabbed her hips and leaned over her, his hand capturing both of her and other had a deathly grip on her jaw. She wouldn’t be surprise if he actually broke it.

“No point in making a scene, woman! Just take it and be done!”

She felt herself being torn into halves before she could even register his words, her scream drowning in his mouth.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

And on and on.

She could feel her cheeks getting wet, her vision clouded by her tears.

And she cried.

For what has happened.

For what is happening.

And for what will happen.

[breadraccoon]

*No spoilers opinion*

Just watched the new Beetlejuice movie and you know what, it did do something incredible. It got me and my Dad on the exact same wavelength, because we were both like “Wow… that was a whole lot of nothing.” Never in my life has he and I agreed so strongly about why a film was bad and where it went wrong. And to that, I just want to say thank you. This film has brought me and Dad just a little bit closer.

A more serious spoiler filled rant below

I don’t mean to be too harsh on this film. It had a strong start. I liked how they were setting up a theme of how abusive/toxic men will try to force or manipulate their way into a relationship. Beetlejuice is the text book definition of a predator. Had they been able to land the theme of having self respect and not letting someone push you around, I think this could have been a great film. It’s frustrating for me as a writer to watch a film cut out time to develop its story to make room for more joke. And you can really feel it by the end. Especially when the jokes don’t land. There are a lot of jokes that go on for far too long. 

This film has so many side plots that go no where. Beetlejuice ex wife was in this film because? She had such a cool design! And scene of her putting herself back together, *chief kiss* AMAZING! But she has no plot relevance. She literally shows up at the end to just scare Beetlejuice and die. Also why can Beetlejuice freeze the cop but not her? There were so many plot conveniences at the end of this film that it seemed like the writers were just rushing to find a way to end the film.

Astrid storyline quickly got under cut by that awkward family reunion. I would have liked to have seen more of her Dad. They spend so much time talking about him, but he’s barely gets any time to shine. The whole family reunion scene felt so uncomfortable for the wrong reasons. I get that their married was failing, but idk let Lydia and her dead husband have more than three lines to each other. This was suppose to be the emotional climax that brings last living Deetz together and it felt so hollow. I don’t think I was sold on any relationship other than Charles and Delia. I cringe so often during this film. Every emotional moment felt so hollow by the end.

Willem Dafoe did not need to be in this film as much as he was. He was funny at first, but that cop actor joke got tired fast. He doesn’t really do anything either. He could have just been a smaller antagonist for Lydia as she tried to save her daughter. We don’t need investigator Dafoe. Also we need to talk about Delia. While Delia death was funny, why did we kill her off? Her death felt like it should have had more weight, but again it just felt underwhelming. I think I could go on and on covering every weak story point, but then this would be ten pages long.

Overall I couldn’t recommend this film to anyone. Especially if you have to pay to see it. This film was a cash grab.