#cw allusion to rape

[certified-bi]

Thinking about how when Zuko walks through the earth kingdom pretending to be as a refugee and some people notice his eyes but honestly they're not the first thing you notice given the scar and the fact he doesn't let many people near him. No while some of the towns have people who sneer most look on with pity. People like Song and her mother, Lee and his family see the scar and see how the fire nation attacks and maims children. And the worst part is Zuko has little to combat that with because it's true but he's not ready to hear that.

Other assumptions are of course that he's a bastard of some solider with bad luck. That his mother was forced into having him and may the poor woman rest in peace... and later him realizing how true that was of Ursa. What really sets her apart from any of the earth kingdom common women forced into mockery of relationships or forced to sleep with soldiers to stay alive? Maybe the threats were more veiled but it boils down to the same ultimatum.

[syoddeye]

kinktober - day 03 - public sex

ghost x f!reader | 2.4k words cw: noncon/rape, violent threats, spit, degradation, improvised gag, unnegotiated and vague allusion breeding kink, abduction a/n: if anyone is better acquainted with the vw camper vans, no you’re not (please don’t call me on details, ty) summary: two birds, one stone. banner by @/cafekitsune | kinktober list

A knock at the door mid-saxophone solo wrenches you out of the 1980s.

It’s Lost Boys night at the drive-in, one of your favorite films at one of your favorite places. To be interrupted, your knee-jerk reaction is what does this asshole want—

Except, said asshole looms over your door, clearing your car by almost a foot, treating you to a view of a broad torso in a hi-vis vest. Ducking down, your frown gives way to confusion. It’s the security guy who waved you into this very ‘spot’ not ten minutes ago. You had to beg him to let you turn into the drive-in, frantically explaining that work kept you late, causing you to arrive just as the movie started.

“Lot’s full.”

“That can’t be right, I-I have a ticket! Please?”

(If you’d dipped a little low to give him a good view of your cleavage, that was neither here nor there.)

He’d given you a long look, sighed, and then guided your puttering van into a relatively flat space by the dumpsters beyond the final row of cars. When you stuck your head out to thank him, he muttered something about tardiness. 

It appears he still has a bone to pick with you.

You crank the window down, one eye still on the screen.

“Yeah?”

“Just wonderin’, that a ‘75 Volkswagen camper?”

“It’s an ‘82 T3 Westfalia,” You rattle off. “You a collector? ‘Cause The Bluebird’s not for sale. She was my dad’s, so...”

“I’m not. Is it the model with the foldin' table?”

Oh, so he’s just another nosy enthusiast. Good thing you have the rundown memorized from years of strangers walking up to play twenty questions.

“Yeah,” you say with a little sigh, eyes still on the movie. “Everything’s original except for the seat fabric.”

“Mind if I pop in for a look? My dad 'ad one too, before 'e passed.”

Great. Now you have something in common. You unlock the doors and furiously gesture for him to take a peek. 

“Yeah, yeah, climb in. Just keep it quiet, I love this movie.”

“Quiet’s the goal, sweet'eart.”

Cripes.

You listen to him inspect the cupboards and examine the curtains your dad installed years ago. True to his word, the security guard’s silent. When the door shuts, you automatically turn to ask if it is anything like his dad’s model, but nobody’s outside the van. It’s like he vanished into—

Something cold touches your cheek.

“You scream, and I’ll ruin daddy’s ’ard work.”

Your eyes strain in their sockets to glimpse the tip of something black poking into your flesh, and your imagination fills in the rest. Your mouth dries, killing the screaming trapped at the base of your throat. You nod mechanically.

“Good girl. Now, give me the keys then keep your ‘ands where I can see ‘em.”

Sucking in a panicked breath, you slowly reach for the keys and blindly hand them over your shoulder. They disappear with a faint jingle.

“P-Please. You can have her. I’ll–I’ll get out, sit on the ground quietly, and you can drive off. I won’t fight o-or make a scene–“

“You won’t do either of those things, Blue,” he chuckles before stroking your temple with the tip of his gun. “Now. Turn the radio up so you can listen to your movie, then climb back here, carefully.”

You hesitate. Does he mean…?

“Between the seats. C’mon.”

Oh god.

“I’m not a patient man.”

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” You wheeze. You turn up the radio until it drowns out your thundering heartbeat and clumsily scramble into the back. You nearly trip, eyes widening to see that in his explorations, he’s converted the back seat into the sleeping configuration. He’s made the bed. 

He stands hunched in the narrow gap between the bed and the driver’s seat. Crammed into a space meant for a man seemingly half his size. The bed isn’t the only thing he’s changed, you notice. Gone is the medical mask. In its place is a crude, painted balaclava. It makes him look all the more terrifying as if he needs the boost to his image.

He gestures at your chest as you hover awkwardly behind the passenger seat, hands raised, trying not to fall onto the bed in the cramped space.

“Clothes off. Won’t say it twice this time, so get a move on. Sit if ya need to, but not a fuckin’ word.”

Tears spring to your eyes. Your cheeks burn as you comply, a sob catching in your throat when you glimpse him unbuckling his belt. This can’t be happening. This can’t be fucking happening. The fact it is happening at the drive-in, in the van, is a double whammy. The stranger’s going to obliterate two of your safe spots in one go.

He growls when you stand there in your bra and panties, hands clasping awkwardly at your front. 

“You stupid? Don’t make me repeat myself.”

Your bra tumbles down your shaking arms, and you kick it next to your clothes. As for your panties—he snatches them out of your hands before you can toss them. He brings them to his face, mashing them into the fabric covering his nose, and jerks his head in a silent but clear order.

He practically purrs when you climb onto the cheap, lumpy makeshift mattress. The upholstery is clean, you see to its maintenance, but it scratches at your palms and knees as you crawl.

“Look at that arse. Give it a wiggle, Blue.”

With the gun and his casual threat of ruining the interior with your interior, you pathetically comply. He belly laughs, louder than the revving of the motorcycles on screen. You try to ignore it, focusing on the interior handle of the van’s rear latch that’s a shuffle away. But as soon as you reach for it, a hand the width of a shovel wraps around your ankle and yanks.

“Where do you think you’re goin’?” He growls, easily overpowering your squirming, sobbing self. 

The fight you put up, if you could call it that, feeds the growing shame in your gut. It ends as quick as it began, with your panties jammed behind your teeth and wrists pinned. He hovers, breathing rough through his mask. He releases your hands with a cautionary squeeze.

“Try that again, and you’ll be joinin' your dad tonight. Simple enough?”

You nod so fast you crick your neck, tonguing fabric. 

With a patronizing pat to your cheek, he sits on his knees, head ducked and back curved, touching the roof. “That’s more like it.” His eyes linger on yours, assessing, then drop to your body, a soft, perverse laugh rattling out. Hedged with a smoker’s cough. 

It’s as surreal as the movie. Like you’ve been sucked beyond the silver screen. One minute, simply watching, the next, part of the nightmare.

Ghost, he tells you between sharp nips and bites to your tits, is what you’ll call him when you plead, beg, and whine. And that’s what you do, trading breaths for muffled whimpers as he paws at your belly, hips—whatever he can reach, which is everything. He leaves indentations of his teeth all the way down your body, stinging and raw.

“Nice cunt you’ve got ‘ere,” Ghost grins as if complimenting the upholstery or fixtures. He rolls and tucks his mask, revealing a pale chin and thin lips. You catch a couple of old, gnarly scars in the light filtering through the windshield. A knitted cleft. Helpful detail to identify him later, your hysterical mind notes. His lips twitch as he pries your legs open. “She’s fuckin’ soaked. Playin’ rough do it for you?”

Blunt thumbs rub circles into the soft skin at the crux of your inner thighs, teasing and pulling you open. He spits a large glob directly onto your hole. Either you’re not as soaked as he said, or worse, you think, he’s planting yet another little flag on your body. He plays with you for a moment, unskillfully toying with your clit, and stroking himself, spreading the drool from his leaking cock. He slaps the heft of it once, twice—then without further preamble, begins to shove his way in.

You can’t stop your hands from flying up to claw at his arms, your mouth falling further open in a silent scream, cotton tickling the back of your throat. The stretch is immense, and you feel like a bug the way your legs instinctively try to close, bracketing his broad form and pressing into his sides, from how you feel squashed as he bottoms out with a throaty groan.

Ghost rocks his hips to take whatever room’s left and chuckles at your wide eyes, glassed over with unshed tears. You stare up at the dark pits above, glinting with satisfaction. 

“Go ahead and cry. Been wonderin’ what you’d look like since you got all blubbery at the entry.” He picks up the pace and successfully knocks your tears loose as he fucks you hard into the mattress. The whole van must be rocking on its suspension, giving you a little hope a fellow movie-goer or an employee will investigate and scare him off. But there’s no way he doesn’t notice the sway of the van. He must not care.

“Please,” Ghost mocks. “Please, I ‘ave a ticket! It’s my stupid job and my stupid manager,” he laughs meanly, smacking into you to punctuate his speech. “These stupid ‘ours and stupid customers.” You wince at hearing your near-hysteric ranting and begging parroted back at you. “Ever think about what all those got in common? Ever think it’s you who might be stupid, Blue?”

He slips a hand back to your clit, thumbing it in tight circles broken by occasional flicks, coaxing a reluctant yet responsive heat like a skittish animal. His mask lifts more with a big smirk and a mean laugh as you choke around the gag, sobbing. 

“After all, you did let a strange man into your car.”

Your fingers dig into his arms but do nothing. He drops his weight, snakes his arm under your head, and ruts. His rubbing hurts. He uses way too much pressure than you normally like and pinches, muttering filthy orders into your ear. He kisses your drooling mouth and licks your cheeks. 

“C’mon, give me it, come on my cock. Want you nice and tight f’me, need you to keep it all inside.”

The inevitably of him finishing inside you chases another wail from your mouth. He finally slots his own over it, burrowing his tongue inside to dig around. You can barely breathe as he fucks you through whatever it is he’s doing. Your eyes spin and bounce off the fogged windows. Surely, any minute now, someone will interrupt, someone will save you. They’ll throw away their trash and hear your muted shrieking. 

And, as if summoned by thought alone, the beam of a flashlight bounces off the rear windows. Ghost pauses his mouth before his hips, slowing to a leisurely roll. He lifts his upper half to stare out the window as the light passes over the glass again. You watch, heartbeat borderline painful, and squeak when he raises his hand. His face snaps to you.

“Not a word.” He warns.

Ghost wipes the mist from the glass and his lip curls. 

“Just a kid.” A hand migrates over your mouth and presses, apparently not trusting you even with your underwear half-lodged behind your teeth. His other hand reaches and unlatches the window. You tense so hard in panic that he hisses and squeezes your cheeks with a second pointed look. He cranks the window open enough that surely his masked face is visible outside.

“Didn’t your mum teach you it’s not polite to stare?”

A pitchy, crackling voice of what sounds like a teenager responds. Fuck. You can hear him pretty clearly, even over the radio. He must be only a foot away. 

“I-I-I….W-Whatever it is you’re doing, sir, you can’t–”

“I’m enjoyin’ the show. At least I’m tryin’, but ‘ere’s some whelp stickin’ his nose in my business.” His voice is cruel, mocking. “I suggest you go back to your booth and forget about me. I can leave an impression if you’d like, but you like solid foods, yeah?” 

There’s a choked, scared sound that cuts through the film audio. It makes Ghost huff and drive deeper into your cunt, making you bite through cotton as his cockhead glances sharply into your cervix.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.” By the sound of his retreating footsteps, the kid’s power-walking away.

Ghost shuts and locks the window, muttering, and returns his attention to you. He gives you a toothy grin, flashing a silver cap on a rear molar. 

“Now, where was I?” 

A heartbeat passes before he’s back to fucking you mercilessly, tongue jamming into your mouth yet again.

He ignores the rake of your nails when you shove your hands up his shirt to find skin to ruin, and merely grunts as he lifts his head. Your underwear slides out of your mouth in his teeth, damp and wrinkled. He spits them out beside your head, then returns, wetting your dry tongue with his own.

Ghost swallows your shrill cry as you come and endures your kicking legs while flames as hot as hellfire sear you to the bone beneath him. The train whistle and screams pumping through the van’s speakers smother the rest of your bawling. You dangle above the abyss, spent.

It doesn’t take long for his orgasm to follow. Panting into your mouth, blown pupils fixed to yours, mouth screwed up in a sneer. He barely makes a sound as he loses his rhythm and floods your cunt. 

He withdraws after a brief eternity and kisses you. Exhausted, overwhelmed, and aching, you slip unconscious. Lost.

When you stir, you find yourself cuffed to the wall of the van, wearing only a hi-vis vest. It chafes your nipples as the van bounces along. Blinking, you groggily moan in pain and try to compute what it is you’re seeing through the lace curtains. Green. Patches of gray and white. Mountains. But the closest range is…

Your eyes whip up front, where Ghost fiddles with the dial. He pauses, registering your movement in the corner of his eye, and meets your gaze in the rearview. 

“Made a collector out of me, Bluebird.”

[sordidmusings]

Just a life update and opening!

Brought up because of an ask wondering if I still do stuff here so I figured I'd put out some of whats goin on if anyone is interested! Also throwing it into the void of the internet feels less guilt inducing than forcing it on specific people especially after how overwhelmed folks tend to be cuz I'm bad at metering it out and not just being like 'light jokes about struggle that don't scratch the surface or say anything meaningful' and 'here is all the dark lore' 💀 It's also been a struggle because there really does sometimes feel like theres a whole ass language barrier within your own language when you're AuDHD.

I do still do headcanons and write and draw and yada yada there’s just been quite a bit happening and I’m doing poorly at keeping up with life maintenance let alone things I enjoy �� with writing especially in my hobbies I find myself discouraged in what feels like poor quality of my writing and seeing that reflected back to me because I am Weak 💀 general overview of some of the bigger problems below the cut if you’re interested but I won’t bother y’all with the whole picture! Will be more a summary/overview/alluding to things over getting into gory details. Basically a lot will be covered but I won’t force anything below the broad strokes on y'all.

The end is an ask for people to please reach out if they are struggling so please take that seriously. I offer a space with me but please find wherever in this world you are at least somewhat comfortable and have someone be there with you while you process 🤍 I will have a header above that little piece just incase you'd like to skip to only reading that which is completely fine!

CW for mental health talks, allusions to family issues, references to rape and abuse, death by suicide, and suicidal ideation.

What's Up, Doc?

Between hospitalizations (old and new issues and unfortunate near misses 🤡), my couple jobs (the days my body ain’t tryin to give up and even some days it still is means back to the grindstone. Thank you capitalistic overlords 💀), money stresses (medical debt plus just like y'all know shit ain’t the best for most everyone rn), the spring struggle (nightmares + flashbacks get worse from seasonal + anniversaries of men not caring for consent amongst other things lmaoooo), the mental health slew (diagnosed with AuDHD and most of the big hitters besides a personality disorder), and a few other life happenings and old traumas I’m doing a terrible job at everything 🤡 most of it ain’t new so I know all the proper things to do to help for everything from years of therapy and managing the symptoms and all that but dotting my i’s and crossing my t’s hasn’t been offering any relief for a long while so I’m floundering and quite exhausted.

The health issues making everything difficult and painful ain’t helping but I’m also not being the best at taking care of some of them because Why Bother 💀 Many are issues I’ve had for years that ebb and flow in severity and I’m just tired of feeling them and having to manage them. I’m sure any of you with chronic issues understand the feeling well. Those with years and years of major depressive disorder probably also understand the frustration and exhaustion and guilt with knowing you should enjoy something, you WANT to enjoy it, but your body just can’t produce the reaction it should.

I tend to isolate because I’m managing it poorly enough that the topic tends to crop up with the closer few if they ask and that goes Badly cuz, even if they think they won’t, people get uncomfy with the topics which just makes me feel Worse from guilt and sometimes frustration from it being passed over for their comfort or lack of understanding. I am lucky enough to have more recently found one person who Gets It and a beloved soul from lovely old Jersey came back into my life so the bigger problem in that situation is me allowing myself to consistently receive support from them 🤡 One’s so sweet always telling me I can call any time and the other is of the same vein and my dumbass brain keeps being like “but that would bother them” or the usual “you deserve to get worse not get help” 🤡🤡🤡. Clown ass behavior.

Also some bad coping mechanisms make my typing and communication sloppy as hell and I’m quite ashamed of that so best hide that away while it’s going on 💀 due to insistence that it’s Fine I have forgone that instinct to what feels like very Poor Result 🥴 ah the eternal struggle between needing to be Seen to fight the sense of isolation and worthlessness but also being petrified of being perceived while imperfect. Not having any of the connections really be in person doesn’t help too much with feelings isolation because I don't really have anyone around me besides parents that have literally said "why are you making us deal with this" about the intentional near death miss 💀💀💀 my immediate world feels very much like it wants me gone in explicit and subtle ways but c'est la vie. Beggars can’t be choosers so at this point I’m likely just being ungrateful 🤡

One thing making it harder to keep trying is my folks’ years of insistence that I don’t understand my own experience and I’m just dramatic and make things up. It’s an echo of many painful experiences including a whole group intentionally playing games with my sense of reality to enable their friend’s abuse (they got unconsensual nudes from him out of it so that’s worth the price of treating someone like that right?). Such is life.

One of the new things I’m uncertain how to approach handling properly is the grief and such shifting back to the forefront from the first anniversary of my childhood brother figure being taken from us by his bipolar depression. I have known people taken by suicide before but not this close to home. My childhood wasn’t the happiest but he and his family were a bright place in it. His little sister was my best friend in the whole world through my childhood and their family treated me more like family than my own. He was the best mix of a good and bad influence in an older brother figure I could’ve wished for. He fought long and hard but exhaustion hits us all, sometimes even with proper help. What eternally pains me is knowing how helpless and scared he must have felt and even worse how absolutely alone he felt. That was his last feeling in this life. I can only hope that more than anything, whatever happens next is giving him relief, peace, and rest.

Talk on reaching out below!

On that note, if any of you experience suicidality too, my messages (or ask if you’re more comfy on anon) are always open. This is an issue that’s been in my life in many forms since I was 12, so I will not shy away from you or your thoughts. Even if shared with something uncomfortable or "ugly", I find the discomfort of sitting with someone’s pain negligible in comparison to being the one in pain so why not prioritize that person in their need? It’s also negligible under the importance of truly holding space to process those hurts and stresses instead of just simple little niceties.

I am not the best at being active but if I see any of these messages especially we will truly talk. I know how insanely isolating and disappointing it can feel when someone offers support to be nice and then shoves to the next topic or barely responds because it makes them uncomfortable. It is a bitter pill we must often swallow to forgive those who think they will help for making things worse because they have bit off more than they can chew. It is also a bitter feeling that that reaffirms to us that by our very nature, we are too much to handle and are too much to deal with for sharing our internal space and circumstance. But at the same time, all of us are simply human so who am I to malign someone for making mistakes or being imperfect? So long as someone truly wants to try, there is all the reason in the world to give them grace.

Qualifications kind of???

The one good thing that has come from a lot of the experiences that I’ve gone through is that it has forced perspective on me and forced me to learn skills in holding space, validating, and connecting to others in immense pain. No one is perfect in this skill (even therapists struggle - the number who have said they don’t know where to start untangling the traumas or who have cried at it and in turn needed comfort 💀 a strange experience I know my darling at least gets too lol) but I have found in both giving and receiving that honesty and openness is W A Y more important than being perfect.

This is something I’ve watched more people struggle with than not as life circumstances has not made it so that they must learn the skill at the same time that there are resources to learn it, so I may make more posts with advice for it than the bit I go through here. I’m not a licensed therapist so this isn’t going to be a clinical breakdown of how to be someone’s therapist but I would consider my experience as a confidant, consistent reading up on psychological and related sociological research, and experience going through various forms of therapy worthy of giving solid advice. Unfortunately, co-morbidities and resistant brain chemistry really make using the skills on myself Difficult 💀 but as brief examples of experience for validity speaking on this, I’ve been to a lot of group therapy where licensed therapists literally coach you on this, guided a safe space/group for SA survivors in college, coached friends who couldn’t afford therapy through suicidality or abusive situations, and coached survivors through feelings and decisions when deciding whether or not to charge or going through the process of charging their abuser. All of which is much easier to be effective to people you know irl but the support online can be nothing to snub your nose at either. None of this is to say I'm perfect or exceptional - neither is true - just that I’ve had circumstances and experiences that afford me a bit of extra knowledge in this.

In the vast majority of cases, someone who is struggling and coming to you for help wants you to be there - your thoughts, your feelings, your perspective. They don’t want someone sitting uncomfortably and saying the occasional “sorry” they want engagement because more than anything they don’t want to be alone. In a basic example, if you find yourself freezing when someone comes to you with something you don’t know how to handle, instead of saying nothing or only short cliches due to fear of making a mistake, be honest about that. “I’m not sure what to say right now to be honest because that’s so much to deal with. I can’t imagine having to live with that all the time. Is there anything in it frustrating you the most or that you’re having the most difficulty tackling?”. This is active listening and engagement. You are being honest with where you are at so they aren’t guessing what you’re thinking, you are showing that you see how overwhelming the situation is, especially for the person who has to live with it. If you can’t handle a conversation where these issues exist, how do you think it feels to live with them day in and day out, sometimes for years or the majority of a life?

Asking questions is SUPER important too. Trust the other person to only share what they are comfortable with and don’t assume all questions are bad. Asking questions is one of the truest and simplest ways to show you care because why would you want to know more if you don’t give a shit? Asking questions is also very helpful and one of the reasons talking to others about your issues is important - it gives the person struggling something to react to and give perspective. It helps them process the issue in ways they won’t be able to do by themselves. This may make the process sound slightly manufactured but I promise it’s not, especially as it becomes second nature to know what thing to use when. Communication is a skill so advice around it will inherently make it sound more clinical than the actual process is.

People are also not a monolith so while this type of being there works for the vast majority some people may not like it. That is also where communication comes in - check in with the person on if this is helping and what isn't helpful. Make sure to adjust when you make a mistake.

Conclusion

I’m happy to hold space for other issues as well. I’m no replacement for a therapist but I’ve been a helpful supplement to many people I knew struggling throughout the years so I’m at least okay at that! Since I’m doing pretty bad functionally right now the help won’t be as consistent as I wish but I will give whatever is in my power just like these things deserve. I hope to get better soon so that I can properly offer a stronger foundation of support outward again 🤍

[livseses]

"But why are all these DID tiktokers AFAB?? Quite suspicious eh?"

Cw // CSA mention

So this is this recurrent thing we see about DID folk who are presumably AFAB. There's this discrediting attempt of DID because the shithead making the argument sees mostly AFAB folk talking about DID and finds it quite suspicious. It makes no sense to them. There's nothing at all that could explain this disparity between perceived sexes.

It bothers us a lot that this comes up. We've come across two things that draw a glaringly clear line that explains (in part of course) why there might just happen to be some connections there.

First, is something we see coming up when we get into arguments about system origins. Usually it's something we find is being misapplied because it's being used to invalidate systems that don't have those experiences, but it's never denied as a potential cause. In that list of "what causes DID" CSA is always listed as one of the potentials.

Second, idk how tf in 20-fucking-24 people don't know the fucking horrifying stats on CSA. A) It's entirely fucked how common it is and B) disproportionately happens to women. Stats vary but it's always 1 in <10 women will have been assaulted before 18. Recently we saw 82% of CSA cases are female survivors.

So, when we see skepticism around why DID is so disproportionately AFAB folk, we immediately hear denialism. Fuck I'm willing to go so far as to say it just flat out is rape/sexual assault denial and apologia.

Caveats and clarifications below the cut

AFAB, women, and female are fucking impossible to separate out in the stats. Hell, even the jumping to AFAB by the deniers is likely erroneous, cause I'd bet that they're running on perceptions and assumptions. Unless the systems they're talking about specifically stated that they are AFAB, there's literally no way to know their AGAB. My apologies if my wording of this post equivocates them.

DID is not exclusively caused by CSA. It's not exclusively caused by abuse. And while probably exceedingly rare, its not exclusively caused by trauma. And while CSA disproportionately happens to those perceived to be girls, those perceived to be boys (or non-binary kiddos for as much as that might be happening) are victims and survivors as well. Do not take this data here to deny people's experiences. If you somehow read this as "Only AFAB folk can be survivors of CSA and therefore have DID" you are being incredibly shitty and dangerous.

Lastly, this has come up a lot with tiktok. While the skepticism skeeves us out regardless, something we had experienced with systok was outright statements from various system creators, or heavy allusions to being survivors of CSA. Sure, our experience may have been biased by the algorithm in the same way that these asshats who think that there's too many DID folk on tiktok. But we can't help but think of those data points in the context of systok.

[thevegandarkelf]

Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Fifteen

Masterlist

AO3 link

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family & bestie (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing, discussion of past suicide, discussion of parent death (suicide, house fire), mention of scars (Daryl's), medical procedure (stitches), blood, allusion to child abuse (Daryl's), men being creepy, reference to sibling death, we got some big emotions in this one

Word count: 3.3k

Daryl and I began to get much closer after that second run. Eating dinner together became sort of a ritual of ours, other than the nights Daryl had duty in the watchtower. At first, it was him in the chair and me on the far end of the couch as I didn’t want to spook him. He never explicitly said it, but I got the vibe that he wasn’t big on physical touch. He always maintained at least a few feet distance between us, never getting too close. Eventually, I tested the waters and sat on the end of the couch closer to him, and that’d been our dinner arrangement ever since. Over the next few weeks, Rick had us go out on more runs. It was strange to me that I always heard about them from Daryl and never from Rick. I didn’t want to do anything that could get me in trouble, like leaving the sanctity of the walls when I wasn’t supposed to, but I was simply following instructions that I was told came from our fearless cowboy leader.

I joined Daryl once when he was working on his bike, and he showed me some stuff about it. Though he was so beautiful that day, I’ll admit, it was hard for me to keep focus. He was wearing one of his classic button-ups with the sleeves cut off, that angel-wing vest he loved so much, and a pair of ripped jeans that hugged his body just right. It was warm, so he was sweating buckets. I was practically drooling as I watched his arm muscles flex and relax as he worked. The way he glistened with sweat, the little hints of joy I heard in his voice as he talked to me about his motorcycle, his gorgeous accent…he was mesmerizing.

He still came and checked on me every night after I fell out of bed, another ritual of ours I suppose. It had evolved to a point where I would stay lying on the floor and give a thumbs up over the side of the bed when I heard the door open, then he’d leave. We’d sometimes spend mornings together, but usually one of us was always up and out before the other was awake, or if Daryl had overnight watch, he’d be just going to sleep when I got up. Typically, the one who got up first made coffee and left the rest out for the other. Sometimes, if he was coming back from an overnight watch, I’d wake up and go downstairs to find the pot just finishing up brewing.

It was obvious one of Daryl’s love languages was acts of service. He didn’t so much have a way with words, but damn he was good at showing how much he cared. Not just towards me, but the way he cared about the whole of Alexandria. He was always volunteering to go on watch, runs, hunts, you name it. He cared so much about the people here and would do whatever he needed to do to make sure we were all safe and protected. And that only made me fall for him even harder.

Though he typically wasn’t one for expressing his emotions with words, there was one morning when he left me a note. I came downstairs, and he was already out as he had gate duty all day. He had poured me coffee in a white mug with daisies on it that I once casually mentioned was my favorite mug of the ones in the cabinet, and there was a short but sweet note with it.

Have the best day

See you at dinner

I kept the note folded up in the back of my notebook where I kept some photos and a note from my brother.

Today, Daryl was teaching me how to hunt. Well, it was the start of that process. First, there was target practice. And I was getting to pick up and shoot that infamous crossbow.

Daryl had carved an X for a target on a tree, and my goal was to hit as dead center as I could. I knelt on one knee behind a fallen tree, which I was instructed to use to steady the crossbow and practice that way first. I could throw a knife over my shoulder and hit a walker square in the forehead. How hard could a crossbow be?

“Does this thing have recoil?” I asked as he handed it to me, “wow, it’s lighter than I thought it’d be.” I flipped the bow around and examined it, running my fingers over its smooth surface but was careful to make sure I didn’t touch anything that looked like a lever or a button. Didn’t wanna go causing any accidents right out the gate.

“Hardly any,” Daryl said, kneeling next to me. We were almost shoulder-to-shoulder. This was the closest we’d ever been, and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach breaking free and trying to crawl their way up my throat.

“You ever kill anyone with this thing?” I asked.

“Yeah. Sometimes, people are more dangerous than them walkers,” he explained, and I nodded. I was all too familiar with the dangers of other human beings during the end of the world.

“I know what you mean,” I replied. I rested the bow on the fallen tree and kept my gaze on the X carved into the tree in front of me. “I’ve never killed anyone. I don’t know if I could. It goes against the oath I took.”

"Hate to burst your bubble, but that don't matter no more."

“I guess not,” I shrugged, “but enough of that, let’s get to practicing.”

“‘lax your shoulders,” he said, gently placing his hands on both of my shoulders and lightly pressing to help me relax them. This was the first time he’d touched me on purpose. My stomach dropped like I was on a rollercoaster. “Geez, you’re tense woman.”

I wouldn’t be so tense if you didn’t make me so nervous, I thought. I propped the crossbow up onto my shoulder like I’d seen Daryl do a thousand times.

“It’s no good if ya don’t load it,” he said. He picked a bolt off of the front of it and reached around me to load it. His arm rested against my back as he strapped the bolt in. It was like he was testing the boundaries of physical closeness, though I didn’t know whether it was mine or his that he was testing. But I didn’t mind one bit. I steadied the bow on my shoulder and the fallen tree, aiming it at my target.

“Ya really gotta relax,” Daryl said, “can’t have this gettin’ in the way neither.” He took the end of my ponytail and draped my hair over my opposite shoulder, “damn, ya hair’s real soft.” I felt myself melting into a puddle, and my hands started to shake a bit as my heart rate picked up.

“Thank you. I grew it all by myself,” I laughed.

“How long'd it take ya to grow it out?”

“Oh God, I think the last time I got a drastic haircut was when I was like 13,”  I explained, “sometimes I think about chopping it all off because it gets in my way so much. And it feels like it weighs 20 pounds when it’s wet.”

“Ya should keep it long. Looks good.” I smiled and looked down at the ground, trying to hide that I was obviously turning red.

“Thanks,” I said. I took a deep breath and tried to steady myself again.

“Hey, you’re shakin’,” Daryl said, placing a hand on my shoulder in an effort to help me relax, “just take a breath. You’re good.” His voice was soft, soothing, and calming. Still laced with his gravely accent, but there was genuine caring and compassion behind his words.

“Nervous jitters I guess,” I said, taking another deep breath in through my nose. I lied straight through my teeth.

“Alright, look through the scope and aim it at the target,” he said. He kept his hand on my shoulder.

“Looks easy enough,” I said, perhaps a little too confidently as I did as he instructed.

“Once ya got it lined up, ya just pull the lever on the bottom,” Daryl explained, “helps if ya breathe out when ya do it.” I took a deep breath and fired, exhaling like he told me to. The bolt went flying right past the tree, not even grazing it. It landed far off in the grass somewhere I couldn’t see.

“I stand corrected on it looking easy,” I said, feeling horrifically embarrassed, “I missed the tree completely. How did I even do that?”

“It happens. Gotta get used to holdin’ it still. C’mon, I’ll show ya how to load it.” He gestured for me to hand his bow to him.

“At this point, I’ll just be happy to hit the tree at all,” I said, giggling a little to try to make myself feel better.

That’s how we spent the next couple of hours. Me attempting to hit the tree, somehow missing it completely or just grazing it, which was starting to feel like a win, and trying to find the bolts in the grass. He never seemed to get impatient or frustrated with me, even when I was starting to get frustrated with myself. He reassured me, helped me set up and reload, and tried to help me feel more confident.

After what felt like an eternity, I finally did it. I hit the very outskirts of the giant X target, but I hit it nonetheless. I about jumped into the air with how excited I was.

“Oh my God, I did it!” I cheered, nearly dropping the crossbow to the ground in surprise. A gigantic grin spread across my face as I looked at Daryl. “I did it!”

“Knew ya could do it,” he congratulated. He had reached out and was stroking the back of my arm with his fingers. His touch was so light, it felt like being tickled with a feather. I could feel goosebumps forming, but thankfully, my sleeve hid them. “Think that’s the first time I seen ya do that too.”

I looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Seen me do what?”

“Smile like that.” It occurred to me that he was referring to the fact that I was smiling with my teeth out. And he was right—this was the first time I’d smiled like that in months.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

That evening, I found myself working late in the infirmary. A couple of the kids had gotten into a fight, and while their injuries weren’t too bad, they still required attention. A couple of scraped knees and small cuts later, I was supposed to be going home for the evening, but as I was getting ready to leave, the infirmary door swung open one last time, and in came Daryl. He’d been covering gate duty for a couple of hours, and I figured he must’ve seen the infirmary light on and came to check on me.

“Hey, there’s my little Georgia peach,” I said, giving him a big smile. He looked at me with a solemn face, which concerned me a little. “Daryl…are you ok?” He didn’t say anything at first. He simply kept eye contact with me as he stepped closer.

“I, uh, need your help with somethin’,” he said. He took his bow off of his back and turned around. There was a sizable gash across his mid-back, his clothes stained with dried blood.

“Jesus, get your ass up here,” I ordered, gesturing to the exam table. I started grabbing things like gloves and antiseptic. “What the hell happened?”

“Couple of ‘em pricks was talkin’ ‘bout ya,” he said as he sat down on the table and scooted back to the edge. I froze and swallowed hard. I hadn’t really gotten to know any of the men who typically had gate duty, and the only times I saw them were when I was coming and going through the gate, and I was always with Daryl.

“You got this defending me? Jesus, I’m so sorry. I feel awful.” I continued grabbing everything I would need, like cotton pads, medical tape, tools for stitches, and antibiotics.

“Nah, jackasses had it comin’.”

“What did you do to them?”

“Roughed ‘em up a bit. Let ‘em know not to say nothin’ like that ‘gain,” Daryl explained.

“Do I wanna know what they were saying about me?”

“Probably not. Bein’ a buncha creeps.” The never-ending list of things they could’ve been saying swirled through my mind, and I felt sick. I suppressed the nausea that quickly made its home in my stomach.

“Great. Just when I was starting to feel safe here,” I sighed. I thought I’d finally found a place away from the prying eyes of creepy men, but unfortunately, I was wrong.

Daryl looked back over his shoulder at me with kind eyes. “Don’t worry. I won’t let ‘em give ya any trouble.” I gave him a smile and a nod.

“Alright, I need you to take your shirt off. Then I’m gonna clean it and stitch it up. I’ll talk you through each step so you know what to expect since you can’t see it,” I explained. I slipped my gloves on after washing my hands thoroughly and scooted a stool over with my foot so I would sit higher up. Daryl fidgeted a little on the table, and he seemed nervous. I could tell he was in pain from his injury, but something else seemed to be bothering him.

“If you’re not comfortable taking your shirt off, that’s ok. I just need you to lift it enough so I can work,” I said, “don’t wanna go stitching your shirt to your back.” To my surprise, he lifted his shirt up and off over his head, letting it slide down his arms into his lap.

When he did, I understood why I’d never seen Daryl shirtless before.

There were scars all across his back. Not the kind of scars you’d get from being in a motorcycle or car accident, or burn scars, or from taking a really bad tumble as a kid. No, these scars were intentionally inflicted by another person. My heart shattered, but I kept my composure.

How could someone do something so awful to someone so good?

I made sure to utilize my calming bedside manner voice. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about. I have seen anything you can possibly imagine. Plus, I have scars of my own. I know better than to ask about anyone else's."

I grabbed a cloth soaked with some warm water so I could clean up some of the dried blood, and I gently started rubbing it on his back. “I’m gonna try to get as much of this dried blood off as I can.” He tensed a little bit under my touch, so I tried my best to be even lighter, but I could only press so lightly while still getting the blood off. I decided to clean just enough around the wound to make the process quicker, and he could take care of the rest when he showered.

“Alright, I have to clean it now so it won’t get infected. I won’t lie, this is going to sting a little. But I’m just taking a cotton pad with some antiseptic and patting around it,” I explained. I started patting his wound with the cotton pad, and he flinched just a tiny bit. I placed my other hand on his arm and stroked it gently with my thumb. “Hey, you’re ok. You’re doing great.” As I stroked his arm, I felt him start to relax.

My heart was breaking for him. The sensation of the antiseptic in his open wound must’ve felt similar to whatever created the scars on his back. I tried to think of something to talk about to distract him.

“I like your tattoo, Daryl,” I said, “does it mean anything?”

“Jus’ thought it looked cool,” he replied.

“I actually have a few tattoos of my own,” I told him, “I know, there’s something you didn’t know about me. I have a sternum piece with flowers on it, bumblebees on the back of each of my thighs, and a bouquet of daisies on the front of my right hip. I liked the idea of having tattoos that only certain people get to see. People that I get to choose." I hoped that, maybe one day, I’d get to show Daryl my tattoos. I set the cotton pad on the table next to him. “I’m done cleaning it now. Could you straighten up for me? I’m gonna stitch it up now. It’ll probably hurt a little, but it won’t burn like the antiseptic did.”

"They mean anythin'?" he asked as he sat up straight.

"I really like sternum pieces, so that's why I got that one. Daisies are my favorite flower, and the bumblebees are for my mom.” I got to work stitching him up as I talked. “Gardening was her favorite hobby, and we had a huge one in our backyard growing up. She taught my brothers and I about the different kinds of pollinators and how important they were. Bumblebees were her favorite. I got them a couple of years after she passed.”

“Lost my mom too,” Daryl said. It was the first time he’d mentioned his mom in any capacity. “What happened to her? If you’re ok talkin’ ‘bout it.”

“She umm…she killed herself a couple of months after Preston died. Hung herself in his closet. My dad was the one that found her.” I blinked back some tears. Stitching up someone’s wound was not the time to be crying. “Her mental health really declined after his passing. I mean, all of ours did, but hers was the worst. She couldn't stand losing one of her children, so she left the other three behind. At least that's what it felt like. The anger stage of my grief lasted a very, very long time.”

There was a heaviness that hung in the air as I finished stitching his wound. It felt suffocating, like it was a heavy weight pressing on my chest. I lowered the volume of my voice a little to keep myself from crying. “Alright, I’ve just gotta wrap it up and you’re done.”

“Mine was a house fire,” he started to explain, and as he talked, I continued wrapping his wound, using as gentle of a touch as I could and offering small comforting pats and strokes in between. I felt his muscles continue to relax into my hands as I worked. “I was a kid. Ran home after we saw fire trucks comin’ down the street. Finally caught up to the other kids and saw it was my house. Mom was inside. Some combo of her wine ’n smokes. Didn’t feel real for a long time.” Before I finished patching him up, I ran my hands over the back of his arms and offered small squeezes, like tiny hugs from my fingers. This was by far the most vulnerable he’d been around me, and I wanted to make sure he felt safe, seen, and comforted.

“I’m so sorry Daryl. You didn’t deserve for that to happen.”

"Didn’t deserve yours neither.” I ran my fingers over and flattened out the last piece of medical tape.

“There we go, you’re all patched up now,” I said, grabbing a small bottle of antibiotics and handing it to him. “you’ll have to change the dressing every day. I can help you with that. And you’ll have to take those for like a week. Make sure you stay on top of that.”

“Do I gotta? Didn’t think it was that bad,” he said, flipping the little orange bottle around in his hand.

I sat myself up on the exam table next to him, “Daryl, what kind of doctor would I be if I let you get an infection?”

Taglist: @raddydaddydude

[angel-of-the-moons]

Nothing Is Lost

Khonahu x Fem!Reader

TW/CW: Mentions of drugging/roofies, allusions to rape but nothing happens, murder, kidnappings references, Khonshu being an asshole but one who won't just leave you hanging, Reader gets her baby wings!

MINORS DNI I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR CONTENT YOU CONSUME

A/N: Thanks to everyone who voted in the poll! Just a reminder; every single variation had hints as to what's happened in the past; and little Easter eggs >:3.

Taglist: @drinkingwithkhonshu @astrosphereblog @themostegotisticalgirl124 @patchesofwork @lialiwasneverseen

Chapter 14:

Starting Lessons

"Try again." Khonshu sighed boredly, resting his long beak on his knuckles as he sat on the boulder nearby.

You panted, your body sagging with exhaustion as you glared at him, "Alright, you goddamn vulture!" You wiped some sweat from your brow. The cheeky old fucker gave you his staff to practice with, and your arms were tired.

The inherent magical properties helped focus your magic as if under a magnifying glass, helping you figure out the right "flow" that best suited you, Khonshu had told you. It was going to be used as a tool to focus your skills until you didn't need the "crutch" anymore. Until you could weave spells and cast them with your own hands.

"This fucking thing is heavy." You wheezed, callously letting the golden moon at the head dip into the soil and snow, scratching a groove in the snow to reveal the dark earth beneath.

Khonshu rolled his head a bit--if he had eyes, you knew he'd have been rolling them--and stood up with a raspy grumble, "Whiny little runt." He calls you.

Every lumbering step he took only made your irritation grow, even as he stood before you in his full imposing height.

"What more do you want from me?" You groused, not backing down. You didn't even so much as flinch when he leaned down, invading your personal space.

He reached out with a large, long finger and tapped the staff; and instantly it felt lighter. Almost the same weight as the broom you usually pushed at work.

"There. Will you stop your whining?" He scoffed as he leaned back again.

You lifted the staff and drop it a few times, gawking, your mouth agape. "You're telling me you could have done that the whole time??" You look back up at him, "Why didn't you lead with that?!"

"You did not ask." He stated with a casual shrug, returning to sit on his boulder.

"And, aren't you concerned at all about anyone seeing us?" You asked, sweeping your arm out before you. You two were sitting in the middle of Central Park. Yeah, it was half past midnight... But there were plenty of homeless people and police that walked the park at night.

Hell, even the wayward superhero or two...

It was as if Khonshu could pick your thoughts out of thin air; "I placed a ward. Nobody will see us if I do not let them. Not even that sorcerer, Strange."

"Strange? As in Doctor Strange?" You gasped.

"Of course. Do you have rocks in your ears?" He asked, tipping his head to the side. The bastard.

"I'm not deaf." You hissed, your hands tightening around the ancient staff in your grip.

"Then why ask obvious questions? Now--again. Trace the rune I showed you."

You groaned loudly and sighed in defeat, holding the staff out like you were going to stab the air.

Now, the rune went like--

"Gah. Widen your stance. If you cast it improperly you will be thrown aside." Khonshu scolded, waving his hand. You widened your feet, twisting the staff in your grip.

But apparently, that wasn't what he wanted. It was obvious when he got up once again, muttering beneath hushed breaths as he marched back up to you. He reached out to you, spreading your hands down the shaft much wider than before. Then, with one of his feet, nudged one of yours until you are standing, wide-legged.

He put his hand in between your shoulders and pressed lightly so you hunched inwards just a bit--the staff now in a perfect position to guard your upper body if you were struck.

However, you were flustered--and not in the fun way--when he just... did that to you. He didn't seem to notice, or even care, at all as he stepped back away.

"There. Now," Khonshu sighed, sounding as though he were a disappointed father scolding his child.

"Again."

Your shoulders ached. Your back ached. Your legs ached. Your everything ached.

"Motherfucking--bitch ass bird-headed bitch." You grunted under your breath.

Your jerked forwards and stumble, earning a few weird looks from two women leaving the bar you'd passed. They couldn't see what you felt, however. Or hear what you heard.

What you felt was a hefty smack to the back of your head--like a parent brain-dusting their rowdy child for causing a ruckus in a church--and what you heard was a rather snide voice:

"You will learn respect, you little pest."

"Go get bent, you old bastard." You muttered, shoving your hands in your pockets with a huff.

You felt a chill slip down your spine as a lock of your hair was pinched and twisted back. Almost like a child pulling their sibling's hair. You wondered, honestly, why Khonshu didn't do more.

If he hated this so much, surely someone with his god-forsaken ego would lurch at the chance to abuse their power? Hell, someone with his powers in general... should have abused them by now, right? So, why...

That's when it hit you. It wasn't that he didn't want to...

He couldn't. Something was stopping him. That had to be it, right? What, you wondered, could stop a literal god from--

"Go back to that bar." He commanded suddenly.

"As much as I'd like to drink, Khonshu, I'm going home to go to sleep." You sighed, shaking your head.

Your jacket was yanked on, making you stumble back and almost fall on your ass into the slushy snow. "What the hell--"

"This is not a request. Do not order anything alcoholic." He hissed at you.

Though you couldn't see him, you knew he was hovering; judging by the chill that so easily penetrated your otherwise warm clothes. What was his damn deal? Why was he so insistent that you go into this hole-in-the-wall?

"Why?" You grumbled. "What's so interesting about--"

"Do not question me!" He hissed, shoving you back towards the bar. "I will instruct you in what to do. Now go!"

You grunted in frustration, but relented. If it got the old bastard to shut the hell up, you supposed you could at least grab something sweet to boost your mood...

The bar stunk. It smelled of body odor from the old bikers and few homeless who were pissing away their few bucks for some liquor; as well as the sickly-sweet scent of marijuana and cigarette smoke.

The latter normally wouldn't have bothered you overmuch--but combined with the smell of spilled liquor (and even a hint of someone having pissed themselves, or thrown up on their own clothes) it had you nearly nauseated.

You shouldered your way through the noisy, rambunctious crowd. You felt a gnawing pit form in your stomach because you knew eyes were on you.

You'd never been to this bar before; this was unfamiliar territory for you, and you feared it brought you the wrong kind of attention... What was the old man thinking?

You awkwardly sit in the bar stool; the seat cracked and the stuffing poking out as it squeaked and creaked under your weight. The older woman behind the bar has a cigarette hanging out of her mouth--and you having worked at previous bars knew that was a big no-no, that it was not only a safety hazard, but also a sanitary one--as she was cleaning out a pint glass with a ratty cloth.

You suppressed your urge to shudder at how gnarly it looked and smiled politely at her, "Do you have a drink menu?"

She laughed, her voice slightly scratchy, "The hell kinda place you think this is, toots? Do we look like a bougie-ass cocktail club?"

You smiled thinly, the corner of your mouth twitching in irritation--customer service was clearly not high on this woman's purview. Not that you enjoyed it yourself back in your days as a bartender; but you knew that ensuring your patrons were happy and had fun were great ways to get big tips. This woman on the other hand, didn't care.

"Um--can I have a virgin daiquiri, please?"

Her nose crinkled and she flicked her cigarette ash into a nearby tray, "You come to a bar and order something with no booze? You a church girl?"

"Ha... I suppose you could say that, now..." You reply stiffly, your fingers tapping the sticky countertop. You didn't want to even think about how long it had been since the damn thing had been properly cleaned and disinfected...

"Gah, fine, girly." She turned, looking for the proper mixers and glass. She eyed you over her shoulder, quirking a thin, penciled-on eyebrow at you, "You want strawberry or peach? 's all we got, sweet cheeks."

"Ah... Peach is fine."

"Riiiiiiiight." She replied with a short, going to mix your drink.

"Basic bitch." You heard her mutter under her breath.

You gritted your teeth; feeling eyes take over your body and making goosebumps creep up your spine and making your hairs stand on end. You have a casual look around the bar and spot a small table with three men and one woman.

One of the men had their arm around the girl, laughing obnoxiously in her ear at something one of his friends said. You weren't sure why, but something had you on edge.

Whomever was looking at you before, didn't seem to be doing it, now. But the uneasy feeling didn't subside.

"Do not panic," Khonshu's voice murmured in your ear. "I am here. I will talk you through this."

You sucked in a tight breath and let it out, relaxing your posture a bit. Despite being annoyed at how he had been invading your personal bubble the past few whatever-it-had-been at this point... you were thankful you weren't currently alone in no-man's land.

She slid the drink to you, the contents sloshing a bit, no ice cubes to keep the drink chilled. Most places, you found, tended to serve them with ice by default. You yourself had yet to meet a person who liked them at room temperature.

"Thanks." You muttered, looking into the glass. You weren't sure yourself if you were thanking her or Khonshu for his reassurance.

She noticed how you stared at the drink and sneered, "Sorry if it's not to your likin', princess--but you didn't say if you wanted it on the rocks or not."

"Oh, don't worry--" You lie quickly, grabbing the drink and sipping it. It was sickeningly sweet. Too much mixer and syrup; the crushed peaches mixed in were bitter and unripe. "--It's fine."

"Yeah, I'll take your word for it." She says, rolling her eyes as you slip a few bills onto the counter--overpaying more to get her away from you than to be generous--and stuffing them into her bra. Again, another unsanitary thing that made you shudder.

You watch with disappointment as she takes shots with a few patrons, smiling and joking with them as opposed as to how cold and rude she was to you. Poor conduct, how on earth was this place still even in business? You had half a mind to report them to--

"The table you spotted before." Khonshu's voice said to you. "The men with the lone woman."

You casually spin your stool around, leaning back on the bar as you take a hefty swig of your drink, letting him continue as you discreetly glanced towards the party he mentioned.

The man hanging on the woman seemed to be getting too handsy with her--the poor thing looking like her skin was crawling from the way her nose scrunched.

"They intend to drug her." He told you, almost making you choke on your beverage. "You will stop them."

You turn back around and hunch over your drink, muttering, "Easy for you to say, old man. You're like, nine feet tall. I appreciate the confidence in my baby magic skills, but seriously--"

"You can do this task," He says matter-of-factly. "All you need to do is act inebriated. They do not know your drink isn't mind-altering. Nor do they know if you had been drinking elsewhere before coming here. They are not paying close enough attention to you to see you are able-minded."

That... made sense. But what were you...

Once more, he seemed to pluck your thoughts like low-hanging fruit: "Act as though you are nearly incapacitated. Drink your fill in one go to put on an effect. Spill the young woman's drink on her before the man has the opportunity to slip the drugs in her drink."

He paused a moment, allowing his words to absorb before continuing to speak to you once again, "You will leave this bar with them, and bring them to the alley past the next street corner. Continue to act inebriated. I will be with you the whole way, do not worry."

You shivered, adrenaline beginning to thread its way into your bloodstream when you feel Khonshu recede; as if he was the music that was being drowned out by the crowd in the bar. You fist your drink tightly before tipping your head back and shotgunning it, trying to get into your best "shit-faced" mode. You've never been the whole "blackout drunk" type; so you had to draw on from what you've seen firsthand from others as well as online.

You pretend to be unsteady on your feet, wobbling as you step off of your stool, beginning to sing along to the radio in off-key, slurred speaking--even going so far as to pretend to hiccup and wretch--as you made their way over to their table.

Their demeanor shifts as you close in, the men becoming guarded as you approach them on shaky feet.

"Heyyyy!" You croon, slipping your arm around the woman's shoulders, knocking into her and discreetly tipping the glass of bright, cherry red cocktail onto her nice pastel pink top.

She gasped and immediately pulled away, her mouth agape as you cover your mouth and overdramatic shock, "Ohhh! I thought you were my fr--frriend!" You say, trying to wipe at the stain, only making it worse, "I'm sh-sorry!"

"Ah! I don't know you! You ruined my--" She whined, her pained expression making you feel very guilty. You could tell that was probably her favorite too; one she would now have to throw away because of this stunt you were pulling.

"I--I'm gonna go to the bathroom." She groans, turning to stomp away towards the back, her leather boots squeaking on the floor.

You turned to the mean, swaying slightly as you pouted, "I jus' thought she was my frien'.... was s'posed to meet me here after I left tha other place..."

You felt a disgusting viper strike at the inside of your belly when the men shared looks and toothy grins, "Ah, well," The oldest one said, adjusting his flaking faux-leather jacket. The prick was trying too hard to lean into the 80s greaser stereotypical biker look, and the smell of whatever disgusting cologne had you wanting to blow your nose all over that shitty Walmart-brand plastic jacket of his.

"Hey, you're here, now, baby." He continued, slipping his arm around you, instantly making your fear spike and your mind struggling to fight your "fight or flight" mode. "Come on, party with us. We'll keep you company, right boys?"

His two friends nod, raising their beers and drinking messily with laughter; the way their eyes gleamed at a conquest--willing or otherwise--made panic rise in your gut.

"Calm down. You are not alone. Play into your role." Khonshu's voice rumbled to you, "They will not harm you. They will be lucky to survive what you will do to them."

You kind of hated that what he was saying sat right with you--you weren't really the "beat someone within an inch of their life" kind of person. Even when it came to self-defense. You believed in incapacitating them long enough to get away. But if what Khonshu said was true, about their intentions with that poor women...

Rapists of any kind deserved to be castrated. Among other nasty and violent things you fantasized about when you'd heard horror stories from other women--hell, even the things you saw on Law & Order--and from what you yourself had narrowly dodged.

The viper in your belly calmed somewhat; a fiery rage it began to coil around for warmth took precedence.

"What d'you say we take our party somewhere else? I know a bar with waaaaay better drinks than the shit Tilly serves." The man holding you said in your ear, his breath slimy as it dropped down the sweaty skin on your neck.

"Okay..." You replied out loud, keeping up your drunken facade--you could just barely make out a shadow passing over the table, the silhouette undeniable.

"Aaron, pay the tab." He ordered, swinging you around to head towards the door, his other friend following quickly, leaving the third behind to rush up to the bar and pay before following suit.

The cold outside immediately hit you; making you shudder.

Even the typical stench of the city that you'd become accustomed to was more welcome than the oppressive scents in that dive. You let the men continue to lead you, subtly influencing their steps as you followed the route Khonshu instructed you in.

And, he was right. Past the stop sigh at the corner, there was an alley that was lit by a nearly burnt out light to your immediate left.

You took the opportunity to lurch forward, pretending to get nauseous and gag. This didn't seem to deter the men, even as you fled to the alley to curl over the nearest trash can.

Like stupid lemmings, they followed you.

And predictably, one of them grabbed you and pushed you up against a nearby wall, his hand gripping your jaw tightly as your heart sped up; beating against your ribs like a frantic animal.

"Press your index finger to his chest and trace the rune I showed you earlier. Flick your wrist like you are swatting a fly."

You do as he says quickly, your finger shaky and snagging on his jacket as you do, but you manage to trace the rune--the symbol faint and golden as it hung in the air between you. Your assailant looked down at it, his brows furrowed.

Before he could process what was happening, you flicked your wrist out and watched as he went flying out into the street, slamming into a nearby car hard enough to deny the metal; the alarm blaring viciously loud in the cold night air.

"Holy shit." You breathed, staring at your hands in sheer awe. The adrenaline was pumping like a powerful drug within you and you turned, getting into a ready stance like Khonshu had bullied you into practicing. Yes, you didn't have that obnoxious staff, but it made you feel more steady on your feet as the other two rushed at you.

Time slowed almost to a crawl as Khonshu instructed you once again, "Curl your thumb into your palm and thrust your hand out, after that, duck and roll away. Do it, now!"

You took in a sharp inhale, and right as the men reach your space, you reached out for the closest one; thrusting your palm out and shuddering at the sound of bones cracking beneath an unseen force. He didn't go flying like the first one, instead he fell to his knees, gasping desperately for air and clutching his body gingerly.

When the other man swung his fist out to punch you, you ducked down, spinning into a roll; the icy slush helping it be more fluid than it would have been any other day--albeit messy--and watch as he stumbles, crashing into the wall you were just in front of, your chest heaving with heavy breaths as you watched his friend collapse into unconsciousness.

"Rise to your feet and kick between his legs--" Khonshu quickly instructed you, "Then I want you to slam the heel of your palm into his face."

You rose to stand with a slight bounce on your heels, trying to stay light on your feet as the man turned to glare at you, "You little bitch! When I'm done with you, you'll be beggin' for--"

You cut him off by swinging your leg up as hard as you could, right into his groin--feeling a sick sense of satisfaction as his voice left him in a strained wheeze. You squeezed your fingers together and when he fell to his knees to look up at you accusingly, you slammed the your hand up into his nose, the crunch of bones once again assailing your ears and the coppery scent of blood filling your nostrils as he fell onto his ass and into the dirty snow and ice.

He spat out a glob of blood, shakily climbing to his feet as his eyes narrowed on you in pure blind fury; "You fuckin' little whore! I'm just gonna fucking kill ya!"

"Fuck you!" You spat back, your palms itching furiously, the faint glow coming from beneath your skin again.

"Now, trace the--"

You didn't give Khonshu the chance to finish speaking. You balled your fist and punched as hard as you could, sending his head knocking sideways with a gnarly twist; unbeknownst to you, severing his spinal cord.

As soon as he tumbled down into a limp heap, you surveyed the carnage you wrought with Khonshu's guidance. The adrenaline giving way to pure euphoria, and the knowledge that you'd very likely saved a woman from being brutalized, traumatized--or even worse--making your heart and mind soar with the feeling.

"Ah..." You sighed, your voice shaky as everything soaks in. Khonshu appears before you, nudging the last corpse with distaste.

"I did not tell you to--"

"Ah--HAH! Hahahah!" You began to laugh hysterically, bouncing on your feet as you ran your fingers through your hair, spinning in place.

You stomped your feet, pointing at the bodies both dead and unconscious-- "Fuuuuck! You!"

You looked up at Khonshu, your eyes wide as you pointed, "I did that! Me! I did!"

"Yes, you needn't prance about like a cat bringing home a dead bird." Khonshu sighed at you.

"I--! I just--I fucking saved somebody, and..." You felt your body lurch from within--like you were on an elevator that came to a sudden stop.

"I--I did--I did--I--!" You wobbled on your feet as Khonshu turned to stare at you. You felt something warm and wet drip down your face.

You swiped at it and stared at the bright red blood on your sleeve that continued to drip steadily from your nostrils.

"I... Oh, that doesn't look too--"

The last thing you were aware of was Khonshu leaping towards you in a blur, and then--nothing.

Khonshu sighed as your body went limp in his arms. He cradled you as though you were comparable to a sack of rubbish; hanging off of him in sheer dead weight.

You learned quickly, it seemed. It was both relieving to know and frustrating at the same time. Relieving because it meant he would not need to tutor you overlong in the ways of ancient magic--frustrating because you so quickly took to it that you became overconfident in your own abilities and knocked yourself out.

"Troublesome little pest." Khonshu muttered, looking around at the scene you'd created--painting some of the dirty white with bright red--some of it your own.

Yes... you may have overworked yourself. But you did do a good job of following his instructions up to that point, saving that woman the men had planned to essentially torture.

Khonshu adjusted his grip on you, brushing the blood rivulets from your face with his wrapped fingers.

The car alarm finally silenced, and Khonshu was aware of frantic shouting heard--the young woman and others. The siren of a police car could be heard getting closer and closer.

"Hurry!" He heard the woman shout. "I think I saw them drag her this way!"

He leapt up into the sky, perching with you still draped in his arm as he watches the woman scream, her mouth agape in horror at the scene as several other concerned patrons and citizens rushed into the alley where you had been moments before.

Khonshu huffed to himself, feeling pride in the fact that there were still some people willing to come to the aid of strangers who needed or--or at least, whom they thought needed it.

Justice, he felt, was served this night. The young woman could go home safe, only mourning the loss of her shirt. The men you had felt watching you were not sizing you up out of malicious intent--but because they saw a young woman alone in the dead of night in an unfamiliar location. They were concerned for your safety.

Bodies were collected, the living transported to the hospital.

Khonshu knew the mortals would find out that the men you'd fought had careers stretching well into their youths. They had become so confident in their abilities that they willingly left DNA in the women and young girls they would drug and abduct--and in some cases, killing and dumping.

The city would rest easier from now on, knowing three monsters had been dealt with. Justice had been served.

The first thing you were aware of was the feeling of sand beneath your feet; the grains shifting to flutter over your skin and slide between your toes.

Your breath leaves you in a ragged gasp as you look up, and see the walls of a narrow canyon stretch for untold lengths up into the sky--the faint ribbon of blue almost invisible from how high it was from you. You look ahead, and behind, nothing but the rocks and sand to greet you.

Your feet feel like lead weights as you walk on into the canyon; "H-Hello?" You called out desperately, wrapping your arms around yourself.

"Is anybody there?"

The further you walked, the colder it got and the more the canyon seemed to close in on you. When the canyon began to squeeze down on your shoulders, you turned to try and flee back the way you came; panicked and scared.

But, the way had changed. It was just as narrow as the way you had been headed. You felt a sob creep into your throat as you pressed on; headed forward once again, no choice but to endure as it squeezed you more, and more, and more...

Until you couldn't breathe. You flailed, and screamed, trying to get something--somebody--to come and save you.

But your squirming only made it worse; you felt the sand shift beneath you, flooding the canyon like water as gnarled, withered hands began poking out of the roiling dunes to claw at your skin, grabbing onto your dress and staining it with their dirty fingers.

You screamed again as the hands closed around your face, beginning to cover your nose and mouth, until only one of your tear-filled eyes stared at the sliver of sky above you.

And when you blinked, you were on your hands and knees in a temple.

You patted your body down, checking for any injury; and, upon finding none, you sighed with relief, staring up at the statue before you.

You say like that for however long had passed, watching as the paint and gold began to flake away into a decrepit, withered facsimile of what it had been moments before; blood dripping from the eyes and flowing like a stream towards you.

You panicked again, shuffling to your feet as you turned to run.

But as you did, something hit you so quickly it was a blur--the air punched from your lungs in a sharp gasp.

You retained your footing, and when you looked down you saw it. The blood from the statue running between your feet like a swollen creek breaching its banks, as red as the blood that seeped out and soaked through the white dress you were wearing; dripping down your body from where your belly had been so callously... stabbed? Sliced?

You didn't know, all you know is that you were frantic, trying to stop the bleeding even as you fell to your knees.

Your body was growing colder, your vision going dark around the edges as your essence seeped from you like a flood.

Everything around you sounded muffled, like you were under water.

You could just barely make out a voice, so soft and almost inaudible:

"I'm sorry. I do love you."

Chapter 15: Link

[evita-shelby]

They didn't know we were seeds

Chapter 6

Cw: sex trafficking, prostitution, allusions to child sexual assault

@justrainandcoffee @call-sign-shark @emotionalcadaver @peakyswritings

Eva knows he’s staring even as he tries to hide it.

Jack hasn’t spoken to her in the week leading up to the games and given that he’s on 2 and she on 10, their paths hardly cross until the big event begins.

Then they are shown to the grand hall where the games are viewed, where you schmooze sponsors who pay good money to be in the room and mingle with other mentors. It’s the first night of the games, all the big people are here, and attendance is mandatory.

Jack’s tributes have both made it to the career pack even if the boy isn’t strong enough to wrest control from the girl from 1. Eva’s lost the girl, Silvia, to blood loss, but Matty has made like a thief and gotten himself safe and in possession of a hatchet.

Matty is eighteen, has been working at a butcher shop since he was old enough to hold a knife and has been taking out tesserae since his dad was executed for cattle theft and poaching when he was thirteen.

She continues buttering up her favorite sponsor to convince him to sponsor him, hoping to get him into the finalists at least. Luca will do it, and she will pay for it the same way she paid for it four years ago: by fucking him.

Luca had paid an exorbitant fee for the honor of being her first, and while Eva would’ve never done that sort of work in a million years, there were worst candidates and becoming another cautionary tale like Haymitch made him incredibly desirable.

He was, as the Capitol tabloids called it, her sugar daddy. 16 years older than her with a penis that would shame a horse and controls the Capitol’s underworld and the very legal gambling dens.

Well, until he runs out of money or falls out of favor with Snow who chooses her customers and everyone else’s. Luca was her second client because his dear old dad kicked the bucket, and he did Snow’s dirty work for a price: his pick of the litter.

Besides, he could be worse and forced monogamy was easier than what some did to the others.

Enobaria from after her games had not fared as good as she did and after discovering that her filed teeth made her repulsive to these people, she went all out on it until she was taken out of the list. Cashmere, who won after her brother two games ago, had to pretend she was enjoying having men and women pawing at her and her brother and Finnick Odair wasn’t even allowed to wait until his dreaded 18th nameday going by the way the biggest donor leers at the fifteen-year-old boy.

The arena never ends, if Jack knew how right his words were, he would’ve never said them.

“Long time, no see, stranger.” Eva doesn’t mean to flirt, but it has become second nature to her these days. Just an angle she plays, the mysterious and sexy woman who needs a big strong man to satisfy her.

“You’ve become quite the whore since I last saw you.” He is blunt, a thing people attribute to his upbringing and not the torture inflicted upon him by the Capitol…or his mother’s slightly treasonous views.

“Your mentor never told you what happens to the pretty ones, didn’t he?” It sickens her, sometimes, to see what the Capitol made of her and hearing it from Jack stings.

Brutus pretends not to know because to say that he turns a blind eye when his former tributes are pimped out to pay for the games and other favors the president needs is as bad as doing the raping himself. And because he keeps his mouth shut and everyone knows he’s got the biggest crop of hot teenagers in his keep, they let him be.

Jack was spared because Lyme refused to let him join as a mentor claiming he was unstable after Laurie’s death, or so Eva heard. Except Lyme had to fold her hands and step away when Enobaria almost bit a client’s dick clean off last year and Snow demanded him to be put on the list.

Now Jack’s being put on the platter for deranged people who recapture their youth by stealing theirs. Eva hates how the women look at him, even worse, how some look at the two of them standing here together.

“That explains how they can afford it all.” Jack hides his disgust with a sip of his high-end whiskey. “Am I unattractive enough to be spared, Miss. Smith?”

He is flirting right back. Eva supposed time does heal all wounds going by the way Jack leans in close enough for him to smell his expensive cologne mingled with the whiskey. He’s still a dead ringer for his dad, and he’s outgrown the last of the softness of his teenage years making him rather striking leaving some of his resemblance to the boy she murdered behind him.

His confidence and envied pedigree make him almost as desirable as Cashmere and Gloss these days. He could drive the attention away from Finnick if he takes one for the team, let the kid turn sixteen at least. Some victors stick together to make this hell bearable, but others refuse to even give you a heads-up out of self-preservation.

Too soon to tell with Jack.

“Nope. Even if you were, your pedigree would make you as irresistible as poor Finnick over there.” She is honest with him just as he is with her and to keep the façade of flirtation going, she takes his whiskey with a wink. “You are trapped in this hell with me, pretty boy.”

“Laurie would’ve hated this.” He says quietly as grief gets a hold of his heart and gives it a good squeeze.

“Yeah, he would have.” Eva sobers up and drops the mask completely. The dark-haired woman gives him a genuine look of sympathy and a comforting hand on his arm.

He doesn’t flinch away as she expected.

“Do you think I’d be able to get the hag eying the little boy with my good looks?” he asks not hiding his disgust at the woman harassing 15-year-old Finnick all evening.

“You don’t have to, Jack.” Eva points out wondering if Laurie’s protective nature was something he and Jack shared too.

“We’re all trapped in this hell together, Evie. Besides Laurie would do the same if he was here.” Jack steels himself and offers her his arm as they scare the vultures off the youngest victor in known history.

It was never in his plans to seek her out.

Jack had promised himself to ignore her and do his job and yet he’s here sharing a cigarette after his first taste of the true burdens of being a victor.

He's practically raw from the scrubbing and essentially trying to power wash the sensation of shame and disgust he’s felt since he spoke to the old bat.

“Luca is not so bad, actually. He’s very possessive about his toys which keeps me off the table these past years.” Eva sports a gaudy and pricy diamond chocker she’s referring to as a dog collar and seems to have gotten past the initial stages of this new life.

Her strategy at the arena has worked here too, everyone knew what Changretta was capable of and even Snow seemed to fear his displeasure. No one dared to make a move on the sexy district 10 mentor even when he wasn’t around.

“I’m sorry I called you a whore.” Jack apologized for his initial assumption. Never in his life had he considered there is a punishment for winning the games. Well aside from the trauma that comes from being a tribute and then the kin of one.

“Whore, murderer, pet. Doesn’t faze me anymore, Jackie darling” she says imitating the grating voice the woman had after they succeeded in prying her off the boy. “But thanks anyways.”

She is nice underneath the mask she wears around the Capitol people; he has to admit. No longer the fragile shell of a girl he met during the victory tour, but still broken like all of them are.

“My real talent is woodwork, actually. Built myself a whole cabin in the woods with all the amenities.” Jack doesn’t know why he shares that with her when everyone else is told he likes hiking. “I also fix up cars for the hell of it now that I’m done.”

She smiles, “I make medicine, learned midwifery and bribed a medic to teach me the rest I didn’t know. I don’t like sitting still either.”

They were more than just pretty Capitol slaves; he thinks bitterly as he took a drag of her fancy cigarette before giving it back to her. These were hard to come by even in Two, and Eva was given all the contraband her heart asked for as long as she played the whore for her protector.

“Allies?” He asks knowing Eva won’t stab him in the back, in this arena at least.

“Allies.” Eva agrees, taking back her cigarette and adding quietly as if to herself, “You fix things, I fix people. Quite a team we make.”

Somehow, he finds himself in bed with her on the fifth night of the games.

She killed his brother, he tried to kill her and yet when Luca nuzzled and kissed Eva like he owned her, Jack wanted nothing more than to square up with the mobster.

So he waited to corner Eva at the elevator and kissed her like he wanted her. He did, in a fucked up way he wanted her, he had to admit.

“He will kill you.” Eva warns but doesn’t push him away. She wants him too. “He doesn’t like sharing his whores.”

“You’re not a whore, you’re not his, Evie.” Jack wasn’t afraid of Luca and tore off the diamonds from her neck to prove it.

It was worth the risk he thinks, see how far Luca’s power truly extends. He can’t kill a victor, especially one so publically adored like either of them.

“Jealousy is a good color on you, Jack.” She chuckles and kisses him back as hungry as he is for her.

There are no rules about fraternizing with a fellow mentor and even if there were neither care about following them.

Eva’s tribute is the only one to survive an arena event and becomes the winner of the 66th Hunger Games.

“See you in November.” He says as he kisses her goodbye.

What a pair they make, the victor who’s brother died in the games and the victor who killed him.

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes-Chapter 11

Note: Oh gosh, I keep getting deep into these chapters, please note that these chapters are twice as big as the first chapters in this story so it's taking me a bit longer to pop them out. I'm sorry for the delay but I just want to make sure everything is perfect! Thank you @loganlostitall for beta reading!

Banners: @liminal_creations

Dividers: @firefly-graphics & @omiyours

Chapter CW/TW: Past rape/noncon, past child abuse/neglect, anxiety attack, depression, allusions to child loss, transphobia(Shane), Panic

Prev / Next / Masterlist

By the time Daryl, Kismet, and Pheonyx made it back to the farm, the sky was just starting to turn orange. The blazing heat from earlier had dulled to a barely tolerable simmer. Crickets were starting to sing their evening song and fireflies were beginning to float around the fields surrounding the farmhouse. Sometimes Pheonyx was amazed at how nature could continue on, and could remain so normal, despite the carnage and decay that had taken over the world.

Kismet walked lazily beside them, having worn himself out with all the walking and tracking throughout the day. He didn’t even wiggle when Pheonyx picked him up to lift him over the barbed wire at the outlet of the woods.

The three walked together until they reached the split rail fence that bordered half of the main yard of the house. Kismet ducked under the lowest rail and Pheonyx hopped over the fence with ease. Daryl landed beside him a moment later.

The area where the tents were erected that morning was quiet. Only a few of Daryl’s group were moving around, the majority of them were sitting around a small campfire where a large pot was being stirred by Glenn. Low conversation could be heard from the distance between the men and the group, nothing distinct but it was the sounds of multiple people that had Pheonyx’s muscles tensing. These people seemed okay–Shane excluded–he knew that. But he couldn’t help the instinctual reaction to turn tail and run back to the solace of the woods.

A furry head butted into his hand, forcing him to put his attention on the dog at his side, instead of the people congregating on the property.

Daryl had seen the difference in Pheonyx the moment the sounds of T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Andrea chatting floated over to them. The calm, relaxed man was suddenly stiff as a board and gripping the straps of his backpack with a white knuckle grip. Kismet made a small whine of concern and pushed himself into Pheonyx’s space, moving the man’s attention away from the campfire in the distance. His inked shoulders slumped a small bit, but the tension was still there.

Daryl felt the urge to chew his thumb, unsure of what to do, but both of his hands were occupied. One was gripping the strap of his crossbow. The other held an old beer bottle– he’d found it on the way back to the farm–that he was using as a vase for the Cherokee rose he picked for Carol. The rose Pheonyx had picked, and handed to him as a promise, was currently tucked in between the folds of the map resting in his breast pocket. Daryl didn’t understand why he did it. All he knew was that when he went to put both roses in the bottle for Carol, he couldn’t part with the smaller stemmed one. The way the younger man had handed it to him, offering words of hope, made an impact on him. He’d grown up around people who offered empty promises. Mama who said she’d stop drinking but never did. Pa who said he’d wouldn’t lay a hand on him anymore when he was sober. Merle who made a pact with him to never leave but not even a year later joined the military and left him alone. Social workers who promised to help him if he told the truth but never followed through. He’d learned not to trust promises. They always lead to heartbreak. But the way Pheonyx had looked at him, had spoken softly and told him that they would find Sophia, made Daryl believe him. He knew, even if they didn’t find the girl, Pheonyx would do everything in his power to try. When he was holding Pheonyx’s rose, he knew he couldn’t give it away. So, when Pheonyx wasn’t looking, he’d pulled out the folded map, and stuck the rose between the thin creases. The map-slightly thicker than it had been before- resting against his chest offered a piece of comfort that hadn’t been there before.

“‘M gonna talk to Carol. Tell ‘er what we found. Do ya-”, Daryl paused, not sure of how to ask. “She might like ta hear ‘bout the bag. Give ‘er some hope. Might be better comin’ from ya.”

Pulling his eyes from the campfire in the distance, Pheonyx took a moment to register what Daryl said. He nodded, grateful for the distraction. The older man inclined his head away from the tent area towards the RV his group brought. Thankfully, it was in the opposite direction of the camp. They began to walk over that way, with Kismet trotting on their heels. As they got closer, a figure appeared on the RV. The man with the bucket hat, Dale, was sitting on top of the large vehicle in a beach chair. He had a hunting rifle in his lap and was looking out into the fields with a pair of binoculars. A little bit of the anxiety in his stomach, the kind that constantly gnaws at his gut no matter the circumstances, lifted. Having someone on lookout for shadows, when Pheonyx couldn’t be there, was a huge relief. He worried for his family, especially in their state of denial, but he couldn’t be there 24/7 to watch for dangers.

Dale lowered his binoculars, having heard the trio approaching, and offered them a smile.

“Any sign of her?”, he asked, taking his hat off and wiping some of the sweat off his forehead.

Pheonyx looked to Daryl, waiting for him to answer his group member, but the man simply grunted and nodded, not elaborating. Awkward silence ensued and Pheonyx coughed, dragging Daryl’s attention to him. He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head towards the man on top of the RV, silently telling Daryl to talk to Dale.

With a roll of his eyes, Daryl spoke shortly, “The mutt found ‘er trail and led us ta an ole’ house she musta stayed in. Gonna head out early tomorrow ta keep lookin’.”

Pheonyx didn’t think it was possible but Dale’s smile widened. The old man replaced the hat on his head and said, “It’s nice to have some good news after the last few days. Carol’s in the RV. Been trying to keep busy all day. Hopefully, this news will help brighten her day a bit.”

As expected, Daryl simply grunted and opened the RV door to go in. Kismet pushed himself in front of the archer, and slipped inside. Daryl cursed as he stumbled a bit, the dog not knowing his strength knocked him off balance. He caught himself on the door and shook his head before stepping inside.

Pheonyx offered Dale a smile of apology for Daryl’s stand-offish attitude and followed the other two inside.

Both Daryl and Pheonyx noted the smell of household cleaners when they entered the small living space. The counters around the vehicle were practically sparkling; dishes were drying in a rack by the small sink; the windows were streak free and glimmered in the evening sun. The younger man hadn’t seen the inside of the RV before but he guessed that Carol had kept busy by cleaning the space top to bottom. He silently whispered a plea to the Earth that Kismet didn’t completely destroy the place and undo the poor woman’s hard work. The dog was tired but he always managed to cause trouble no matter what level of energy he had.

Kismet trotted into the back of the vehicle and a small giggle let the men know where Carol was. They both took a few steps forward , still managing to keep distance between each other despite the small aisle.

Pheonyx smiled as he looked over Daryl’s shoulder and saw Kismet nuzzling his head into the woman’s lap, the mending she had been doing laying to the side. The dog’s tail was wagging but it was very delicate, as if he could sense that he needed to be gentle around the petite woman in front of him. Carol looked up and striking blue eyes met his own. Despite the short gray hair on her head, she looked young. Hardly any lines marked her face and the smile on her face was bright and girlish. There was an underlying sadness in her eyes. But her daughter was missing. It was understandable to be downhearted.

“I’m sorry about Kismet. I was gonna have him stay outside but he slipped in before I could say anything,” Pheonyx said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Oh, he’s fine.”, Carol said meekly. She rubbed Kismet’s head and scratched his ears, taking comfort from the softness of his fur. “Sophia always wanted to have a dog but Ed, my husband, hated animals.”

Pheonyx responded without thinking, “He sounds like a dick.” Daryl whipped his head to look at the younger man behind him, shocked–but also amused– by his bluntness. Pheonyx’s eyes widened as he realized how callous his words sounded, considering her husband had just recently died. “I’m sorry-”

“He was a dick.” Carol cut in, chuckling. “We haven’t officially met. I’m Carol. Thank you for volunteering to look for my Sophia.”, at the sound of her daughter’s name, tears filled the woman’s eyes and she used the hand not touching Kismet to catch the drops that fell.

Pheonyx felt Daryl tense at the sight of the emotional woman and he understood the feeling. He wanted to run from the RV and go hide in the stables. But he couldn’t do that. If anything he was one of only people on the farm who could empathize with her. So, he sucked in a breath and muttered an apology as he wormed his way around Daryl. The other man flinched, not expecting the movement. Pheonyx sat down on the bed a foot away from the willowy woman and held his hand out in an offer of comfort. Carol gladly took it and encompassed his calloused hands with her small soft one. Brain set aflame with the need to run from the strange touch, Pheonyx swallowed down his fear and gave her fingers a small squeeze. Kismet whined and moved his head to lay in the spot between them.

“I’m sorry we couldn’t find her today,” he spoke softly and looked into her sparkling blue eyes. “Kismet was able to find her trail and he led us to one of the abandoned farm houses on the far ends of the property. Daryl found a cabinet that we think she slept in, and the empty cans of food that were still wet, so we're probably not even 24 hours behind her. She has supplies now too-”

“Supplies?” Carol questioned.

“The first month after phone lines went down, I set up bug-out bags on areas around the whole property. Just in case something happened to the farm. One of those was at the house. It has a week's worth of food and water, a pop up tent, and a hunting knife. The bag was gone when we got there and the only tracks in the house were hers. We don’t have to worry about her getting dehydrated or being hungry anymore. We just have to catch up to her,” Pheonyx chose not to mention worrying about shadows. Sophia had a knife now, but that didn’t mean she knew how to use it. They just had to hope she managed to avoid them or learned how to fell the corpses quickly.

A light sniffle came from Carol’s nose and she pulled the entwined fingers up to press a kiss to the back of his hand, right over the skull tattoo. A light blush overtook Pheonyx’s face and he ducked his eyes. It wasn’t physical attraction. Carol was beautiful but the aura she radiated was purely motherly to the young man. The soft kiss had been imbued with such maternal love and tenderness that he felt his chest clench. It was the kind of affection that he had always yearned for from his own mother. After finding out that her first husband was abusing Pheonyx, his mother had distanced herself from her oldest son. She was there to clean his wounds but she wasn’t there to prevent them. She held him at a distance and no matter how much he tried to pull her closer, she always ended up farther away. Pheonyx always thought it was because she felt guilty that she hadn’t noticed or stopped the abuse when it started. He felt like in order to protect herself from the gnawing culpability, she had to create a wall between herself and her son. It wasn’t an excuse. It was simply an explanation. She had stepped up a bit when he was in the hospital six years prior but by then it was too little too late. And now that she was dead, he didn’t think he would ever get to feel what maternal care truly was. But Pheonyx felt it now. Maybe that was why he felt the anxiety bugs– that had been crawling across his skin where Carol touched– disappear. It filled a hole in his heart that time had never managed to fix.

“Thank you. I can’t thank you both enough for doing this. For even believing that she’s okay.” Carol reached over to the bedside table and grabbed a tissue, using it to wipe the tears trailing down her cheeks. “Everyone keeps telling me things will be fine. That we’ll find her. But I can tell they don’t believe it.”

“I bel-”, Pheonyx looked to Daryl, who was trying to make himself look smaller to avoid the emotional conversation happening in front of him, and corrected himself. “We believe it. We’ve already decided we’re heading out first thing in the morning to look again.”

There was still a look of doubt on her face, the kind that lingered after losing all hope and Pheonyx cleared his throat. He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand, trying to think of a way to comfort her that didn’t involve telling one of his biggest losses. But he couldn’t. So, for the first time in 6 years, Pheonyx opened up without saying the words, “You’re feeling alone right now. There’s people surrounding you and you still feel like the only person for miles. They’re there but they don’t understand. A part of you is missing. A piece of your heart. A piece of your soul. They’re able to go on about their life like nothing’s happened. But you’re still trying to figure out how to simply breathe when there’s a hole in your chest where they used to be.” The hand holding his tightened and the look Carol gave him was empathetic. She knew without hearing the words that Pheonyx could understand the type of loss she was dealing with. All signs pointed to Sophia being alive, but that didn’t change the lingering doubt that filled the woman’s mind. Sophia was missing and there was a chance it was too late. So, Carol was filled with grief for a child that could be dead but also hope that they’d find her well and safe. “You’re strong, Carol. We just need you to be strong for a little longer.”

Daryl watched the interaction between Pheonyx and Carol with awe and fear. Fear because he didn’t know how to handle other people’s deep emotions. He hardly knew how to handle his own. Awe because he saw Pheonyx give Carol the hope he’d been trying to offer for the last couple of days. Daryl never considered himself to be a particularly smart man. His Pa always took the time to tell him how stupid he was, at least 2 or 3 times a day when he was around. But he wasn’t blind. He noticed the look of shared grief between Carol and Pheonyx. The way the older woman gripped the younger man’s hand a bit tighter. Had Pheonyx lost a child? He didn’t look much older than his sister, Maggie, or even Beth really. But Daryl also knew that age wasn’t a reliable determinate for having kids. Most of the people he grew up with started having kids around 14. Although that could be attributed to a horrible sex education curriculum and lack of resources for free birth control. The way Pheonyx had spoken though, seemed to leak empathy as opposed to sympathy. Daryl could only conclude that he must have lost a child, whether it be his own or someone close to that. The younger man had mentioned losing his brother and mother early after the world fell, but didn’t mention a kid. Not that he expected the man to bear all his losses to him when they’d only met earlier that morning.

Sniffling a small bit, Pheonyx stood up. He gave Carol’s hand one last squeeze before releasing it. Kismet’s tail began to wag in earnest and the appendage thudded against the wall in a fast rhythm.

“I’m gonna go find Rick and set up a plan for tomorrow.” Pheonyx said before facing Daryl. He had to stop himself from getting lost in the man’s deep blue eyes and averted his gaze to the bottle in his hand. “All yours, Apollo.”

He slid past the other man, being careful not to touch the archer, even though his body screamed at him to do so. Having passed Daryl, Pheonyx recalled Kismet, wanting to give the others their privacy. Also not trusting the dog to not get into trouble without him there. Over Daryl’s shoulder, Pheonyx saw Kismet give Carol’s leg one last nuzzle before shoving his tank of a body between Daryl’s legs. The dog was wholly unaware of his size and Pheonyx had to withhold a snort as Daryl barely managed to catch himself from falling over.

Blue eyes followed Pheonyx’s form out of the trailer, trying not to focus on the curves of his shoulders and the outline of his backside in the dirty jeans hugging sharp hips. A small cough had him jerking his head away from the direction of the RV door towards where Carol was sitting. He was met with a slightly amused gaze and a singular raised eyebrow. Blistering heat trickled up his shoulders and over his neck. Avoiding the questions that surely would follow, Daryl placed the bottle on the table near the bed. Thankfully, the distraction worked and he didn’t have to come up with excuses for why he couldn’t stop staring at the younger man.

It didn’t take Pheonyx long to find Rick. The man was sitting on the steps of the house's wrap-around porch. He was still wearing his Sheriff’s uniform and stuck out like a sore thumb compared to his grungier looking compatriots. His star badge glinted orange, reflecting the light from the setting sun. Seemingly lost in his own head, Rick didn’t even notice Pheonyx until he was right in front of him. Kismet whined happily at seeing the familiar man and pushed his head into Rick’s lap forcefully. Despite the intense look on his face a few moments before, a bright smile crossed over his face. Light blue eyes–that Pheonyx couldn’t help compare to a certain archer’s–glanced up at him.

“How did it go?” Rick asked while scratching Kismet’s ears.

Pheonyx relayed the information that they had gotten during their search, the same things he had told Carol just moments earlier.

“Daryl and I are taking Kismet out at first light to pick up her trail again,” he finished, taking a seat on the porch next to the Sheriff. Kismet wiggled his butt happily and shoved his head into Pheonyx’s lap.

“I can’t tell you how nice it is to have some good news for a change. Knowing she has some supplies is a huge weight off our shoulders. I’m sure Carol is grateful as well,” Rick took a deep breath of relief. “Shane, T-Dog, Glenn, and I are all ready to set up the search grid tomorrow.”

Pheonyx grimaced a little bit, thinking about the complications that came along with more people searching, “I talked with Daryl and he agreed that we should wait to do a full search party for Sophia.”

“Why? Isn’t it better to have more people searching? Cover more ground?” Rick asked in confusion.

“A few reasons. The main being that I worry about others getting lost or hurt. I don’t have enough maps with my traps labeled to hand out to everyone. All it takes is one shadow sneaking up to get someone stuck on a spear or to fall into one of the burn pits. There’s also dangerous terrain that could be difficult for you all to handle,” Rick nodded with his reasoning so Pheonyx continued. “Kismet is still in training, his attention span isn’t always great. I worry that if we have a bunch of people out searching the trail will get messed up or the overlapping scents will confuse him.”

Rick was silent for a moment, thinking about what Pheonyx had said, “All right. I trust you. Is there anything we can do in the mean time?”

“Rick. It’s a farm. We have 50 head of cattle and 4 horses. There is a never ending amount of work. Especially if I’m out searching all day. Taking up my chores would be a huge help,” Pheonyx scrubbed Kismet’s ears and the dog’s tongue rolled out in happiness. “Besides, might be good to show Hershel how useful extra hands on the farm can be.”

“Yeah, he’s already asked us to leave as soon as Carl is better,” There was a note of fear in the older man’s voice and he rubbed his face with hand in frustration. “It’s bad out there, Pheonyx. I don’t know how long we can make it on the road. I can’t take my son back out there. I just can’t.”

“Look, I’m not trying to make excuses for my stepfather. He’s bull-headed on the best of days. But, he’s a good person. I think, with enough time, he will change his mind. I’ll lean on him a bit. For now, help around the farm, follow his rules, let him get to know all of you, and maybe have Carl make puppy eyes at him.”

The joke worked and Rick chuckled lightly. “Speaking of Carl. He’s been asking to talk to you. He’s up now if you want to go see him.”

Before he could answer, Kismet grumbled and turned his head to woof at the Sheriff.

Rolling his eyes, Pheonyx patted the dog’s side. “Mind if I bring Kismet in? He likes kids.”

“Of course. He’d love that. We lost our family dog about a year before all this started. He had spots like Kismet’s so Carl named him Domino,” a wide smile broke across Rick’s face as he reminisced on the old mangy dog that Carl had pulled in the house when he was only 5. He’d held onto the dog’s dirty neck and cried until Lori finally relented on keeping him.

Standing up, Pheonyx left the man to his thoughts and walked around the house to the back door. It would have been easier to go in the front door, which was only a few feet from where he and Rick were sitting, but he wanted to steer clear of Hershel.

Avoidance was fruitless. He knew he would have to talk to him sooner or later. Especially if he was going to put in a good word for the group to stay on the farm. Talk? More like argue, Pheonyx thought with an internal sigh. Ever since his mother and brother’s death, he’d avoided confronting Hershel on his skewed views on the shadows. He walked away when the subject was brought up, and tried to ignore the groaning from the barn. The few times he tried to change Hershel’s mind had ended in shouting matches. Which ultimately led to Pheonyx having a PTSD-induced panic attack in the stables each time. So, he fixed the outside of the barn as much as could, reinforcing rotten boards and surrounding the perimeter with barbed wire. It wasn’t foolproof. Eventually the old wood would splinter and the shadows would be freed. He just hoped it wouldn’t be before his step-father changed his mind about the status of the infected.

Kismet reached the back door before Pheonyx, and started to claw the base of the screen frame, probably eager for dinner. He opened the door for the dog, letting him pass and run into the kitchen. There was a light thud and then the sound of his youngest sister’s giggling filled Pheonyx’s ears. While he wasn’t as close with Beth as he was Maggie, the sound of her voice and happy aura always managed to help alleviate his anxiety. A small smile was already gracing his face before he even crossed the threshold of the door.

Kismet had managed to knock Beth to her knees and was covering her face in slobbery kisses. Hands covered in soapy bubbles and purple shirt soaked with water, she had been in the middle of washing the dishes from dinner when Kismet practically tackled her. Pheonyx waited a moment before stepping around the kitchen island to save his sister from the dog’s assault of love. He grabbed the leather collar around Kismet’s neck and gave a gentle tug.

“Kizzie, leave Beth alone.” Pheonyx scolded lightly. Kismet whined but acquiesced to his owner’s command. He walked off and helped himself to the water dish in the corner.

Pheonyx held out his hand to help Beth up. She smiled widely at him, the sunshine of her soul warming his chest.

“Thank you, Nyx. He’s a big teddy bear,” she said before turning back around to the sink to continue washing the dishes. “We already ate dinner but if you’re hungry, there’s some of that chicken you’ve been marinating. We also got some green beans and potatoes from the garden in the fridge too. I would’ve saved you some of ours but there wasn’t much left after feedin’ Carl. I gave the leftovers to Rick and Lori."

“That’s fine, Bethie. You know I like to cook and they probably need the food more than I do,” Pheonyx leaned against the counter next to the sink.

Beth bent back a bit to look out the kitchen door, checking to see if anyone was listening. She lowered her voice slightly, “I don’t think they have enough food to feed everyone. I heard Rick and Shane talkin’ about it when I went in to give Carl lunch. I told Daddy but he told me not to get into their business.”

The worry and sadness in her voice was evident. Beth had always been the most benevolent one of the family and he knew the idea of people going hungry didn’t sit well with her.

“Hershel is trying to distance himself. Don’t worry. I have some food stored in the barn from my runs into town. I’ll let Rick know he’s welcome to it. Once we find Sophia, I can do some more hunting and we can share that with them too,” Pheonyx placed his hand on her shoulder in comfort and leaned forward to press a kiss to her temple.

She leaned into him and wrapped one arm around his waist to hug him. Pheonyx instinctively flinched but his muscles relaxed when he reminded himself of who it was. When Beth pulled away, he saw the glint of sympathy in her eyes and he avoided her gaze, wanting to avoid any pity. While he knew Beth would never pity him, old habits die hard.

“I wanted to go see Carl,” he coughed, trying to brush off the awkwardness he felt.

“He asked about you earlier so he’ll be happy to see you. I took him some of Shawn’s comics, so he’s been busy readin’ those all day.”

“Thanks, Bethie.”, Pheonyx squeezed her shoulder and patted Kismet’s side as he passed the dog, who had placed himself in the door that led into the dining room. A jingle of the buckle on Kismet’s collar and click of nails on the tiled floor let Pheonyx know that the dog was following behind him.

After dinner, Hershel usually spent an hour or two in his office reading. The past few weeks, his book of choice was mostly his bible. For many people, the rising of the dead dissolved any notions of faith in a higher power. In the beginning of the outbreak the news streamed videos, between images of the dead eating people, of mobs burning churches and piles of bibles in anger. It was something Pheonyx could honestly understand. That anger was something he had felt the majority of his life. How could god, someone who supposedly personifies love and forgiveness, attack his creations so blatantly? And if it was the devil who actually brought the carnage upon the world, how could god just stand by and let it happen? For Hershel though, he found the outbreak and the loss of his family members to be tests of his faith. The atrocities that nature flung at their feet had steadfastly strengthened the old man’s beliefs. Pheonyx took a moment to be appreciative of the older man’s dedication to schedules and his religious upbringing. Simply for the fact that he wouldn’t have to run into his stepfather and engage in another verbal spar.

Before Pheonyx reached the door, he stooped down to Kismet’s level and pointed a finger at the dog’s bulky head.

“Behave,” he said sternly. “I know you love kids but Carl’s hurt. You don’t know your strength most of the time.”

He swore that Kismet rolled his chocolate eyes at him before huffing and trotting into the makeshift hospital room where Carl was staying. Shaking his head, Pheonyx followed behind him and looked in the door.

The room was much cleaner than the day before. Sheets stained with blood were replaced by clean linens and the only medical supplies that could be seen was a tray of clean bandages and alcohol located on the bedside table. In the bed, a small lump was under the blankets but in the place where a head would be was a bright comic book being held up by elfin hands. The sound of Pheonyx’s foot stepping on a squeaky floorboard had a pair of blue eyes, mirror images of Rick’s, popping over the top of the pages. Carl closed the comic book and set it on his lap before smiling widely at him. It took only two seconds for the boy to notice Kismet, who was wiggling his whole body with glee at the sight of the child. Nails clicked as the gentle giant began to tap his toes and he grumbled with impatience.

“Dad told me there was a dog! What’s his name? Can I pet him?”, Carl asked excitedly, trying to sit up more. He groaned in pain though and placed his hand on his side.

Pheonyx moved to the boy’s side quickly, “Careful, bud.”

He clicked his tongue and Kismet trotted to his side. Seeming to sense that the kid was in pain, Kismet gently pushed his head into Carl’s hand offering a lick of comfort.

“This is Kismet. You can pet him all you want. He loves to be touched so you’d be doing him a favor.”

Although it seemed impossible, Carl’s smile got even wider as he scratched Kismet’s head and ears. His hands looked like doll’s hands compared to the dog’s prodigious skull.

“We had a dog that looked like him. I named him Domino because he was covered in spots. He liked to steal our neighbor’s newspapers and chew them up. It made mom so mad. Dad and I thought it was funny though,” Carl’s eyes sparkled as he looked up at him. “Are you Pheonyx? Dad said you had a lot of tattoos. I’ve never seen so many before! They’re so cool. Did they hurt? Which one hurt the worst? If I could get a tattoo, I would get the Batman symbol right across my chest. I think my mom would be mad though,” Carl’s button nose scrunched up at the thought of making his mom angry.

Pheonyx chuckled at the boy’s enthusiasm and endless stream of questions, “Tattoos do hurt. More or less depending on where you get them. The ones on my ribs hurt the worst though. And you are right. Your mom would probably be furious if you got a tattoo right now. Wait until you’re 18 and see how you feel then.”

Carl nodded and Pheonyx took a moment to take stock of his appearance. The boy looked much better than he did the day before. Almost 24 hours before, Carl had practically blended in with the white sheets on the bed, skin pale white from blood loss. Today, his skin had pinkened up a bit and the clammy look had been replaced by simple sweat from the humid Georgian air.

“Dad said you’re helping look for Sophia. Thank you. She’s my friend and I’m really worried about her. I wish I could help search. While I was sleeping, I dreamt that she was hiding in a cave and I’m the one who found her.” A sad look passed over his face and he averted his gaze to Kismet, who was drooling from contentment at being rubbed.

Pheonyx sat in the rocking chair next to the bed. “You know I donated blood to you right? Your dad gave more than me but I gave some when you first got here.”, he flipped his hand over and showed his palm to Carl, a small scabbed cut was in the center. He’d cut it when he was sharpening his knife the previous morning, “I also helped hold pressure on your stomach when you got here. That means I got your blood in my cut. Do you know what that means?”

Carl shook his head, not understanding what Pheonyx was trying to say. So the older man continued, “That means we’re blood brothers now.”

“What are blood brothers?,” the confusion was evident in the boy’s voice.

“Well, it’s a pact where two people promise to protect each other and treat each other like real brothers. Most people cut their palms and press their cuts together to share blood. So, ours is a little different. But I think that makes it a lot stronger.”

“So, you’d be like a big brother for me? And I’d be your little brother?”, Carl asked, his eyebrows still scrunched a bit in confusion. When Pheonyx nodded, the boy’s face relaxed and brightened. “I’ve always wanted a brother!”

“As your blood brother, I’m making you a promise that, while you’re healing, Kismet and I will do everything in our power to bring Sophia back since you can’t be out there searching for her yourself. You have to make me a promise in return though.”

Eagerness spread on Carl’s face and he nodded, “Anything!”

“You have to promise to take it easy and to do everything Hershel says so that you can get better. Is that a deal?,” Pheonyx held out his fist to the younger boy, waiting for an answer.

Carl thought for a moment before smiling and bumping his fist against Pheonyx’s. “Deal.”

When Pheonyx told Daryl that he didn’t make promises often, that wasn’t a lie. He tried to avoid them. Because promises often led to disappointment. And as someone who endured a lot of that disappointment growing up, he couldn’t handle the thought of inadvertently giving that feeling to someone else. Despite that, he had made more promises in the last two days than he had in his 28 years of life.

The two of them talked for a little while longer. Carl spoke of his school and how he used to play soccer. Pheonyx told him about his siblings and his work at a tattoo shop. The conversation was normal, all things considered. Kismet had left at some point to beg for dinner from Maggie or Beth. Eventually, the boy’s eyes began to droop, and the sun outside had almost completely disappeared. Pheonyx gave the boy another fist bump and promised to come see him again after searching for Sophia the next day.

He was lost in his thoughts as he turned from the doorway towards the front door. So lost that he ran directly into a wall of muscle and his body immediately tensed when a large hand gripped his bicep tightly, cutting off the supply of blood to his fingers. His heart began to race and he looked into the angry brown eyes of Shane. The man’s eyes were narrowed and his body language was threatening.

“The hell were you doing in there?”, he growled.

Despite the fear flooding his body, Pheonyx held his ground, staring dead in the other man’s eyes, and gritted his teeth. “Talking to Carl. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Yeah. As a matter of fact, I do. You stay the hell away from that boy. Filling his head with fucked up ideas. You hear me?”, the grip on Pheonyx’s arm tightened. He could practically feel the blood vessels bursting in his skin. The only blessing was that Shane was gripping the arm that had the realism styled tattoo. With the colors and full distribution of ink across his arm, the inevitable bruise wouldn’t be very noticeable. It didn’t take a genius to figure out the meaning behind Shane’s words. The “ideas” that he didn’t want Pheonyx sharing with the boy. Shane didn’t want Carl to know Pheonyx was trans. The reason being, the idea of being trans was seen as something deviant or impure. And that if a child learned about it, they would be tainted in some way. It was a stupid thought–being transgender wasn’t a disease–but it was something that Pheonyx was familiar with. When he came out, several family members from Hershel’s side lamented his braveness for coming out but asked him “politely” to not speak about it in front of their children. The excuses ranged from “they wouldn’t understand” to “they’ll get the wrong ideas”. They feared that if they learned what being trans was, then they might come out too. Or that they might have to have an honest conversation with their child.

“I hear you. But I’m not going to listen to some neanderthal throwing his weight around like he owns the place. Last time I checked, you’re not Carl’s father. The second Lori or Rick say they don’t want me around their son, I’ll oblige but until then I’ll hang out with Carl anytime he wants,” Pheonyx’s tone was lethal. Despite the shivering in his muscles and the screaming in his mind, he wouldn’t back down.

A welcome voice sounded by the door, “Is there a problem here?”

Shane turned his head to look at the person speaking and Pheonyx used the distraction to jerk his arm from the man’s tight grip. Blood rushed back to his fingers and he resisted the urge to massage the area.

Rick stood a short distance from them, eyes narrowed on his best friend.

“No problem here. Just having a chat.”, Shane smiled, acting as if he didn’t just have Pheonyx cornered.

Pheonyx opted to not rock the boat, knowing it would just cause more problems for the group’s standing on the farm. If Hershel knew that Shane had acted like that with his step son, he wouldn’t hesitate to throw them out.

“No problem at all, Rick. Just having a conversation. Man to Man.”, Pheonyx smirked and placed a condescending hand on the taller man’s shoulder. The sharp look Shane gave him was worth the probable consequences of poking the bear. “I was just heading out. I’ll be in the stables if you need anything.”

Without a backward glance, Pheonyx walked around the Sheriff and left through the squeaky screen door. The fresh air hit his face and the adrenaline that had been running rampant through his body disappeared. A lump built in his throat and he had to stop the tears from running down his face. Shane’s hate was bringing up a lot of memories that Pheonyx thought he’d moved past. But there he was, trying not to see the flickering light in the alley as it created shadows, making the men look taller than they were. Trying not to smell the ripe stench of garbage and body odor. Trying not to hear their vile words whispered in his ear. Trying not to feel their fingers digging into his shoulders and tearing at his clothes. Trying not to remember the taste of blood filling his mouth, mixing with the bile that lingered from their attack.

We’re gonna fix you, sweetheart. Just gotta show you how to be a woman.

The voice floated in his brain like ash after a wildfire. No matter the distance from the flame, it still lingered, staining his thoughts black.

Taglist: @dixonsboy19, @edgyboi10000, @yoongibaybee

[failedaethercore]

The Missing Messenger

Inspired by @wolfofcelestia's amazing work found here.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

This (my fourth fic ever lol) was written in a fever state to get it out of my system since this had been consuming me all day today while I did my adulting. Please be kind, I know there are likely a lot of mistakes, But I am trying my best to learn and grow as a writer while writing all these fics.

Also I know I wrote something similar in my last fic, but I think I've ironed it out better this time. So bear with me while I work towards a new theme haha

Rafayel x fem!MC/reader, Xavier, Zayne, confessions, fluffy stuff at the end I swear ;;

Please be warned, this is a dark work and is not a good idea to read if you are easily triggered.

CW: torture, depression, allusions to rape, blood, guns, death, please let me know if I need to add any more (can't think of what else, I swear I'm not here to hurt any of you lovely people)

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel was laying on his sofa, one arm artfully draped over his eyes as he sighed in defeat. His latest piece was causing him so much trouble, which made him feel like just giving up and moving on to something else. But he was too far along to call it quits just yet, he wanted to see it finished.

So when his phone hummed quietly near his hand, he let out another dramatic groan and picked it up, praying it wasn't Thomas bothering him to find out when the painting would be done. It was just a text. From you.

Y/n: Hey, I saw there's a new cafe down near the plaza, you wanna go when we both have some time? Apparently they have rose flavored milk tea and really good snacks. I really wanna try it!

Rafayel smirked and sent a quick series of replies.

Rafayel: That might be a little difficult, I'm in the middle of my magnum opus and cannot be torn away! Even if it caught fire, I can never leave my studio until my vision reaches fruition!

Rafayel: But maybe you can bring me some when you come visit...perhaps...this afternoon?

He could sense you rolling your eyes as he sees the word “read” next to his texts. He lets himself full on grin, hoping you'll agree.

Y/n: I do have today off...but wouldn't you like a break? You've been cooped up all week, I thought.

Rafayel: Don't you understand y/n? I must see this through! ...But I could use a little break, if you're willing to drop everything right now and bring me an iced latte with soy milk and plenty of brown sugar boba.

Y/n: And a slice of cheesecake?

Rafayel: You know me so well, it's almost like we're friends.

Y/n: Or enemies.

He chuckles to himself, texting you always managed to brighten his foulest moods, despite the aching in his chest when his thoughts lingered too long on how you were unlikely to ever want to be more than that...just friends.

He sighed and waited for a moment, staring at the screen to see if you were going to say anything else. When it had been long enough, he figured you were getting ready to come over, and he slumped back onto the sofa once more, leaving his phone on his chest as he stared up at the blue coming through the skylights in the ceiling.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

He didn't think it would take this long to get ready, but he was patient. He may whine and complain and give you the hardest time for making him wait...but he had already waiting so long for you, what is one more hour? Or two...o-or three...

His phone vibrated again, alerting him of a text messsage. He stopped his idle paint mixing, having wanted something to do while he waited for you, and looked down at his phone set beside him.

Y/n: I love you, Rafayel

His chest suddenly felt full and warm, he could feel his heart beginning to beat quickly, and he swore he could feel his ears redden in the delight that phrase had brought him. He reread it several times, pinched himself, even slapped his face with his free hand, just to make sure he hadn't fallen asleep while waiting for you.

He quickly typed a reply once he had confirmed he wasn't dreaming.

Rafayel: Well it's about time! Thought I would have to be the first one to admit it, at this rate...

But the message wasn't read right away. Maybe you were walking over from the cafe now? And you just wanted to confess before your visit. He had no idea why you were being so honest with yourself (and him), but he was so happy he couldn't care about that right now.

He hums happily for a while, waiting even more impatiently for you to arrive. But now it's been an hour. Then two. He checks his phone. Neither of you had ever agreed on a time to meet, but he didn't think you'd make him wait so long...

Rafayel: Y/n? Are you coming? Are you okay?

His joy started to melt into chilling fear, dripping down his spine as he realizes that his confession was left unread, after all this time. That's when the panic sets in fully. Something is wrong.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel is in his trendy sports car before he can even think about what he's doing. Acting on pure instinct alone, he's already across the bridge and meeting the afternoon traffic that Linkon City is known for on a normal Thursday. For a moment he ponders if he should break the law, eyes darting hastily around the intersection before he floors it through a red light, not even bothering to slow down. He was a madman behind the wheel already, notorious for making you white knuckle the armrest whenever you rode with him. But now he was terrified, and determined.

He regains his senses while swerving to avoid a line of slowed cars, and quickly presses a few buttons on the car's touch screen, attempting to call you. Maybe your phone had just died. Please let him be a silly fool who worries over nothing. It rang for a while, before rolling over to voicemail, your standard message of “Hey, this is y/n, sorry I missed your call, leave me a message after the beep! Beep! No, not that one” followed be a giggle and then another beep. “Y/n please be okay, you've been quiet for a while, just starting to worry about my bodyguard here...I'm heading over to see if maybe you just fell asleep, since it's your day off! You better answer your door!”

Before he forgot, he decided to make one more call, pressing another button and starting a call with Thomas.

Thomas sounds elated to hear from Rafayel, thinking he had finally finished the painting and that Thomas could set up a new exhibition around it and the other dozen paintings Rafayel had finished earlier.

“Rafayel! It's about time, do you kno-” Before Thomas can begin nagging Rafayel about making him wait so long for just one painting, Rafayel cuts him off. “Something's wrong with y/n! She won't pick up her phone and I need you to track her down somehow. She's usually not this quiet, you have to help me Thomas!” The man was taken aback, his feet falling off his desk that he had leaned up there confidently at the beginning of the call. He sat upright and had no idea how to respond for a moment, Rafayel never begged for anything. Ever. At least not to him, anyways.

Rafayel waited for Thomas to reply, then shouted at the man. “Thomas! Go find Y/n! I need to know she's okay!” Thomas broke his silence with a stuttered “Y-yeah sure!” before hanging up quickly to make some calls of his own.

Rafayel pressed the gas pedal to the floor, as he sped down the road to come to a screeching halt in front of your apartment complex. He jumped out, not even bothering to make sure the engine was off, but just managing to remember to put the damned thing into park.

He bolted up the stairs, taking each step three at a time, as his long legs screamed at him from the sudden exertion on his usually lazy muscles. He knew your apartment number by heart, knowing exactly where you slept every night, just to occasionally check in and make sure you got home from a hunt okay. Even if he never knocked on the door, he looked up at the window in your apartment until the light came on, and he could see you open the window to let in some fresh air.

He knocked hard on the door, urgency spurring his continued knocks on as he waited impatiently. “Y/n! Hey! You home?!” There was no evidence of tampering that he could detect, the door looked like it always did, so when he had to break it down to get in, he felt a little guilty. Nevermind, he could easily replace it with a better one and the building's manager would be fine with it. He was praying you were just half asleep on your bed and would just scold him for freaking out over nothing.

When he found your apartment empty, not a soul in the place, while the windows were left wide open...his heart, already halfway down to his stomach, finishes it descent into his gut, while tears threaten his eyes. No...this can't be real. He's dreaming, all of this is a lie. He pinches himself again, and again, trying to bring himself out of this nightmare.

When he decides that he is truly not dreaming, he tries to call your phone again, only to hear your phone ringing under the sofa. The song you set as his ringtone would have probably made him chuckle and tease you if this wasn't such a terrifying scenario.

He picks it up from the floor, and looks at it. A photo of him smiling with you while you both pose in front of the camera glows before his eyes. That's when it all starts to blur a little, as tears begin to truly tug at the edges of his sight. He couldn't hold them back anymore, and let out a shout of your name, unable to contain his emotions because he had just found you again.

Moments later, a silver-haired man came barging into the apartment from the balcony, obviously drawn by the commotion from below. When Rafayel saw him, he was immediately on guard, drawing a dagger from behind his back, summoned from a plume of flame in his hand.

The man looked around quickly before drawing his own weapon, a sword borne of light held aloft and pointed at Rafayel. “Where is y/n. What are you doing in her apartment?” Rafayel stares down the weapon with indifference, not even registering the question before he lunges forward, another dagger being summoned to his empty hand as the sound of metal hitting metal fills the space.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

The fight only lasted a few minutes, but both men were so fast, and so evenly matched, they both fell to the floor quickly, panting, covered in cuts and bruises. At some point Rafayel had punched the man in the face, and at another point the man had gotten a good slice into the front of Rafayel's expensive shirt.

While both of them caught their breaths, the man asked another question. “Where is y/n...and who are you?” He had never met a match in battle, and was honestly a little stunned.

“Well who the hell are you? How do you know her name and where she lives?!”

The man slumps his back against the wall near the television, running his hand through his starlit hair. “Xavier...I'm her upstairs neighbor, and her Hunter partner.” Rafayel lets out a sigh and withers at the fact.

“I'm...Rafayel...she's my bodyguard. Did you hear anything in here earlier?” He is immediately brought back to the entire reason he was even here. “Y/n left her phone, she never leaves without it.” Xavier stares as Rafayel holds up your phone, the tiny charm hanging off it indicating it was definitely yours. He had no idea who gave you the tiny red fish charm, but he had always secretly been a little jealous.

“Then...the noises earlier...” Xavier stares down at the floor. “I thought y/n was exercising for some reason, even though it was her day off...I heard some shuffling noises...but I didn't think anything of it because I couldn't sense any Wanderers.” Rafayel's eyes narrow with every word, until his glare can be felt like a radiating heat from the depths of hell. He would bore a hole right through Xavier's head if he could.

Xavier sheepishly looked away, his quiet and sleepy demeanor made meek in that moment as guilt struck him like lightning. “I didn't realize. ...We need to find her.”

Before both men departed your apartment, Rafayel making a call to get your apartment door repaired, Xavier promising to contact your old friend Zayne who works at the nearby hospital, they agreed to exchange numbers and keep in touch. Their expressions grim as they went their separate ways.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Rafayel's soul had now been shredded, drowned, disintegrated, and finally blown away like sands in the storm. This happened nearly on the daily for him, as every moment of you being missing driving him further into madness.

It had been weeks so far.

Where were you?

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You had been texting with Rafayel when you had nodded off, meaning to get up and get ready to go get tea and snacks to bring to his studio and spend time with him. You were excited, but work had been draining your energy of late, so you let yourself nod off for a bit. Rafayel could wait, plus you enjoyed his bratty pout when you made him wait a little bit.

You awoke to the shufflling sound of something opening your window from the balcony. Or rather...someone. You realized how late it was in the same moment you realized what was going on. Men in neutral and dark clothes, face coverings, and holding rope and other supplies silently entered your apartment, thinking you were still asleep.

You quickly sent a text, knowing there was no saving you now. You could beat them up, you could take out maybe three of them in your current condition. Your energy still low from that last mission. “I love you, Rafayel” the last thing you send, as you don't know if you're going to come back from this as more figures climb into the room, you can hear their boots quietly touching onto the floor.

You jumped up from your position on the couch and ran to secure your concealed weapon you kept in the kitchen. A firearm for in case a Wanderer got too close to the apartment complex, or something like this happening. Unfortunately for you, one of them had a taser gun, and shot you in the back, taking you down before you can even reach under the counter for the weapon strapped there.

You can't make out much as your senses are blacking out from the pain. But you make out a low chuckle from one of the figures, a man with piercing eyes glowers down at you as he puts his boot on your head and grinds it into the floor a little. “...You're going to regret going for that.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been what felt like an eternity. Your figure was chained to the floor, the shackles on your wrists and ankles constantly chafing and making your joints ache from their weight. You were losing your muscles from all the lack of exercise, but that didn't mean you didn't still suffer the brutality of your captors.

Every single day, at some point during the day, the door to the pitch black cell would open, light would pour in, and then it would begin.

The first time, you had let yourself feel a glimmer of hope. Rafayel? Had he found you? But no...it was the man with the piercing eyes, everyone wearing masks still despite clearly being in a safe location. They could never be too cautious, it seemed. “You're going to tell us everything you know about Lemurians and where we can find them.”

Your face went a little slack. You knew very little about them, and only knew maybe...two? Three? One of them...you would never reveal their identity to these monsters. You had just arrived at this point, but the shackles were already hurting you, and the taser to your back still stung and caused your nerves to shiver with what you hoped didn't look like fear.

“Don't worry, you don't have to answer right away. Let's have some fun with this first...” At first your face distorts into disgust, until the man pulls out a blade and you see the cloth mask over his face wrinkle in a way that could only mean he was smiling maliciously. His eyes glint with joy at the prospect of hurting you.

But you never broke. Not once. You swore to yourself that death would be better than letting them know about Rafayel. After everything he had confided in you, after everything he had given to you, you would guard it with your dying breath before this scum found a drop of information. So you didn't struggle, you didn't fight, you let the torture continue for forever, as the outside world spun on without you. You wouldn't let others suffer because of your weakness, your failings.

You blamed yourself for being too lax, being too comfortable in your life, when you knew danger was a constant part of your everyday life. Your vigilance had slipped for a moment, and you were the reason you were in this situation now.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

Once Zayne had been made aware of the situation, he had stopped working for a few days, searching in his own way to find you. The days turned into weeks, before he had to return to his work, guilt riding him on both fronts as he didn't want to give up the search, but he couldn't leave his patients to die.

Xavier had assured him he would be notified as soon as you were located, and Zayne tried his best to take comfort in that, at least. Rafayel was being driven mad, to the point of having barely slept and not eaten for far too long.

He was delirious, laying on the floor of his torn apart studio, as it was too many reminders of you, in some ways. His heart was gone, he felt numb all over, and his mind swam as he stared up at the darkening sky in the ceiling. He had searched through his underworld connections, but couldn't pry anything from anyone. No one knew a thing about it, apparently. But he knew you didn't just vanish into thin air.

So when all felt lost, he decided to try his last resort. You had his heart beating in your chest. From lives lived long ago, you have been reborn with that same heart time and time again. You were breathing because he gave you his everything the first time you had met. And now he had to pull it to him. He struggled for a while to try and tune into whatever frequency it was, he was rusty and hadn't really done anything like this in what felt like centuries.

So when he finally knew he had it, he could sense other Lemurians in Linkon City, he could sense the vast ocean and the creatures that reside there...he could even faintly sense others further still, but not you.

You were a blank space. An empty void stood where your usual place in the universe hung. He didn't realize he had stopped breathing until his lungs screamed for air. He sat up suddenly and gasped, choking on the air briefly before he coughed and started to sob into his hands.

You were gone. Not a trace. Nothing.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You were bloody and covered in scarring wounds, broken bones and twisted muscles. Today had been burns on your bare flesh, followed by mild drowning in sea water. But they lost interest, saying you probably liked it, since clearly you liked fish and all that.

You were struggling to breathe through your broken ribs, but you tried to keep steady, breathing through your nose slowly as you kept a stoic expression on your bruised and puffy face. Every day had been something new, something awful. But the taste of the deep salt water had hardened your resolve. You didn't know why Rafayel couldn't find you, but you would escape. You would find him and he would keep you safe again. You had to believe that, despite the fear that this was actually some elaborate play to make you loyal or something.

You were given too much time in the darkness by yourself. Your mind would race to horrible scenarios at the drop of a hat already, but now you had concocted a horrible fantasy where Rafayel had been the mastermind behind all of this, and that you were being tested to be sure you were loyal to him no matter what. But that made you more fearful that whoever Rafayel was running from must be even worse than this.

So you steeled yourself every day, when the shuffling of feet could be heard outside your door, you would sit up and just stoically stare at a spot in your vision that did not exist. Grounding your mind in what you had to tell yourself to survive this.

He was looking for you. He would come. As soon as you could make your move, he would find you. Somehow. If he was truly behind this, then Xavier and Zayne would find you. You had been gone far too long for you to not be missed. This was your courage. And you would be doubly damned by the Gods if you let yourself fail now.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

The day finally came. They had become less vigilant, as you had never once made an effort to break free, and the fire had quickly died in your eyes. They were almost ready to just let you go, figuring you didn't know anything. The only things they could ever extract from you were screams and grunts of agony. You had even overheard them talking amongst themselves several times, talking about their personal lives as if it was another day at an office job.

So when you were ready, you had snuck a small thin object, you think it was a broken paperclip, to pick the locks on your shackles. You made quick work in the inky darkness that surrounded you, but left the shackles on, to lure them into your plan.

The shuffling sounds came up again, and you were ready. You waited for them to casually open the door, like they had been doing so recently, as you let your eyes adjust to the change in light. They were chatting as if it were just a Tuesday, while you let yourself sprint to the door, pushing through the armed guards. They had forgotten you were a trained Hunter, apparently. Because you managed to pull one of their guns and shoot the other point blank.

The one whose weapon you had confiscated had fallen to the ground and to be sure he wouldn't follow, you shot him in the leg. You made a run for the stairs, apparently you were deep underground. It explained the lack of windows and fresh air in the cell.

The stairs were narrow, so it made it difficult as more and more guards began to pour down to apprehend you, and you could only climb over so many grasping bodies as they struggled to hold you while their injuries otherwise incapacitated them. Before long you were forced to throw the empty gun aside and take things head-on. You punched and bit and kicked your way as far as you could, every ounce of your being put into surviving and escaping. But before long you were dragged down and pinned to the stairs, a boot holding you firmly in place by the center of your back.

The man with the piercing eyes chuckled darkly. “I see you have more fight in you than we had thought...I like that.” He pulled your head up by your hair, at least what was left of it, and forced you to look at his other boot. “Lick it, peasant.”

You blacked out from exhaustion before you could do anything, and he tsked angrily. “Fucking bitch...she shot so many of these idiots. Now I have to clean this up.” He turned to those of his men who were still standing or able to stand, and began barking orders. “Carry out the wounded, shoot those who won't make it, and put her back in the cell. This time...I won't let her keep this worthless hope she keeps clinging to. I will take her tonight, and break her.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been months now, and Rafayel was wallowing in the abyss of life without you again. But this time was different. You had been ripped from him and he couldn't even find your body to bury. Every day he prayed you were alive, but then cursed himself for it, knowing if you were, you were most likely suffering.

The day had come, and he was burying his face in a hoodie you had accidentally left in his studio one time, sobbing uncontrollably as his phone kept ringing in the background. He ignored it, Thomas' frantic motions against the drowning undercurrent of Rafayel's soul would never be enough to save either of them.

So when he felt your presence, he bolted upright, tears staining his otherwise beautiful but now gaunt face, and he stared in the direction of where he felt you. He had checked there. Many times, in fact. He had suspected you were in the N109 zone, but how you had eluded him for so long, he had no clue. But now you were somewhere he could find you. And he would be damned by the ocean once more if he let this chance slip by.

His flashy sports car was in need of a wash, and so was he, but he hopped in, before speeding off to reach your location all the faster, once again a demon behind the wheel.

But no sooner had he gotten oriented enough to know which road to take, you vanished again. But he suspected you were in that general vicinity, and wasted no time to get to his usual spot where he could enter the zone without interference.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

You were reshackled and struggling to breathe as the man with the piercing eyes was holding you by your throat so that you were partly suspended in the air. Your eyes were squeezed shut. Your escape attempt had failed, and now you knew the final thing that could be taken from you, aside from your life, would be ripped from your body forever.

Tears sprang to life in the corners of your eyes as you imagined Rafayel finding your body after all of this, somehow, and how it would break him. You couldn't give in, but despair was gripping your heart harder than the man currently holding your neck.

“I'm going to break you in so my men can each have a turn. After your little stunt, a lot of them need some comfort and closure from what you did.” Your eyes shot open, and you glared up at him with all the defiance you could muster. And it was greater than the will of the Gods themselves, as the man actually stilled for a moment in shock.

His composure resumed quickly, and he took off his mask to reveal a sinister, toothy grin on what might have once upon a time been a handsome face. There were scars and an obviously previously broken nose, but seeing the rest of his face only steeled your resolve. If he wanted to break you, you would put up the fight of your life.

So when the door opened slowly, the faintly brighter light from outside peeking in to drape across a shadowy figure, he snapped up to yell at whoever it was. “Don't you know I'm busy in here?! Wait your turn, ya filthy fucker!” He dropped you to go push the figure outside and shut the door, but before he could reach a hand out to touch the shadow before you both, his hand was sliced off in a blur.

He paused, taking a moment to process what had happened in a fraction of a second. Then he screamed. That's when the shadow stepped into the light filling the cell, and your eyes adjusted enough to see him.

It was Rafayel, covered in soot and blood, a dagger held in his delicate hand as he stared down the man shouting about his hand that was now laying on the floor, blood draining down to the center of the cell, where a drainage grate resided underneath you. Your eyes welled with tears as you stared in shock. He had found you.

Finally. He was here.

His eyes snapped to you, the look of murderous intent softening before he looked over your frail figure. Clearly they were starving you slowly, and all the scarring and blood, filth, everything that they had done to you, rushed into his mind before he snapped back to the man who had finally regained his senses enough to pull out a dagger.

Rafayel slit his throat and turned him to ash before he could so much as aim the thing. The dagger fell to the ground with a clatter, as well as any other metallic accents to his clothes. You gasped as Rafayel's eyes nearly glowed with hate. He would never forgive anyone who so much as glanced upon you in this state. But when he was done, he swiftly softened, his hands finding the shackles and unlocking them in one smooth motion before you register what's going on.

You manage a hoarse, quiet whisper of his name. “Rafayel...” He softly shushes you and picks you up gently, holding you close against his chest as your thin frame drapes across his arms. “You're okay...I've got you, y/n.” You smile, for the first time in a millennia. It hurts so much to smile, and the tears sting your wounds, but you can't stop it. And before long, you're blacking out as Rafayel ascends the stairs slowly, being sure not to jostle you while he tries to still his heart.

It ached so much to see you in this state, but it brought him so much exuberant joy to see you at least still alive. You drew breath, and that meant he could hold your warm hand again, and slowly help you regain your footing after this harrowing experience.

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

He took you to your friend Zayne, since he was a doctor, before anyone else. Xavier was soon notified, and before long you were in your own VIP hospital room. Rafayel never left, even when you were being stripped naked and washed down carefully, and even Zayne had to look away with a blush. Rafayel kept watch, and nearly hissed at a nurse who tried to shoo him out of the ICU room.

Zayne had asked all the staff attending to you to be very careful, and even warned them that Rafayel might not cooperate if asked to leave the room. He had acquiesced to the fact that the purple haired man was going nowhere. Which he secretly couldn't blame him. He remembers the night you were admitted.

When you had been carried into the hospital by Rafayel, Zayne stood still in his tracks when he glanced up to find you looking half dead in his arms. Zayne shouted orders louder and faster than ever, and before long Rafayel was following a gurney into an operating room, despite many personnel pushing against him. He was firm, and unrelenting, so Zayne sighed and made him clean up and put on scrubs to stay sterile.

Rafayel silently watched over the surgery, his eyes looked like he was making a prayer to the last God or Goddess still listening, and asking for the only wish he would ever ask again.

That was a week ago.

You were looked after, and whenever he could, Rafayel held your hand. His sharp eyes kept staring into your soul, praying, willing you to wake once more. He kept his focus on you, unless a nurse came in with a new IV bag, a new drug, then he became vigilant to ensure it was safe. Zayne had given up on assuring him that he would never do you harm, because Rafayel nearly interrogated every nurse that came into the room, even to check your temperature.

But he finally relented to his situation, when he demanded Xavier keep watch while he passed out in the chair next to you, hand still holding yours. Zayne also stood vigil whenever he could spare the time, and a rotating shift of sorts came into being while you were unconscious.

A nurse had taken pity on your hair, as it had been pulled out in places, and shorn in others to shame you. She had done her best to wash it and trim it so that it would look better than it had been (she made sure to do it while Zayne was taking a shift, so she wouldn't have to fight a certain someone over it). Another nurse would bring food for whoever was on shift, though it was usually barely touched. Rafayel especially couldn't bring himself to eat, except when he collapsed once or twice, and Zayne pointed out how guilty you would feel knowing he was starving himself to death.

So after a great deal of staring down from Zayne and Xavier collectively, Rafayel conceded and ate some food. But he never left the room, even then. He thought the food was disgusting, and could barely swallow. But he willed himself to do it, for your sake.

Another week passed, and you were finally making stirrings. Your hand flexed a little in Rafayel's grip, and he sat straight up in that same moment, light returning to his dulled eyes, the numb restless sleep escaping from his form. You stirred, making a groan as the morphine had worn off. “Nnnnh...” Rafayel had to resist tightening his grip on your hand, as your poor fingers had been broken when punching a guard in the dick. If he had known that fact, he would be so proud of you, broken fingers and all.

He hit the nurse call button immediately, and started to shush you as you struggled slightly. “Shhh...y/n, you're safe. You're at the hospital. It's me, Rafayel...I promise...you're okay now...” You heard his voice over the high pitched tinnitus piercing your senses, and you sighed, settling back into the bed as you could barely move anyways. You tried to turn your head to look at him, but your muscles ached even doing that. “It's okay, I'm right here.” He squeezed your palm gently to let you know it was true. “I'm not going anywhere, okay?”

Zayne was notified upon Rafayel's press of the nurse call button, and came rushing in within a few minutes, despite being on the other side of the hospital. He was panting as Rafayel was talking softly to you, as your eyes began to close again. “Did she wake up? Did she say anything?” Rafayel nods then shakes his head, as he strokes your cheek through the bandages, as you fall back into your slumber, this time your muscles relax and you let yourself drift into a dream, instead of the never ending nightmares from before.

It took another two days before you woke up again, but this time you were more coherent, and you managed to sit up with the assistance of the adjustable bed. You stared at Rafayel for a long time before a whisper managed to escape your lips. “...you found me...” Rafayel almost didn't hear you, but he gave you the saddest smile upon realizing your words. “I did...I'm sorry it took me so long...” You tried to shake your head, but it was too much, so you just whispered. “No...you made it just in time...thank you...”

Your voice was hoarse and weak, but your once tight and guarded heart now relaxed and relished in the affection as Rafayel still held your hand, and gently brushed the hair out of your face, or caressed your cheek to comfort you, and many other tiny gestures that melted your heart as he whispered soft words to you. “You're going to be okay, y/n...Zayne is here, and Xavier will be in soon too...everyone missed you so much...” He looks down at his hand holding yours for a moment before he lets out a soft whisper you almost don't hear. “...especially me...”

You give another smile, although it hurts, it is genuine and happy. Hearing that somehow gives you confidence that you were right to trust him. He would never have done this to you, he would have never put you through hell like this just as some sick test. He clearly cared about you, how could you ever have thought those horrible things?

The nurse call button was pressed once more, and soon Zayne came rushing in, while Rafayel was texting Xavier with one hand to do his due diligence and let his new...I guess he'd call him a friend? Know what was going on. Zayne began to check on your wounds, checking every inch of you that he could to make sure you were mending.

“You seem to be doing better, y/n. Do you think you can manage some water?” A tiny nod from you prompts him to step out to hail a nurse, but there's already a crowd of them outside the door, and he sends one to get water for you. You glance at Rafayel as he just smiles warmly at you, his haunted face being pulled into a new expression for the first time in months. “...I want rose milk tea...” You let yourself smirk cheekily as Rafayel gives your hand a quick squeeze. “Soon, y/n...just wait until you can manage something more than water first, okay?” You nod a little and then turn your head slightly when a nurse brings in a pitcher of water, a glass, and a straw on a tray.

You have your first sip of water for the first time in what feels like forever, and you feel refreshed once more in that moment. The cool water slides down your throat and then sinks into your empty stomach, where it suddenly growls loudly in response. “O-oh...” Rafayel chuckles a little, and Zayne clears his throat. “You'll be able to eat solid foods soon, y/n. Just please be patient until we can take care of the bigger problems first.” You nod, and take another sip. You try to take a long, greedy sip, but Rafayel pulls the straw away.

“You're going to choke if you drink too fast...” He chides gently as you pout at him a little. But you understand, as you almost choke on the water you managed to get into your mouth.

Xavier comes in, panting, as he had to push past the mass of nursing staff and hospital personnel outside the door, and leans on the foot of the bed staring at you, mouth agape. “Y/n...you're awake!” You give him a small smile and nod. Your voice is still weak and rough, but you manage a teasing “...and still kicking.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

It had been a month since your first day awake, and you had been released from the hospital to your apartment yesterday. You had to hobble around with a cane, as you still suffered from muscular atrophy, and some serious fractures. Bone mending had come a long way since the need for casts or months of recover, but you still had to be careful while you puttered around your apartment, already bored out of your mind.

You got to catch up on some shows yesterday, but that started to bore you, and some of the darker elements brought you flashing back to your time in that cell again. So you'd turn off the tv and stare at the black screen's reflection of you, still thin, weak, and pale. The scars would fade with time, but you also figured it might make you look tougher to other Hunters, so you were almost proud of them.

Your phone buzzed against your thigh, as you looked down. It was Rafayel texting you.

Rafayel: Are you home?

Y/n: Yeah...I'm under house arrest for the foreseeable future...

Rafayel: Good. I'm outside, I can see your light on. Can you meet me at the door?

Y/n: Just wait, I can come unlock it

Before you have a chance to grab your cane, there comes a gentle knock at the door. You grin a little as you slowly make your way to the door, where Rafayel stands behind a large bouquet of...yellow dandelions? How did he know they were your favorite? And don't most people regard them as an annoying weed? You let out a gasp at the display before you. He was wearing his best suit, and had something behind his back, as he beamed a beautiful smile at you.

He had been with you at the hospital the entire time, but he had been eating more, resting more, and spoke more and more like himself once again. So you had watched him come back from the brink of an abyssal spiral into depression he might not have survived, while he watched you come back from the brink of death.

He handed the bouquet to you before gently guiding you back into your apartment. “Come on...I have a treat for you, y/n. I promise you'll love it...” Before you can say anything, he shuts the door behind him and goes to set a large bag of takeout on your small dining table. You let out a weak laugh, as it still aches to strain your ribs too much. But you smile at him as he sets out all the containers on the surface, going to grab some plates and utensils, as you slowly make your way to the chair nearest you.

“Rafayel, you didn't have to do all this...aren't you tired? You barely slept yesterday...”

Rafayel shakes his head adamantly, like a spoiled child being told they had to do something they didn't want to do. “I had to, y/n. If it's for you, nothing is too much...” You blush at his statement, having been reminded recently of the last text you had sent Rafayel before you were sure you were going to be killed.

“O-oh...by the way...Rafayel...y-you can disregard that text from before...y-y'know...that one...”

He stops what he's doing and strides over to you in two long steps. His eyes are piercing through your soul and deep into your heart, exposing every facet of you in a far more embarrassing way than simply baring your naked skin to him. He takes your free hand in both of his and gives your aching knuckles the softest of kisses. “I will never forget that text...” He whispers a breath over your knuckles. You blush more and try to pull it away reflexively. “A-ah...i-it's okay...” He shakes his head and holds your hand against his chest now. “No, y/n. It's not okay...I didn't find you before everything happened to you...” He takes a hand away from yours to gently stroke along your jaw and then run his thumb across your cheek.

“I love you, too, y/n.”

✧𖤐✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧𖤐 ✩

a/n: this kept me up all last night writing an outline on my phone, so if I didn't finish this I would be upset with myself haha

If you have any requests, please feel free to send an ask, I would love to hear them!

[motherofqups]

Weights & Measures, Chapter 22

I Fashioned You From Jewels and Stone; I Made You in the Image of Myself

CW: Discussion of and allusions to: rape, assault, stalking, child abuse, spousal abuse, blackmail, drug use, underage sex, abuses of power, suicidal ideation and suicide attempts

[notasapleasure]

Also can I hear abt the Marthe/Kiaya band AU thing?

Well first, thank you for reminding me it was all in the file named 'bad very bad no good' and just comes after the already published horrible Jerott/GRM (cw rape, dddne!!!). Haha yes, Jerott's my favourite character, why do you ask? This is now uhhhh a 78 page document.

As for Marthe/Kiaya, there's nothing concrete written really, just allusions to it, and I think I was probably gonna follow canon in that way and not go into direct pov on them.

I've just pasted the couple of scenes with Kiaya below to go with my uhh minimal commentary/thoughts! They hopefully demonstrate my idea that she's quite happy to take any favours or gifts going, whether they're offered by Marthe or Lymond, but she keeps her cards close to her chest regarding what, if anything, she intends to offer in return. She sees an investment opportunity in the form of Lymond, as discussed with La Dame (named Thomasina Durand in the AU; also reminder that the Aga Morat is 'Baron Morgan'), but unfortunately Marthe is not viewed in the same way. We're too early for Tori Amoses and Fiona Apples - Marthe's too abrasive and too stubborn, too 'difficult' to market at the scale Kiaya deals in, too threatening to be a Kate Bush, too fierce to be a Toyah, too normal to be a Siouxie Sioux, etc. But Kiaya won't say no to a pretty woman offering to take her to bed *shrug emoji*

Marthe is mad that Francis is trying to muscle in on her tactics - she tries to persuade herself of the belief that anything he does to Kiaya she can do better, but she's been round long enough to know that men always get the contract deals first. It does mean that Kiaya can pick and choose just exactly what kind of nice time she gets to have. She is living her best life :)))

I don't know that Marthe falls *in love* with her, but she absolutely yearns for the power and influence Kiaya (appears) to have, and she imagines that the two of them would be unstoppable if Kiaya would just stop being some kind of gender traitor and back her and her music. She's grown up with her foster mother/grandmother telling her she'll never be enough, but never really understanding *why* (beyond 'misogyny') and never fully internalising the message, so she's always in a state of believeing/not believing it. Rationality about the sexist world she inhabits is constantly warring with ego - she's seen enough 'exceptions to the rule', women who are extraordinary enough to break through, but she's also seen the flip-side and knows no-one ever makes it on their own, they're always a product of a certain kind of marketing and industry support, and so there's a kind of love/hate relationship to the idea of Kiaya and what she can offer. She's always hopeful she can persuade her to take her side, and Kiaya will never be moved.

Kiaya has an open relationship with Dragut, though they'd never be such vulgar hippies as to describe it like that. They make their influence and power work for them wherever they are - fear, lust, money, whatever is most appropriate. She does have a genuine appreciation of music and what will go down well with the public, though she's probably personally rather condescending when it comes to what's popular - away from work Kiaya won't listen to anything younger than 200 years old, because that's the stuff that's truly impacted the world. Marthe playing an antique instrument to her in the privacy of her hotel room is an utter treat, a delight, a morsel of ambrosia - but it's not going to make her any money!

Eventually, I think Oonagh is a helpful person to give Marthe some perspective on band AU Kiaya. Oonagh has met women like this, power-brokers like this, people who take and take and take but simply never give anything of themselves back. Oonagh understands Kiaya with one glance at their first meeting, and when Marthe overhears her assessment of her something probably clicks and she's able to restore perspective on the 'relationship' that never was. She has a new strong force of a woman to learn from and admire :))

--

Intro to Kiaya in the bandverse (as it currently stands, but of course she meets Philippa in New York before then).

The following day, with Jerott pacified by the diazepam Onophrion had brought and administered - after assuring Francis that one calming dose would not render him addicted to a new drug - Francis managed to sleep through the hot afternoon. He almost felt refreshed, almost felt hungry enough for one of Morgan's enormous steaks, when he made his way to the bar that evening.

He found, however, that Morgan already had company, and stopped in the middle of the room when he recognised the woman sitting next to him.

Her back ramrod straight, her suit and make-up immaculate, talent scout and agent extraordinaire, Kiaya Çalışkan smiled at Francis and there was mischief in her eyes.

He'd never met her, but everyone in the industry knew her. Though she moved in different circles to Margaret Douglas, her reputation for unearthing talent was no less remarkable, and her track record for securing deals with the big labels was formidable. If Margaret was a king-maker in the British post-punk scene, Kiaya Çalışkan was handmaiden to the globe-straddling empires of artists whose work transcended local or national scenes and matched the invisible, unpredictable zeitgeist of the youth from Tokyo to New York to Berlin. She was even rumoured to have contacts working behind the Iron Curtain, subtly chipping away at the soundtrack of Communist repression on behalf of global capitalism's need to discover new markets.

In short - she was not the sort of person Francis expected to encounter in a barn lying well off the beaten track, in a state not known for its wild creative scene.

Morgan beckoned him over. "Frankie, come and join us!"

He moved stiffly, all the while trying to read what was in Kiaya's expression, as Morgan changed nothing about his own habits, pawing at Francis' leg beneath the table when he sat down.

"It seems I've done you a disservice, boy," Morgan beamed at him. "You are a real rock star..."

Francis didn't take his eyes from Kiaya, whose smile broadened, her white teeth echoing Morgan's.

"Mr Crawford," she said warmly. "It's so good to meet you."

"Did your car break down on the I-70 too, Kiaya Hanım?"

Kiaya turned her smile to Morgan - all condescending business politeness. Her dangling, jewel-speckled earring glittered against her thick mahogany hair when she spoke; the angle she displayed for Francis showed off the profile of her handsome, curved nose. "You tell him, Baron," she purred.

Morgan wore a smug expression. He swilled the bourbon round in his glass, and Francis wondered what time their business meeting in the bar had begun. He was drinking like this wasn't his first of the night.

"Miss Caliskan is a regular at my establishment, Frankie. She knows where to find talent. She's even signed up some of the bands she saw here - big fat contracts and advances to match." He raised his brows significantly.

Kiaya Çalışkan offered to get Francis a glass and share the bottle of wine before her, but he shook his head.

"Coke is fine, thank you."

"I keep tellin' him it'll rot his teeth..." Morgan cajoled.

"You know my partner Dragut, don't you?" Kiaya watched his response carefully. "I believe the two of you worked together in New York, earlier in the decade?"

Francis managed to keep his expression mild. He did indeed know Dragut, or he had known him - as to whether they could have been considered colleagues was another matter, however. As Francis recalled it, he had been considered a possession of the mob, while Dragut had been in their employment as a bouncer at the club Francis was compelled to play at.

He inclined his head. "Indeed? Yes I do know him. It appears we live in a small world, Kiaya Hanım."

Her eyes widened, glittering with ambition as she gave him a feral smile. "Growing smaller by the day, Mr Crawford. As our empire grows - Dragut runs his business out west now. He heads security for a casino in Vegas. It's a wonderful place for acts to get their big break. But he likes to know I'm staying somewhere safe when I travel across country alone."

Morgan beamed with pride. "She doesn't fly, because she might miss the next big thing out here at the Oasis..."

"And I thought it was because she was afraid of heights," Francis accepted the glass of soda he was handed and prepared to hear Morgan make his usual order on his behalf. But tonight, Morgan gestured, palm up, and invited Francis to choose.

Supposing this was some kind of acknowledgement of Francis as a 'real' musician, he picked a burger and then froze in surprise as the chair next to him was pulled out.

Marthe looked down at him with a cool smile. She'd applied the red lipstick of the Doña María costume and her black lace turtleneck and miniskirt had been cleaned of dust. Her hair fell in a blonde cascade over one shoulder and she extended a hand to Kiaya Çalışkan.

"We met in New York briefly, I believe you're a good friend of my foster-mother's."

Kiaya took Marthe's hand and raised her brows, a polite smirk on her lips. "Yes. Marthe, isn't it?"

Francis saw Marthe's neck flush pink as she sat down, hastily calling the barman back to place her own order.

"And I'll have...what wine is good here?" she looked at Kiaya Çalışkan.

"Oh! You're drinking wine? Just bring a second glass for her, please. She can share mine," Kiaya waved a hand to dismiss the man.

Baron Morgan chuckled and his fingers massaged Francis' knee beneath the table. "Well well. The little lady has decided to join us. I hope all this raw masculinity hasn't been puttin' you off, darlin'?" He was definitely tipsy, Francis decided.

Marthe gazed at him without expression. "Not at all. But if there are business deals being made, I shouldn't like Francis to have the only say."

Morgan laughed again. "Oh darlin'. You have no idea," he moved his hand higher up Francis' leg, his arm visibly stretching, and Francis jerked his thigh to shake him off. Morgan's laughter repeated itself, his gaze on Francis unperturbed as he took another drink.

Marthe's blue eyes absorbed it all, and she smirked at Francis. "No, indeed. It's far too subtle for me."

Kiaya Çalışkan had been generous with her information. Baron Morgan now assumed he knew all of Francis' troubles and desires, and quizzed him in ever more prurient detail about his life. Meanwhile, Marthe seemed to be doing her best to get a contract signed then and there, though Kiaya Çalışkan appeared unmoved by all her achievements and ambitions. Francis grew ever more frustrated as the other three drank and boasted and plotted and he realised he wasn't going to get to talk directly to Kiaya that night.

He believed that she did pass through Morgan's Oasis regularly, but the coincidence of meeting the mistress of his old acquaintance, Dragut, here still made him suspicious. Yet she acted like she really was just stopping in for a night, and was delighted to find a diversion as amusing as Marthe along the way.

After eating, when Francis was starting to feel tired and heavy, the other three were boisterous with drink. He didn't remember which one of them had suggested it first, but Marthe was looking at him fiercely.

"We should play."

"Yes! Play!" Morgan clapped his hands and then clapped Francis' shoulder.

Kiaya Çalışkan inclined her head and raised her glass. "It would be a pleasure, Lymond, if you chose to play for us."

So he blinked and drew a breath and summoned the energy to stand. He and Marthe helped themselves to instruments displayed on the wall near the stage, but brought their guitars back to perch on the table nearest to Baron and Kiaya.

Tuning up, Francis fought the heaviness in his eyelids, yawned, and listened to Marthe's murmured suggestions.

The first song, she insisted, should be one made famous by Francis Rankin Crawford.

"Really? They won't know that here," Francis grumbled, bending an ear to his instrument as he twisted the tuning pins.

"They will. They do. I used to play it with my band all the time. People loved it."

"In New York."

"It's not another planet. Kiaya will know it. Morgan, if he's half the judge of talent he claims, will know it."

Francis said nothing. He struck a chord and looked at her, and Marthe nodded and double-checked her own tuning.

Together, they played the song that Francis' grandfather had popularised - a French ballad reworked for the English-speaking masses. Together, their riffs wove in and out of each other, their voices were uncannily matched. To their audience they looked angelic: two fine-boned blonds leaning their heads away from one another, their legs crossed in opposite directions, their talent exquisite and their unison innate.

They played a few more songs: the Wayfaring Stranger, a folk ballad familiar to Marthe for its American roots, and a cover of Heaven by Talking Heads. A hint of competitiveness crept in and they ended with another folk song, The Old Man Came Courting: they embellished it with call and response, duelling guitar and voice, the tempo building to a breath-taking gallop.

It was more than enough to woo their audience.

"My, my..." Baron Morgan said as he applauded. "To think I came across real, genuine treasure at the roadside."

"They are golden, aren't they?" Kiaya agreed, her appraising smirk roving over both of them.

Marthe smiled back and Francis rubbed his forehead - he just wanted to go and sleep.

It wasn't permissible though, not yet. Morgan stood and drained his glass. "Great chat, as always, Kiaya," he slurred the name down to two syllables, so it sounded like Kee-ya, but she didn't seem to mind. "You really are a fount of wisdom."

Kiaya poured more wine out for her - and for Marthe. "I wouldn't want you to miss out due to a lack of information, Baron. Information is money," she gazed steadily at Francis, though it was Marthe who approached her.

"As is time," Morgan said profoundly. He took the neck of Francis' guitar and lay the instrument down on the table. "The staff will put it back," he said, looking heavily down at Francis' face.

It was a summons, much as Francis had suspected was coming. He levered himself off the table and lingered a moment, feeling Marthe's scornful stare as he and Kiaya locked gazes. "Are you staying long?"

Kiaya Çalışkan shrugged. "Perhaps I'll stay to see you perform. Perhaps not." She glanced at Marthe. "There isn't usually much to do out here, comfortable as it is."

Morgan chuckled and turned Francis by the arm, indicating he should walk ahead. "Enjoy the amenities, ladies," he put his hat on, touched a finger to the brim in a salute, and then prodded the small of Francis' back.

--

And the other Kiaya section that's written:

Outside the shower, he put the past - near and far - away, and bent to the rucksack Morgan had salvaged from their broken down car. In it, precious little of Francis' belongings remained - all that they could pawn they had got rid of, and he was left with one spare set of threadbare clothes and a fat, broken-spined paperback collection of contemporary poetry.

He pulled on the other clothes, the shirt of pale-checked cotton, ran his hands hastily through his wet hair, and left again in search of Kiaya Çalışkan.

If Morgan was going to cover the county with posters announcing their performance as 'Lymond and band' there would be no chance at all of arriving stealthily at Graham Reid Malett's ashram one state over - even if the Rajneeshees were sheltered from the outside world, Swami Geetesh would not allow himself to be ignorant of events so close by. It had set Francis' mind: they needed to get away sooner rather than later. He was relying on being able to strike a deal with Kiaya Çalışkan that would get them out of the Oasis and back on the road.

Standing outside his room, peering at the vehicles on the other side of the car park - Morgan's truck, a van used by the ranch staff, a collection of motorbikes glittering with chrome, and a two-seater red soft-top that had to be hers - he was debating where to start his search when a door to his left, over by the pool, opened and he heard Marthe's laughter.

She loitered on the lintel, her Doña María outfit rumpled, her lipstick long gone, and her boots in her hand. She leaned forwards and murmured something that didn't carry, and Kiaya Çalışkan's ringing, plummy laugh answered it.

Francis stepped back into the doorway of his and Jerott's room, but saw that Marthe was already aware of him. She stalked along the decking that fronted the row of rooms like it was a catwalk, her eyes fixed on him and a challenge in her smile.

"Don't tell me you didn't get breakfast in bed, Frankie?"

"No, some of us have actual business meetings to conduct..." Francis circled around her and saw Marthe's eyes spark with annoyance as she realised that he was heading in the direction she'd come from.

Her lip curled as she turned to face him. "And does your roomie know where you've been spending your nights?"

Cold, commanding, Francis took a step back towards her. "I believe he's had his own share of troubles to concern himself with," he said in a tone of warning.

There was that uncanny, funfair mirror feeling again: her eyes, that were so like his, narrowed with an echo of his own dislike; her long mouth curved without mirth, and she raised her chin haughtily. "He doesn't know the half of it, though, does he?

"He doesn't need to," Francis said firmly.

"Oh come on," Marthe said scornfully. "He's more repressed than a citizen of Cuba - it might do him some good to get the five star guest treatment…"

He felt himself turn chill as the blood drained from his face, and Marthe took in his white fury and moved away uneasily. Francis remembered, viscerally, the sensation of being pinned up against Morgan's kitchen counter - he'd braced himself against the marble slab as Morgan stood between his legs, his hips flush with Francis', while Francis tried to keep up with his sloppy, impatient kisses. He remembered each time that week when Morgan had forced himself beyond Francis' generous boundaries, had slapped aside what was offered and grasped for more instead. He remembered cleaning handprints off the piano in the studio at St Mary's and he remembered the blood on Jerott's face, the small, hunched, astonished look about him as he had struggled to come to terms with what Graham Reid Malett had done to him there.

His hands were balled fists, trembling with fury. "And while we're at it, shall we all request some electro-shock therapy to fix our own damaged minds?" he hissed.

Marthe blinked and grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"It's no different, is it?" he raised his brows. "You can't change someone by holding them down and telling them they're wrong."

Still a little ruffled, made standoffish by Francis' tone, Marthe looked him up and down. "Does Morgan play rougher than you like, then?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," Francis backed towards Kiaya's room. "I merely prefer not to share..."

She shook her head, her mouth curled in disgust as he turned to try his own hand at seducing Kiaya Çalışkan and her contracts.

"Fuck you, Francis," she spat and stalked away.

Francis stood outside the end room, straightened his back and stretched his shoulders and neck. He let out a sharp breath - and with it any extraneous, irrelevant feelings about what he was doing.

This was necessary, he told himself. It wouldn't always be necessary - he had to make himself believe that - but it was now, in order to allow him to protect the people he cared about, the people he'd put in danger. And he was wiser than he had been, he knew what he was dealing with. He knew now how to make sure that no one got all of him, the way it had been with Margaret Douglas. How to draw up the terms that would allow him to endure the signing away of autonomy, that would guarantee he wasn't going to let anyone down again, because he still retained just enough of himself - just enough - to arrange their freedom and safety.

Kiaya opened the door at his knock. She was wearing a fine robe of white cotton that, held loosely together by a knotted cord, revealed her black, lace-embellished slip beneath. She tossed her glossy hair back over her shoulder and smiled at her guest. "Good morning, Mr Crawford."

She was professional enough not to act coy or naïve: she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "I had some breakfast sent over from the kitchen and there is still coffee in the pot."

Her room was larger than the twin he shared with Jerott, and had a small counter with a kettle on it and shelves above for crockery. There was a tray with fruit salad and a half-empty plate of pastries on it, and Kiaya poured him a coffee and handed it to him enriched with cream and sugar.

"I would ask how you knew, but your acquaintance with Thomasina Durand explains it." Francis leaned his hip against the counter and smiled coolly over his mug.

Kiaya's brows raised in polite acknowledgement. It might have been said that she was impressed at his observation from the previous night regarding her contacts - but he didn't expect her to know everything about his history with Marthe's foster-mother, writer of the industry-leading column 'Doubting Tom'.

"Perhaps I simply saw a tired man who has not yet had breakfast, and made a good guess?" Kiaya suggested, raising her own drink, black as her hair, to her lips.

Francis met her playful gaze and his eyes narrowed. "It's said by many an average agent that this industry runs on hunches and gut feelings alone - but you and I know better. It's about who you know, and what they've decided the future will be."

"Intuition and observation still play a part," Kiaya replied robustly. "Why would I waste a meeting with Ms Durand discussing your rider, Mr Crawford?"

He laughed and allowed her the point, pausing to drink the sweet drink in his cup and experience the sensation of being revitalised. He accepted a seat in one of the two small armchairs that her room was provided with, and managed a grateful nod when she placed the fruit and pastries on the coffee table between them.

Unselfconscious about her scant outfit, Kiaya crossed one long, olive-brown leg over the other and combed her hair idly with manicured nails. She watched Francis and smiled. "Of course, during our meeting, Madame Durand and I did talk about you. She truly has high hopes for your career."

Francis put down the fork he had held poised above the fruit bowl. He laced his fingers in his lap. "Indeed? I thought I must have disappointed her by now? If not, it wasn't for lack of trying."

"Madame Durand has faith in you, Mr Crawford. Faith can't be shaken by a few petty squabbles in the press, nor, you should know, by any level of proximity to another's...tragic misadventure." She raised a brow and took an engraved silver cigarette case from the pocket of her robe.

Francis sat stock still, determined that she would not see him react to the implication in her words.

"Indeed, she was quite impressed at what you achieved on behalf of that Libyan boy. A shame that he seems to have had to resort to farm labour after the success of his album. It can be hard to find an audience for world music."

Still Francis didn't move. His mind was whirring into frantic action though, trying to determine what she might do with the information that Salah was on site, and whether she also knew about Archie and Onophrion; whether she had learned about them from Morgan, or whether she planned to tell Morgan.

Finally, he shook his head when she offered him one of the long, slim cigarettes as she lit one for herself.

"How did you know?" She had compelled him to ask it anyway, it seemed.

Genuine amusement cupped her eyes as she watched the ash fall from her cigarette into the ashtray. She considered how honest she was willing to be and then shrugged. "Dragut knows I'm safe when I stay here. He keeps his own contacts among Baron's staff to ensure it remains that way. All sorts need to visit an Oasis in the desert,  after all - predators can get...mixed up with prey."

Francis felt his lips pull into a smirk. "And which are you, Kiaya Hanım?"

She eyed him from below heavy lashes and her mischievous expression echoed his. "I am merely here on safari."

Francis barked a laugh and picked up the fork again, spearing a grape and a cube of melon. "And as such, you must not interfere with the ecosystem? Or is it a hunting safari?"

"If you are asking whether your friends are in danger of exposure on my part - the answer is no. Their plans do not interest me," Kiaya smoked with the vigour and speed of a steam train, yet each clipped, decisive gesture remained elegant.

She added nothing more, and once again it was Francis who was forced to ask, "Then what does interest you?"

"Ah," she grinned. She seemed pleased that he had asked, that he was willing to play along with these little games. "What interests me is how a man with a golden path laid before him spends more of his time in the gutter than pursuing this path. How, with each new album, though the sales increase and the fans multiply, he ends up poorer and further from the act of creation than he has ever been. How a man whose music could change this messy world instead shuns the platforms from which he could use it to do so and pursues dead ends in the desert."

As he gazed into her knowing expression he felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He moved his hands, gripping the arms of the chair to stop them quivering. "I have found that music is less effective as an instrument of change than I once hoped."

Kiaya's smile was unmoved. "That is because you are focussing on the little things. Take a broader view - imagine what your music sounds like to those who have never heard it before. Imagine hearing lyrics in your own language that arrange the world in a way you had never realised was possible."

He allowed his brows to rise at this and let out a snort. "The little things?"

"Your destiny is not with a bastard child born in the desert, Mr Crawford. It is not with the child's mother - she is a husk, she has no more to give to the public sphere, and her art could not stand alongside yours." Kiaya's lips still curved, but her eyes were cold and hard as brass.

Francis felt something hysterical flutter in his chest and he laughed at the ceiling. "No. Of course. Destiny is always impersonal. What are destiny's thoughts on theft, however? On music that might change the world, as you'd say, being repurposed to fund a cult?"

"I understand that cults can change the world, too," Kiaya replied. "Are you telling me you have unreleased material to recover?"

He smiled crookedly, knowingly at her, though the bile rose in his throat. "And if I did? What would it be worth to you?"

Kiaya carefully extinguished her cigarette and toyed with the lace trim of her slip. "If it is already out of your hands, there is nothing to prevent me from recovering it myself. Is that not so?" she raised a brow in challenge.

It felt like acid inside him, his hatred of this bargaining - it was even more loathsome, somehow, than simply bargaining with his body - and it seemed like the feeling might dissolve through the front of his chest and neck, exposing a gaping, red ruin: the need of the man behind the musician. "All I ask," he said as steadily as he could. "Is for a ride to Salina. From there, I can arrange finances, I can ensure my people are safe. I will go to Nevada and finish what I came to do, and then you will have what I can recover from the man who stole from me; you will have those master tapes and more. I will sign a deal with you, and - " the words stuck in his throat.

Kiaya watched him mildly, amusement in her expression. "And?"

"And the terms will be as you wish," he forced himself to say.

"Mm..." she looked down at the lace on her thigh, at her glossy nails plucking at it. "It is a nice offer, canım. But I can't let you leave here like that."

"Excuse me?"

"You've made a commitment to Baron Morgan. You want to make a deal with me, while you say this is how you will honour that commitment?"

Francis released a disbelieving breath of laughter. "I didn't think you would be subservient to him..."

Kiaya's smile was now a little patronising. "It is useful for me to stay here. Why would I jeapordise my relationship with him?"

"With my material to your name, you'd never need to stay here again," Francis cocked his own, challenging brow.

"Hm," Kiaya moved decisively to light up another cigarette. "That will be up to me, Mr Crawford. In the meantime, if I sign you, it will be after seeing you perform."

"You could be waiting a while," he said sourly. He felt doubt begin to nag at his assumptions regarding this conversation and what Kiaya Çalışkan truly wanted.

She shrugged. "Then perhaps in the meantime I will make a visit to Nevada. I know who it is you have business with there."

Francis' fingers curled tightly against the arms of the chair. "Graham Reid Malett is a dangerous man."

"My partner is a dangerous man, as you should well remember."

"Dragut is honourable - as you tell me you are. Honour won't stop Reid Malett."

Her eyes sparked with - excitement? Francis suppressed a shudder.

"I think, Mr Crawford, I am beginning to understand something of what Madame Durand sees in you. You are ruthless, and ambitious. I cannot wait to see you play."

"You don't need to. I'll play for you now." Francis twitched a shoulder, acting like the change of topic suited him, even as he reeled from the imagined damage Kiaya Çalışkan and Dragut Reis could do to his plans. Should they thunder into Graham Reid Malett's Nevada ashram without a care, the victims and hostages Geetesh had tucked and woven into the fabric of the place would be in direct, mortal peril - of that Francis was certain.

He made to stand - "I'll get the instrument I played last night from the bar. A private concert, Kiaya Hanım..."

"Sit," she cooed. "Eat your breakfast. There is no hurry, Mr Crawford."

He was already on his feet and she rose to join him, standing close so that he smelled her perfume beneath the cigarette smoke.

She shifted the balance of her weight so that her hips tilted towards him. "Sit," she repeated, her fingers pressing to his chest.

He stood there, looking into the canopy of her eyes and trying to see beyond the cool imperviousness. He allowed one hand to rise to her arm, smoothing over the thin, rumpled cotton of her gown from her elbow to her shoulder. She didn't move as he lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth.

"Of course," he looked at her again. "I could perform any other way you choose..." She was watching him with a closed, amused expression, her fingertips still on his chest. So he leaned forwards and murmured, "Sit? Or would you prefer me to kneel?"

The way her brows raised and her lips curved seemed to give him his answer, so Francis sank to the carpeted floor as gracefully as his tired body allowed. He touched his hands gently to her hips and then moved his fingers to the bare skin of her legs, softly running his touch up the outside of her thighs beneath the robe, working his way up to the lace hem of her shift.

Kiaya smiled down at him. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and then reached for him, raking her fingers through his curls, tilting his face up to her.

He tried not to flinch as he recalled Morgan's grip tugging on his scalp.

"How nice, canım," she purred. "But I've had my fill of such gifts this morning. You may return in the evening, and we can continue our...negotiations."

He let out a harsh laugh as she drew his head back, and leaned his jaw into her palm. Privately, he cursed Marthe and her own selfish agenda, her untrustworthy, libertarian approach to her career. "That won't be possible, my lady, not if I am also to keep my word to our good host."

"Not at all," Kiaya beamed, running one thumb over his lower lip. "Baron has some business to take care of - I believe he intends to source some of your records. He won't be back from Salt Lake City for a couple of days."

Francis did all he could not to let the hope these words sparked show. If Morgan was away it was the best chance he'd have of getting out of here - he could be in Salina that very day, get a car with Gaultier's money, and be back to pick up the others before Onophrion's kitchen shift was even halfway done. No more bargaining: he'd be able to leave Jerott and Marthe, Salah, Archie and Onophrion somewhere suitable and safe and make his own way to the ashram for the reckoning he was due.

"In that case," Francis said smoothly, "I shall be only too delighted to return later."

"I am pleased to hear it," Kiaya Çalışkan smiled and turned away. "I haven't enjoyed business quite this much in some time," she added over her shoulder when Francis had got to his feet.

He blinked back dizziness - he was still hungry, still tired - but caught her wrist before leaving, pulling her close again.

She was warm and soft against him, scented with jasmine and sandalwood, leaning her hips readily into him as she pulled back to smile at his expression.

"A down payment," Francis's lips curved in something like a smile, and he moved to kiss her, recalling the taste of Margaret Douglas' lipstick and her moans of pleasure at knowing the power she had over him.

Kiaya Çalışkan smiled before she opened her mouth and then returned the kiss, filling his senses with the buzz of caffeine and nicotine.

"How nice," she repeated in a murmur as he released her and turned to leave. "You'll go far, Mr Crawford. Just as Madame Durand predicted."

[whump-tr0pes]

The VVitch (CW for religious themes, child death), Misery, The Descent (CW for claustrophobia, not really gory but a fair amount of ick), The Others (CW for home invasion), Sweeney Todd (CW for cannibalism, allusions to CSA/Rape, not sure if this counts as “gore” but there sure is a lot of blood), Alien (CW for body horror throughout) - those are a few of my top reccomendations that aren’t on your list! some of them are more emotionally intense than others (re: themes) so proceed at your own preference! ❤️❤️❤️😈😈😈 - newbornwhumperfly

I'm so excited!! Thank you for these!

I just wanted to mention here that if someone suggests a movie that doesn't show up on the list, it's because I've already seen it! ❤️

[come-see-our-show]

Into the Woods is clearly a story about growing up, but I want to acknowledge the underlying sexual themes in the story, specifically growing into one’s own sexuality, because there are so many allusions to that and I can't be the only one seeing it.

Fair warning, this analysis is going to be a mess.

CW: Discussions of rape and pedophilia.

(Also, when I refer to "sexuality" and "sexual indentity," I'm not taking about one's sexual orientation, but rather one's interest in sex and relationship to it.)

1. The Witch

I’ve always seen the Witch’s backstory as a metaphor for rape. When she says the Mysterious Man was “Raping [her],” she means that he was stealing from her. However, even since biblical times, gardens have represented temptation, maturation, femininity, and sex. The witch was told from a young age to protect her garden, and when the beans are taken, she feels an intense loss. She is cursed with ugliness because she has been “deflowered.”

This was clearly a traumatic event for her, much like how sexual assault is traumatic for victims. It reminds me of the scene in Maleficent where her wings are taken from her while she’s asleep. There’s something so graphic about it. From a young age, girls are taught to protect our virginities, and if we are too proud of it then it will get taken away from us. We are shamed for being comfortable in our sexual identity, but at the same time we are forced to make it a huge part of our identities. The Witch does not know who she is without her power, and the thing she loved most was taken from her.

2. Baker’s Wife

BW is also shamed by the narrative for having a sexual identity. We can infer that she’s had sex with the Baker because she knows they can’t have children, but the only time she is explicitly shown as a sexual being is when she cheats on him with Cinderella’s prince, which results in her demise. Again, female sexuality is seen as destructive.

3. Cinderella

Cinderella’s character doesn’t have any explicitly sexual themes like the Witch or BW, but I feel like that’s intentional. BW admits to Cinderella that she’s attracted to the Prince. It’s all described in a very tame way, but given the fact that BW has sex with him in Act 2, we know in hindsight that there is some sexual desire there.

Cinderella doesn’t show any desire for the Prince. She talks about how amazing the ball was, but doesn’t talk about the Prince unless BW coaxes it out of her. It’s weird to BW that Cinderella isn’t really excited about him, because shouldn’t all women feel that way?

I don’t think Cinderella is attracted to men at all (I see her as a lesbian or aroace). Her arc ends with her dumping the Prince, thus claiming her independence and rejecting the traditional expectations of female sexuality.

4. Rapunzel

The Witch projects her own trauma onto her “daughter” (bc uhhhh generational trauma 🤪). While she is undoubtedly abusive, you can see why she wants to protect Rapunzel from the world so badly.

Rapunzel’s first introduction to the world is by a man who enters her home and has sex with her after knowing her for maybe a day or two. We don’t know if she was the one who asserted the sex, but given the fact that she lived in a tower all her life and doesn’t know anything about the world, I doubt it.

Despite how dubious the consent is, Rapunzel probably enjoyed it since she was so happy to reunite with her prince after. Sex should be a beautiful and exciting thing, but she pays the price by becoming pregnant, another thing that I highly doubt she was educated on. Imagine how terrifying that must have been, to wonder why your body is changing so durastically, then giving birth to TWINS. Nightmare fuel.

Rapunzel’s storyline reminds me of Wendla’s in Spring Awakening. A sheltered girl is entering womanhood, but because she isn’t taught how to handle these aspects of life, she is sort of taken advantage of by a more experienced partner, and her first time having sex isn’t 100% consensual (even if she enjoyed it), she becomes pregnant, then dies. Rapunzel and Wendla never get full control of their bodies.

So, yeah, teach your children about sex because “children will listen.”

5. Little Red Riding Hood

Most actors portray the Wolf as a lustful character with lots of sexual undertones. The story of Little Red Riding Hood does sound a lot like a story about a little girl getting taken advantage of by a predator. That IS the story, even if it’s about a wolf eating her instead of a pervert molesting her. The lyric “Look at that flesh, pink and plump,” has undeniably sexual undertones. He’s attracted to her youth and purity (cough cough her virginity). He reacts to her the way a pedophile would react to a child. And yes, it’s disgusting.

Many victims of pedophilia don’t see the perpetrator as a threat initially. They’re kind, funny, maybe even give you treats. That was how Red initially saw the Wolf.

Red’s solo, I Know Things Now, is about not trusting strangers. All children are told to not trust strangers. In fairytales, it’s so you don’t get eaten by a seemingly-kind wolf. In real life, it’s so you don’t get kidnapped by a seemingly-kind adult. She acknowledges that “even flowers have their dangers,” again drawing the parallels of nature and sexuality.

Young girls are seen as women once they are objectified by men (hello barbie movie). So, we learn to be wary of men by protecting ourselves with keys or pepper spray. Red begins her introduction into adulthood once she is objectified by a wolf. She learns to be wary by protecting herself with a knife. However, Red reclaims her power by wearing the Wolf as a coat. She's hardened by this experience, which is tragic because she's still a child, but she holds her head up high by wearing her abuser's dead body. She views herself as a survivor. That's a power move.

6. Jack

Jack’s solo also has some sexual undertones, though less obvious than Red’s. The Giant’s Wife “draws [him] close to her giant breasts” and he "come[s] back again, only different than before."

In real life, boys are congratulated for having sex, but girls are shamed. Jack and Red, the two tweens in the show, have the same reactions to their pseudo-sexual experiences. Jack becomes greedy and impulsive, but Red becomes wary and guarded.

While I don't see Jack as a victim of the giant in the same way that Red was a victim of the wolf, his experience also parallels how male victims are treated (if you want to interpret his experience as statutory rape). They are congratulated for being assaulted because boys are expected to always enjoy sex (even though assault/rape are not sex!). Jack's Mother is the only person who acknowledges that he could have been hurt, and that he is "still a little boy." But of course, she gets killed trying to protect her son from that danger.

7. The Princes

I’m lumping the two princes together because they’re very similar. Much like men in real life, they rarely face the consequences of their actions!!! They treat women like prizes (evidence: all of Agony), but soon after, they cheat on the prizes they used to want so desperately. They aren’t satisfied because the patriarchy teaches men to view women as sexual conquests.

Also, it’s notable to me that after CP and BW have their affair, BW has to pay a much bigger price. While CP is dumped by his wife (and tbh he’ll just move onto the next girl), BW is literally KILLED. The Giant is not literally killing her for having sex, but it’s rather coincidental that these two events coincide.

BW and CP’s aftermath is similar to the real life aftermath of sex. If you’re a man, you’re gonna be fine. If you’re a woman, you need to pay a price because you’re a whore. I’m not saying BW should have cheated on her husband, because that’s wrong. But it takes two to tango, so it’s interesting that CP gets out scott-free. On the plus side, CP is still seen as an asshole and BW remembered as a loving person despite her flaws. A slight win despite all of the tragedy.

Anywho, that my spiel. I may edit it in the future, but I was just in a production of Into the Woods and HAD to get my feelings out at once. Toodles.

[thevegandarkelf]

Finding Myself, Finding You: Chapter Thirteen

Masterlist

AO3 link

Let me know if you want to be added to the taglist <3 (18+ only, MDNI)

Story is 18+ for mature content/themes, minors do not interact please

TW/CWs for this story--implied/referenced past rape, canonical violence, non-canonical violence, blood, gore, referenced past suicide, swearing, surgery, excessive drinking, nightmares, panic attacks, mention of scars, vomiting, amputation, medical procedures, non-con medical procedures, referenced past medical torture, referenced past drugging, attempted sexual assault, panic attacks, mental health struggles, referenced sibling death, referenced parent death

Each chapter will have its own TW/CWs listed

This story, Lydia Vector, her family & bestie (c) me, TheVeganDarkElf

TWD & its characters (c) AMC & Robert Kirkman, the writer of the comic series

Sleeping Beauty (c) Disney, Wednesday Addams (c) Charles Addams

TW/CWs for this chapter--swearing (there's swearing in every chapter ok), allusion to child abuse (Daryl's history), gagging, mentions of trying not to vomit, a gross story about food coming out someone's nose, mention of scars, mention of blood, mention of needles

Word count: 2.7k

"Ooh, I got one. Do you have an embarrassing story to share? If you share one, I’ll tell you one of mine. Make it fair,” I said.

We’d been driving for a little bit, just shooting the shit on our way to find Aaron a foot. It was nice to sit back and talk with Daryl while we cruised down the empty road. Made things seem a little bit normal, like this was just a cross-country road trip with a friend and not going to find a prosthetic for someone whose foot I had to cut off with an axe after a walker bite. He was easy to talk to, a bit awkward with some of the things he said, but it was an enjoyable experience regardless. The little bits of awkwardness were cute and made me think that maybe he was getting a little nervous, which I thought was adorable. It was going well so far, and I felt like I was actually starting to get to know Daryl, even if it was just a tiny bit.

“Nah, don’t got one,” he said. I crossed my arms over my chest and turned my body slightly in his direction, sighing a little.

“Come on, please? I’m sure you do,” I asked, making a pouty face to tease him, “we all do. If it helps, I have some that are pretty bad.” He looked over at my pathetic attempt of a pouty face, and his features relaxed a little, like he couldn’t say no and was accepting defeat.

“Fine,” Daryl said, “when I was a kid, got lost in the woods and accidentally used poison oak after...yeah. Ass itched somethin’ awful.” I stifled my laugh a bit, though it was mostly the phrase “ass itched somethin’ awful” that made me giggle.

“Oof, that’s brutal. How long were you lost for?” I asked, expecting him to say hours at most, or that he was out camping or something when it happened.

“Nine days. Dad didn’t even know I was gone.”

I could feel my heart breaking for little Daryl. To be lost for that long, especially as a child…how alone and scared he must’ve felt…how he wouldn’t have known what to do to survive and be trying to figure it out as he went, all while trying to get home...and to not even have anyone out looking for you…I knew he would never say it, but it had to be traumatizing. I felt terrible for insisting he share. I’d never felt like such a piece of shit before.

“Why ya look so sad?” Daryl said, looking over at me and seeing the somber expression on my face. There was a tear trying to escape my right eye, but I quickly blinked it back.

I softened the tone of my voice. “You were a child, Daryl. That’s awful. No kid should have to endure that. I’m so sorry.” I wanted to throw myself over the center console and wrap him in my arms and give him a giant hug, but I restrained myself. “I feel like such a piece of shit for pushing you to share, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”

“’S’alright. Ya didn’t know,” he replied. Something in him looked different, but I couldn’t explain what it was. He seemed more relaxed overall. Maybe no one had shown him that kind of empathy before. Maybe he’d wanted to get that off his chest & he felt relieved. Maybe he was nervous about how I’d react. There was no way for me to tell. That handsome, stoic face of his made it so hard to tell how he was feeling. However, that stoic expression was quickly replaced with a devious little smirk. “Ya can make it up to me by tellin’ a couple stories of your own.”

I raised my eyebrows at him in surprise. “Like more than one? You drive a hard bargain. I gotta think about this.”

“How many ya got?”

“There’s three that come to mind, but you’re only getting two.”

“Why not all of ‘em? Feels fair,” he teased.

"No, if I tell you the worst story, I'll have to throw myself out of this car,” I explained, “it’s bad.”

“If ya tell the worst one, ya only gotta tell one.” I huffed and twirled a chunk of my ponytail around my finger.

“Fine. But I’m warning you, it’s gross.” I took a deep breath and tried not to immediately start gagging at the thought of the story I was about to tell. “So when I was probably 21 or 22, I went on a first date with this guy I met in one of my classes. We met up at this random off-campus restaurant, and I made the terrible mistake of getting spaghetti. Well at one point, he’s telling a story, and I have food in my mouth.” I stopped and covered my mouth as I gagged. “So he’s telling his story, and I sneeze…and I wish I was making this up, but one of the pieces of spaghetti came up through and out my nose…I was trying not to throw up the whole time I was pulling it out. He immediately got up and left. Like didn’t say a single word, just left. I haven’t been able to look at spaghetti since. Even the sight of a box of spaghetti makes me wanna vomit.”

He didn’t say anything at first, but I could tell he was fighting back laughter. All that came out was a small, adorable chuckle. “That’s so much worse than I thought it’d be.”

“Worse? Alright, time to throw myself out of the car,” I said, pretending like I was going to unbuckle my seatbelt. “I never share that story. If we weren’t friends before, we definitely are now. And I think it goes without saying that you’re sworn to secrecy with that story. Are we even now?”

“Yeah. We’re even now,” he replied.

We continued chatting for the short remainder of the ride to this medical center, but I couldn’t stop thinking about how terrible I felt for what felt like forcing Daryl to share such a sad story. I was worried it would have an impact on our interactions when we got back to Alexandria, worried that maybe he hated me now or would never speak to me again once we got back inside the walls. But I felt worse about bringing up what was likely painful memories for him. He seemed alright, and he said we were even, but I wondered if there was another way I could make it up to him.

We turned down one more road, and there was a decently-sized brick building just down the street from the corner. As Daryl pulled into the lot, I read the promising large letters across the top of the building—orthopedic surgery. It wasn’t orthotics and prosthetics, but it was about as close as we were gonna get.

“Ortho surg,” I said as Daryl put the car in park, “nice.”

“That good?” he asked. I grabbed my backpack and put it in my lap, shoving my water bottle back inside.

“It’s potentially promising. If push comes to shove, maybe there’ll be a walker we can steal one off of.” He unbuckled and started to get out of the car, but I reached my hand out and lightly grazed his forearm with the tips of my fingers. “Daryl…are you ok?”

“Yeah,” he said as he turned back to me, clearly confused, “why?”

“Just…the story you shared earlier. I know better than to push people like that, and that was very not cool of me. I’m really sorry if it brought up painful memories for you.”

“Like I said, ya don’t gotta apologize. Ya didn’t know. But thanks,” he said, “apology accepted. Plus, I had ya cryin’ in the store earlier talkin’ ‘bout Eli. We’re good.”

“Oh my god, are we bonding?” I gushed playfully.

“Shut up,” he joked, turning and getting out of the car. I took some things out of my backpack and tossed them into the backseat to make room for anything we might find inside. I brought my spear out and unsheathed it as I got out of the car and followed Daryl inside.

Clearing the office out was easy enough. There were several more walkers than there had been at the other places we’d been to, but it was manageable between the two of us. I walked around to what looked like the front desk area to try to find a directory or anything that could indicate if they had prosthetics, and if so, where they might be stored.

“If you see anything that says orthotics or prosthetics, lemme know,” I said, setting my spear down on the front desk. I started flipping through a binder of random papers while Daryl started checking some of the rooms. There were a few that had keypads on them, which likely meant that there was supplies in there with a code for staff to use. Even if we had the codes, there was no power, so we’d have to manually find a way to break the doors down.

“Find a paperclip or somethin’,” Daryl called out to me from down the hall, “we can try to pick the locks.” The binder I was looking through didn’t seem to be useful, so I started searching drawers for office supplies. I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows. It was starting to get warm, and I was regretting wearing a jacket without a shirt underneath. One of the drawers had a small box of paper clips in it. Score.

“Got it!” I yelled. I grabbed my spear and jumped back over the desk, scuttling down the hall to meet Daryl. I took a larger clip out of the box and handed it to him. Our fingers briefly touched again, and there was that same electric feeling from this morning when our fingers touched as he handed me my coffee. The same electric feeling from when my fingers grazed his forearm in the car before we came inside.

He slung his crossbow across his back and straightened out the paperclip. Getting down on one knee, he started trying to pick the lock, and I went back to try to find something that would tell us what was in these closets. I could hear him fiddling around with the lock, and eventually, a click echoed through the silence of the office.

“Got it,” he said, and I could hear him cautiously pushing the door open.

“Lockpicking just increased to 30,” I whispered to myself as I went down the hall to meet him.

This particular storage closet had mostly been cleared out. It looked like it was used to store gowns, paper for the beds, gloves, masks, braces, and probably some first aid stuff. There was a box of gloves and some braces, so I went over and put those into my backpack.

“Damn it,” I huffed, “alright, let’s try another one. I’ll keep trying to find a map of this place or something.”

I rummaged around the front desk more before finding a paper map that had been thrown in a trash can. I pulled it out and held it up so it matched the direction I was facing. It looked like a poorly scanned paper copy of another poorly scanned paper copy, so the text that was legible enough was tiny and barely legible. I could make out “pros” on one of the square spaces.

“Daryl, I think I found it.” I was already walking back towards him when I yelled out, looking down at the map at the tiny print as I walked, and I bumped right into him. He was standing in front of another closet door, which he had already picked open.

“So did I,” he said, stepping into the room.

Looking around, there were shelves of different types of prosthetics, including feet, hands, partial arms, full arms, etc. I figured they were likely used for fittings so a prescription could be submitted for the right size and type, but there were options, which is what we needed.

"Geez. Someone with a foot fetish would have a hay day in here,” I joked, “try to find different sizes. One of them is bound to fit. Oh, Aaron’s gonna be so excited when I show him.” My face was lit up. I felt like I was getting to do something similar to my type of specialty again. I got down on the ground and grabbed a couple of prosthetic feet, placing them into my bag. There was just enough room for both of them. I grabbed a third and held it in my hands, flipping it around and daydreaming about my days in the ER.

“Ya okay?” Daryl asked me, squatting down next to me. He had grabbed a few prosthetics and put them in his bag as well, carrying a couple more under his arm.

“I just miss my job is all,” I said, continuing to flip the fake foot around in my hand as I talked, “I sat with people on what was usually the scariest day of their entire life. Sat with them while they died. Yeah, it was intense. But I think it’s what I was meant to do. It was fulfilling. It gave me purpose.” A single tear escaped my eye, and I quickly wiped it away with the back of my hand. “Sorry, I don’t mean to get all cheesy and shit.”

“Your patients were lucky to have ya,” he said. I could see in my peripheral vision that he was staring at my scars as I fiddled around with the prosthetic. I pulled my sleeves back down to cover the thick bands of scar tissue.

“That means a lot. Thank you.” I wiped another tear away with the back of my hand, laughing a little. “God, you’re gonna make me cry again.”

“C’mon. Might as well clear the place out. Still got upstairs to do,” Daryl said, lifting himself back to his feet.

We made several trips in and out, carrying out all of the prosthetics we could. It would be good to have these in the infirmary in case I had to perform another amputation. After that, we went upstairs. The second floor contained a blood draw station and an X-ray lab.

“Blood draw might have some stuff,” I said, going behind their front desk, “don’t reach into any sharps containers though.”

There were some more boxes of gloves and masks, rubber bands for putting on people’s arms to take samples, needles, and alcohol pads. I found an empty sharps container to put the needles in and carried out what I could in my arms.

“Good luck charm strikes again,” Daryl joked. He grabbed some of the boxes of gloves and followed me back downstairs.

After we loaded the car and got back in, I laid back in my seat and stared up at the ceiling, feeling exhausted from all the hard work we’d put in. I was sweating buckets, and I felt disgusting.

“We crushed it,” I said, holding my hand up for a high-five, which Daryl returned, “teamwork makes the dream work.” I turned my head towards him. “Thanks for bringing me here so I could get a prosthetic for Aaron. He won’t need it for a while, but I’m gonna have to stop myself from telling him in the meantime. I wanna make it a surprise.”

“Welcome,” he said as he backed us out of the lot and onto the road back to Alexandria, “what else ya gotta do today?”

“Uh, well I’m starving, so I guess start with that. Rosita said she wanted to see me, and I need to reorganize the infirmary now that we have all of this to sort through. What about you?”

“Don’t got watch ’til later. Do what you gotta do, I can make us food.” I smiled and turned my head back up towards the ceiling.

“Thanks Daryl.”

He was such a sweetie. And I was falling very hard, very fast, with no idea where I was going to land.

Taglist: @raddydaddydude

[mmmmalo]

Rape cw

The main thing that happens nowadays rereading bits of Homestuck is that scene transitions seem to make more sense -- the expectation of continuity between cuts seems to be rewarded. Dave's sword-boner (3090) leads to KILL M8 (3120), both sexualizing the matter of being killed in your sleep. Tavros being compelled to act by the inert body he attempted to kiss (though he can't follow through) is the same trick as Damara's absurd sexual demands, the idea that a silent vessel must be asking for it, asking to be filled. The dead Dave compels Jade to revisit an idea that Tavros had proposed implementing without her consent, and Jadesprites weeps at the pain of a light she cannot shield her eyes from. The whole section's teeming with intimations of rape -- discussion of this aspect of the story has focused on Jade before, but now I find myself wondering whether Terezi's discussion of constructing reality with your mind functions as a veiled allusion to memory, with the split Daves being granted an opportunity to act out their own past....? Dreambubble mechanics. The plan of dealing with Jack by sealing him away comes to resemble repression, the banishment of traumatic memory from conscious thought... a seal that Jade accidently undoes by fusing herself with her 4th wall, the guardian against pain within her own mind that has pushed Jade away from Grandpa throughout the story.

But in the wake of Slurquest I'm unsure how to regard these intimations -- concern for the kids' possible rape traumas, surfacing throught the medium of murder, runs into the question of whether this or that demographic is being misrepresented as categorical rapists. There isn't conflict between these views except in what it does to my urge to sympathize -- the ironic perjoration underpinning the story tempers my ability feel sad for whatever the (fictional) kids go through, tears me toward my suspicion of the narrative's intent. "Man it sure would be homophobic if Dave had parental rape trauma" is the sort of stupid thought you end up having, or the even more absurd "I wonder if these memory intimations amount to diegetic false accusations" -- though I favor the former. "Directionless allusions to rape have been put into the story to make the reader paranoid" is another possibility that occasionally lingers, since the simulation of reactionary conspiratorial thought seems to be one of the objectives here, but the story usually strikes me as too focused for that sort of indulgence -- the invocation of sexual assault never seems unrelated to its context

Nevermind the question of "mixing memory and desire", how Dave's apparent desire to kill/fuck himself (which is exhibited elsewhere) would seemingly become dependant upon identification with his childhood assailant? Apologies if I appear overcomitted to a repulsive conclusion, exploring what something would imply if true is sort of second nature at this point

Anyway, I think Tavros started writing in brown during the KILL M8 scene because he vomited. Reproductive blood-puke on the absurd side, overwhelming disgust at the amount of blood you are being subjected to on the sympathetic side (these are the same side)

[hopefulatrocity]

From The Ashes- Chapter 9

Note: Thank you to my wonderful beta, @garlic-the-gnome, who also made this beautiful edit. I hope you all enjoy this chapter. It's Pheonyx and Daryl's first time really conversing one on one. Next chapter is a big one, twice the size of my past chapters. Also, can anyone recognize a future TWD character that Pheonyx knows? Honestly one of the first scenes I thought of for this story(way down the line canon wise) involves them.

Chapter CW/TW: past depression/anxiety, allusions to past rape/non-con, past child abuse, transphobia mentions(Shane), anxiety

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Pheonyx's POV

For some people, home is a house. Four walls, a roof, a nice bed. If you ask them to describe their home, they’d probably tell you about the color of paint on the siding, or the flowers planted out front, or maybe the style of the dwelling. Maggie and Beth would give a picturesque description of the farmhouse that they had grown up in. The white exterior, the black window panels, the large wrap around porch, the height marks on the kitchen doorway that go back 4 generations, even the rolling fields bordering the historic home. It was the house where they learned to walk, learned to ride horses, where they had their first loves and subsequent first heartbreaks. It was where they had a loving mother and father who supported them throughout every hardship and shaped them into the kind, strong women they were. While the farmhouse was heaven compared to the house he spent the first 8 years of his life in, Pheonyx could never truly call it home. It was a safe place, yes. He didn’t have to worry about being beaten, burned, or degraded like before, but that didn’t mean he felt like he belonged. 

No, the farmhouse was simply a shelter. A place to rest his head during the night before he would escape to his real home. An acre away from the house, the rich, dense forest was where Pheonyx felt solace. When Pheonyx told Rick that he spent everyday in those woods, he hadn’t been exaggerating. Apart from the years he was in Michigan and a couple cases of the flu during his grade school years, he had spent everyday in the woods on the property. It was an escape from the stresses of bullies, school, and church. An escape from his anxiety, his depression, and his own personal demons that formed from having a monster as a father. In the woods, he was safe. In the woods, he didn’t have to pretend to be anyone but himself. 

Walking side by side with Daryl Dixon though, Pheonyx had to admit that he was a bit nervous. The safety of the woods had calmed his nerves from the sudden presence of Rick’s group and of Shane’s transphobic comments. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t anxious about working with a man who made his insides turn to mush. 

No words had been spoken in the first thirty minutes of their hike. Even when they went to enter the woods, Pheonyx had only held out a hand in front of Daryl, to stop him before he walked straight into the brush-covered barbed wire that lined the edges of the woods. The man had grunted at him(possibly a thank you?) before stepping over the metal wire. Pheonyx had nodded in return and picked up Kismet, all seventy lbs of wiggling hound, before stepping over himself. The dog practically leapt out of his arms to follow after the archer. Apparently, Kismet was also  enamored by Daryl. 

So they walked in silence, Daryl just a step in the lead with his crossbow held ready in his hands. Pheonyx couldn’t help but watch him. At the farm, Daryl’s muscles were tense, even when he was in the presence of his group, people he had probably been with since the beginning of the outbreak.  His eyes were constantly flitting back and forth, looking for threats of any kind. He looked like a scared deer about to bolt back into the forest. 

But there, in the woods, Daryl was calm, relaxed. His posture displayed a self-confidence that wasn’t apparent at the farm. The steady movements he made were almost majestic. Although he was walking at a normal pace, his steps were careful and silent, evidence of years of hunting and tracking. The woods around the farm had always been dangerous, but even more so now that the dead were walking around. Pheonyx felt at ease knowing he was walking with someone who knew what they were doing

Despite that ease, he was still feeling the inner butterflies that he was wholly unfamiliar with. This attraction wasn’t something Pheonyx was accustomed to. He’d felt romantic attraction to people before and sexual attraction, but not often since his 22nd birthday. He honestly felt like he had lost a part of himself that night all those years ago. That, maybe, those demons had broken him beyond repair. Had stolen not only his innocence but his ability to trust anyone enough to feel any sort of attraction to them. As part of his healing process, he tried having sex with various people. Shawna, River, and Kasey were women he’d made friends with while working at the tattoo parlor. With them, it was more of a hookup situation. He wasn’t really friends with them, but he trusted them enough to attempt a physical relationship with them. Pheonyx was up front with them about his issues, the idea of maybe leading someone on didn’t sit right with him, and they all had been okay with keeping things as a casual encounter. All three were survivors like him and were familiar with how difficult physical intimacy could be after traumatic events. The only other person Pheonyx had had sex with was Aaron. But he didn’t count that as a hookup by any means. While he wasn’t romantically or sexually attracted to him, Aaron was his friend. More than a friend really. The man had saved his life. He’d been barely clinging to life in that alley and the only reason he survived was because Aaron found him. He’d put pressure on his wound and covered him to protect his dignity while they waited for an ambulance. Unlike most strangers would have, Aaron didn’t leave him when he was taken to the hospital. No, he stuck around. Even after Hershel and his mother had arrived, he stuck at his bedside. He held Pheonyx’s hand for days when he was unconscious, and when nurses were taking evidence from his broken body. Even when he was nearly catatonic, Aaron would come in and read to him or even just talk about nothing. The fact that he had stuck with him, had created a bond that a simple word like “friendship” couldn’t even begin to cover. Aaron had even transferred his job to Michigan for a while after Pheonyx moved so that they could still be around each other. A couple years later, after getting drunk and celebrating Aaron’s upcoming trip with his NGO to Niger, inhibitions lowered by alcohol, they had ended up in bed together. It was clumsy and awkward, but it showed Pheonyx that sex–with a cis man in particular– didn’t have to hurt. It wasn’t something to fear anymore.  Afterwards, they both had agreed that they were better as friends. Even Aaron, a man he trusted implicitly and who wasn’t unattractive by any means, didn’t make him feel the way Daryl did. Having barely spent an hour in the man’s presence, Pheonyx was almost willing to throw caution to the wind and try to get closer to the man walking beside him. 

He had barely spoken to Daryl and yet he felt no fear or apprehension in regards to the man hurting him. The only thing he felt was the weight in his chest that one would get when in the presence of their grade school crush. And the feeling of heat in an area of his body that he had actively avoided for a long time.  

Kismet was oblivious to the turmoil in his owner’s head. He ran ahead of them, sniffing trees and chasing birds, occasionally stopping to run back and make sure that Daryl and Pheonyx were still behind him. He would trot alongside them for a moment before running ahead again.  Glancing out of the corner of his eye, Pheonyx could see a slight upturn of Daryl’s lips whenever Kismet would trot back to them. He couldn’t blame him. The dog was adorable and his cuteness was why he got away with any trouble that his speckled paws managed to stumble into. 

The only noises around them were the ambient swaying of leaves in the late-summer breeze, the crunching of debris under Kismet’s large paws, and the occasional whistling of a bird high in the trees. Combined it was one of Pheonyx’s favorite songs. But honestly, he wanted to break the silence and speak to Daryl. Break the ice. Learn everything he could about the man. But what did he say? 

“Hey, so you’re probably straight and could possibly be transphobic, but I think you’re super attractive and you don’t make me feel like I’m dying of anxiety when I’m in your vicinity. So, would you maybe want to hang out sometime?”Pheonyx internally snorted. That would be too forward. So he started small. 

“How long until we get to where Sophia was last seen?” he broached the waters glancing at the man out of the corner of his eye. 

“Ain’t too far. Maybe ‘nother hour on foot. Rick left ‘er at the creek righ’ off the highway, tried to draw away the walkers chasin’er. She was supposta’ go back but somethin’ spooked ‘er.” Daryl responded, his husky voice licking up Pheonyx’s spine like fire. He thought that the silence of the woods was his favorite sound, but Daryl’s voice was easily pushing that out of the running. 

“Not surprising. She just got chased by shadows. Her adrenaline was probably running high. Any noise could have had her running in the opposite direction.” 

Daryl grunted in agreement. Pheonyx didn’t know that a single sound could have so many meanings but the archer could probably have whole conversations using that single guttural noise. 

“Why dya’ call ‘em that?” Daryl asked, his eyes still roaming the woods. 

“Why do you call them walkers?” Pheonyx countered, with his eyebrow raised. 

He swore the corner of Daryl’s lips turned up in a brief smirk. But it was gone as fast as it came. “They walk ‘round. Ain’t too complicated.” His defined shoulders lifted up into a small shrug, making the muscles in his arms clench. Pheonyx physically gulped as he watched the movement and had to avert his eyes before he started drooling. 

Pull yourself together, man. You’re acting like a dog in heat, he thought, clenching his hand on the hilt of the hunting knife at his side. 

“These dead things. They used to be people. They had lives. Families, friends, hopes, fears. Now…. they’re just shells. All those things are gone, and all that’s left is the shadow of the person they once were. They look like them, but all they are are mindless killers now. The light of their lives is gone and all that’s left is the darkness,” as he spoke, Pheonyx’s voice got more somber and he had to hold back tears as his thoughts floated to his mother and younger brother. Just like at Otis’s funeral though, he took a deep breath and swallowed the pain. “That’s why I call them shadows. I guess I just don’t want to ever forget that these used to be people. I won’t let that stop me from protecting my family or myself, but I still want to remember.” 

Once again, there was silence. Pheonyx wasn’t surprised. Daryl didn’t exactly seem like a man intune with his emotions and he’d just laid a whole therapy session's worth of them on the archer. Luckily, the lack of conversation didn’t last for long. Kismet stopped in his tracks ahead, his head tilted and ears perked. The white and black mottled fur on his hackles raised up and Pheonyx unsheathed the knife at his hip when the pup let out a warning growl. Following this, a low groan and hiss sounded to their left along with characteristic tinkle of windchimes. Daryl lifted his crossbow next to him, taking a step towards the sound. 

“Quiet,” Pheonyx told Kismet and the dog immediately stopped growling. Kismet trotted to his owner’s side, keeping close but not close enough to interfere with his movements. 

Taking slow steps, Pheonyx pushed through the thick brush blocking their view of the dead. A few feet away, one shadow was stuck in his trap. At some point, the woman had probably been beautiful. Her light blonde hair was long and framed a face that had once been heartshaped. Now, her skin was gray and blood coated her hands and chest. A large gaping wound on her arm and neck let him know that she had died from being bitten. The sharpened sticks that she had impaled herself on, were keeping her in place. One was through her shoulder, having torn the small strap of the destroyed dress, and the other was straight through her heart. Black glistening blood coated the tips of the sticks that protruded from her decaying body. Luckily, she was a stranger to Pheonyx. It was always harder when he knew the dead that were caught. Not only did he have to put them down and burn them, but he had to keep silent when his family mentioned those people in passing. Often they made comments, usually at mealtimes when conversation strayed from daily chores to memories, “I wonder if Mrs. Overtan is still around?” or “Do you remember Big Jim? He used to have the cotton farm off of Wyatt Rd? He was headed to the Atlanta safe-zone when the reports started coming in. I hope he, Mary, and the kids are okay.” In those cases, he had to keep his mouth shut and focus on eating. He couldn’t tell them that Mrs. Overtan had her neck torn out and that Big Jim was missing an arm when they both had impaled themselves on the sharp sticks spread throughout the woods. He couldn’t tell them that he had taken a sharp knife to their heads, effectively ending their undead lives, and then burned their bodies in a pit. They wouldn’t be able to handle it. To his family, he would be seen as a murderer. Maybe he was. But he would continue to do it to protect them.  

The walker in front of them most likely wasn’t from Senoia. Unless she had moved there while Pheonyx was living in Michigan, but he doubted it. People rarely moved to the small town.   More than likely, she had died in one of the traffic snarls off the highway and the noise from woods had drawn her in once she’d reanimated. Either way, the small niggle of guilt he felt, when he knew who the shadow used to be, was absent. A low breeze made the windchimes above her tinkle louder and another hiss escaped her gaping mouth, revealing teeth coated with black ooze. Her bony, decaying arms reached above her towards the sparkling metal tubes of the chimes.  Pheonyx raised the knife and took a step forward to kill it, but the woosh of Daryl’s crossbow releasing a bolt stopped him. 

Black sludge, what used to be blood, sprayed from the shadow’s head, coating the side of the tree and dripping down onto the forest floor. The body went limp and the arms, that had been stretched above its head, slumped down at its sides. Pheonyx turned his head and gave Daryl a nod of thanks. He approached the corpse, sheathing his knife as he went, and pulled the bolt from between the shadows eyes. More of the sludge splattered onto his hand and the smell of rot intensified. He wiped the blood off the quarrel on the bottom hem of the shadow’s dress, dirtying the yellow fabric even further.  The now-clean bolt in one hand, he used the other and began to check the small pockets on the front of the tattered dress for anything of use. It was morbid, and some might find it disgusting or appalling, but it was necessary. Resources of all kinds were in short supply. And Pheonyx had found that most people had taken to keeping important items on their person. Ammo, matches, lighters, water purification tablets, medicine. All things he had found by searching pockets of the shadows caught in his traps. Plus a boat load of now-useless change and dollar bills. 

In this case, he found an unopened tube of chapstick, several pennies, 3 dollars, a fancy zippo lighter, and a crushed pack of Marlboro Ultra Lights. 

“You smoke?” Pheonyx asked Daryl over his shoulder, noting the slightly disgusted and confused look on the man’s face. Rolling his eyes, he explained, “I’m not trying to cop a feel on it. People don’t take out the important stuff from their pockets when they’re dying. Morals kinda went out the door when all this shit started.”

He lifted the lighter and cigarettes up to prove his point. A look of understanding( and possible sheepishness?) overtook Daryl’s face and he cleared his throat. 

“Yeah, I smoke.”

With that, he tossed the crumbled pack to the man, who caught it expertly and stuffed it into the pockets of his worn jeans. Kismet had placed himself next to Daryl, waiting patiently for Pheonyx to give him a command. Over the last couple of months, Kismet had gotten used to staying to the side while Pheonyx took care of the bodies that ended up in his traps. In the beginning, the pup had gotten underfoot a lot. He couldn’t blame him really. Kismet had always been eager to help, wanting to be included in any action that occurred. But he didn’t want his best friend to accidentally get hurt while he was distracted with cleaning up the woods. So, Pheonyx spent a good couple weeks training Kismet to sit to the side while he was working on traps. Just like teaching the dog to guard, it took a lot of treats and patience but eventually the training clicked. Now, Kismet gave him a wide berth while he was hauling and burning bodies and he didn’t have to worry about the dog getting into trouble. Chocolate eyes stared at him adoringly and the leaves under Kismet’s butt crunched as his tail wagged back and forth. Pheonyx whistled for him to come over and the dog bolted over to him without hesitation. 

“Gentle,” he said while giving the crossbow bolt to the pup, making sure to offer him the clean end. While animals didn’t seem to be affected by the virus or the blood of those infected, he didn’t want his dog ingesting any of the vile fluids.  Kismet’s tail began to wiggle faster in earnest, eager to please. Despite the burst of energy and excitement, he still grabbed the bolt between his sharp teeth delicately. “Take it to Daryl.” 

Kismet grumbled happily at him and pranced over to Daryl. He began doing happy toe taps, proud of himself,  as he dropped the bolt at the man’s feet. The archer raised an eyebrow at the dog and bent over to pick up the quarrel. He inspected the item for any damage and nodded his head approvingly when he didn’t see any cracks or dents on the fragile shaft. Kismet began to grumble at the man, whining a bit, begging for him to offer some kind of attention or praise for doing a good job. Rolling his eyes, Daryl patted Kismet’s blocky head in reward. Tongue rolling out in pleasure, Kismet melted under his affections. 

Fucking hell. Never thought I’d be this jealous of my dog, Pheonyx thought before turning back to the matter at hand. 

Now for the gross part, he thought sadly. Using his arms as leverage under the shadow’s armpits, he lifted the corpse off the sticks. At one point, the woman probably weighed a buck twenty five soaking wet. Now, she barely weighed anymore than Kismet. Pheonyx’s cutlass knocked against his leg as he pulled the body along. Decayed feet dragging on the floor, he hauled the body ten feet over to the burn pit that he dug next to every trap he set.  Unceremoniously, he dropped it into the hole. Using the lighter he had taken from the shadow’s pockets, he lit the dollar bills that accompanied it on fire. The flames burned the tip of his fingers as the dry paper caught. But he held back the pain and stared at the glowing embers for a moment. Then he carefully tossed them into the pit, onto the body. 

For some reason, shadows were incredibly flammable. Maybe it was the dried skin and hair that made the flames catch so easily. Or maybe it was some byproduct of the virus mutating a body's cells.  Either way, it made Pheonyx’s job a lot easier. He didn’t have to worry about finding much kindling or fuel to get rid of the shells that ended up in the traps. The once-pretty woman was engulfed by flames in moments. The red fire licking along her limbs and burning up the destroyed dress. Soon, all that would be left of the person she was before would be a pile of ash and a memory. 

Pheonyx was drawn from his haze when he felt a nudge at his bicep. He turned his head and saw Daryl holding out a red bandana to him. Glancing down at himself, he grimaced when he saw the black blood coating his hands and the splatter of it smeared on his shirt. The bandana Daryl was holding out to him, had seen better days. The red print was faded and streaks of black grease marred the crumpled fabric. But the thought was what counted. 

“Thanks,” he took the rag and began to wipe off the blood from his hands. Until he took a shower, though, his hands would still have the stain of death on them, no matter how hard he rubbed with the bandana. Daryl shook his head when he tried to hand back the cloth. 

“Keep it. Got more in ma’ bag.”

Stuffing the cloth in his back pocket, they continued their trek towards the highway. Kismet took the lead and began to inspect every tree they walked past. Expecting the rest of the walk to be filled with silence, Pheonyx was surprised when Daryl started the conversation again. 

“Ya Pops din’t seem to know ‘bout all the traps ya got set up. Din’t seem too happy about it neither,” he commented. 

A loud snort broke from Pheonyx’s nose. “That’s an understatement,” he gripped the handles of his hunting knife and cutlass, both sheathed at his sides, “Let’s just say Hershel and I have differing views on how to handle the shadows. He thinks that they’re sick. Which, I guess is technically true. But he also thinks they can be cured. He thinks that someone out there is working on a cure and that it’s just a matter of time before things go back to normal. It’s not just him. They’re all in denial.” Images of his younger brother flashed into his head. A primal hunger reflected in his milky orbs as he bit down on their mother’s arm, condemning her to the same fate. Her screams as Shawn chewed on her pale flesh and blood splashing on the white linens. 

“What do ya think?” Daryl asked. His words were softer, seeming to notice the change in Pheonyx’s tone, the lilt of sadness that laced through his words. 

“They’re dead. Plain and simple. My-,” Pheonyx took a deep breath to ease the ache building in his chest, “My younger brother, Shawn, was bitten early on. I was sitting next to him when he took his last breath. We didn’t really know what was happening at that time. We just knew people were getting sick and going crazy. We didn’t realize what they turned into. So, my mom was too close. She was hugging his body one minute and the next he was biting into her arm. Hershel and Otis got him off of her but it was too late. Within 12 hours she was dead. I had my fingers on her pulse when her heart stopped. And it didn’t restart when she woke up. No rhythm. No blood pumping,” he stepped over a broken tree limb, looking down to try to keep Daryl from seeing his eyes getting red. “I can understand the desire to feel like things will be okay. If they don’t, then they have to acknowledge the fact that Shawn and Mom are gone. But I’m too much of a pessimist to think that everything will go back to normal. Even if, by some miracle, someone created a vaccine or a cure, these people are dead and decaying, curing them would just put them in unimaginable pain.”

There was silence again, the only noises coming from the stomping feet of Kismet as he chased a squirrel up a tree. 

“Don’ know if Rick told ya but we were at the CDC ‘fore we came here.” Daryl’s deep voice wrapped around Pheonyx in a comforting blanket. The ache of talking about his mom and Shawn was still there, but it felt like a dull throb as opposed to a fresh wound. “There was only one doc there. Jenner. All the others left or killed themselves. Doc showed us some stuff. Basically said the bite kills ya but it restarts ya brain stem to get ya walkin’ around. Ain’t nothin’ left of the person ya was before though. Ya brain’s dead. He weren’t too sure if anyone else was lookin’ fer a cure. Fucker nearly killed us. He tried ta lock us in ‘fore the whole buildin’ blew. Rick talked’im outta it though. Got out just in time.”, Blue eyes locked on Pheonyx’s green ones. “Yer right ‘bout the walkers. There ain’t no curing them. Cain’t cure death.”

Pheonyx felt a scale of emotions. On one side he felt relief at knowing his dark views on shadows were right. He wasn’t mindlessly killing sick people like Hershel would think. But he also felt sorrow. Because it meant that his mom and Shawn were truly dead. A small part of him had hoped he was wrong. That maybe the military would roll through any day and cure the sick people they had locked in the barn. But now he knew the truth. The shadows in the barn were just that. Shadows. Just the shells of the people he once loved. 

Kismet seemed to sense his inner rollercoaster of emotions because he trotted over and leaned himself against Pheonyx’s leg as they walked. He tangled his fingers in the downy fur on the dog’s head, letting the warmth of Kismet’s body ease the weight on his chest. Whatever pain was left, he pushed back down. Eventually that denial and repression were going to come and bite him in the ass. Eventually he’d break down and be forced to feel the weight of the pain and sorrow that was hidden in his mind. But that was a problem for future Pheonyx. Kismet gave his hand a small lick before bounding off again after a bird.

He knew the man didn’t have to offer those words of comfort. He could even tell it made him feel a bit awkward, with the way he was avoiding eye contact and how his shoulders tensed a bit. So, he smiled at Daryl in appreciation. 

“Thanks.”

Hearing the gratitude in his voice, Daryl turned his head to look at him, making eye contact. And something came over him in that moment, a bit of flirtatiousness that he’d never felt before. So, his body acted without him thinking and he winked at him. Pheonyx Greene winked at Daryl Dixon. He winked at a man, a tough looking redneck, who he wasn’t entirely sure was gay or bisexual. 

Why the fuck did I just do that?, Pheonyx screamed internally and a bit of fear rose in his chest, What if he reacts badly? This is rural fucking Georgia and the man looks like a typical conservative country boy! They don’t take too kindly to other guys flirting with them and assuming they’re not straight. Oh shit, should I run? I can’t end up like that again. 

Thousands of panicked thoughts ran through his mind and he waited for something, some kind of bad reaction from the man next to him. But nothing came. The only thing he noticed was the red flush that crept up Daryl’s neck and over his ears. Daryl quickly averted his eyes from Pheonyx and coughed a bit. 

“We’re here,” his deep voice was a slight bit huskier and, just like Daryl, Pheonyx felt the blood rush to his face. Mostly from attraction(and a small bit of arousal, he wouldn’t lie), but also from embarrassment. He had almost forgotten why they were out there in the first place. Sophia. The lost girl. 

The trickling of the creek off in the distance allowed him to orient himself. They weren’t too far from the highway and, now that he was here, he knew exactly where they were. Pheonyx whistled the three note recall and Kismet came bounding from the bushes a few feet away. He had a feather hanging from the corner of his lips so Pheonyx could only imagine what the dog had been up to. 

“Ready to work, handsome?” he asked Kismet. The dog began to wiggle, happy at the prospect of having a job, but he sat and waited for Pheonyx to give him a command. He pulled the backpack off his shoulder and opened it up. Just like Maggie said, the pack contained three bottles of water, a dog bowl, and several baggies of Pheonyx’s homemade jerky. The three bigger ziploc bags had darker colored jerky. The color was from the blend of seasonings, soy sauce, worcestershire sauce, and honey that he used to marinate the meat before smoking. The smaller bag had lighter colored unseasoned jerky that he used specifically for training Kismet. Pheonyx stuffed the smaller bag in one pocket and two of the bigger bags in his other pocket for him and Daryl to eat later. One of the nice things about men’s pants was that the pockets were absolutely ginormous. 

Seeing the bag of jerky, Kismet’s eyes got wide and his body began to shake in anticipation. Pheonyx closed his bag and slung it back over his shoulders. He could feel Daryl’s eyes on him from the few feet that separated them. He reached for his waistband, where he had Sophia’s small shirt tucked over his belt, and pulled the thin fabric off the leather strap. 

Kneeling down next to Kismet, Pheonyx used his free hand to stroke the dog’s head. Soft fur and chocolate eyes shining with happiness made his chest swell. He scratched the dog's ears and offered the shirt to Kismet to smell. 

“We gotta find someone, okay boy? We’ve only tracked squirrels and ‘coons up until now but I think you’re ready,”  Kismet snuffled his nose along the shirt, deeply inhaling and then snorting like a pig. Once he got a good few whiffs of the shirt, he leaned back on his haunches and waited for Pheonyx to give him his command. 

Pheonyx stood up and tucked the shirt into his belt again, “Find it boy!”

Being released by the command, Kismet placed his nose to the ground and began to follow the trail. His thick paws kicked up dirt as he trotted through the foliage, snuffling and snorting against the ground the whole way.  

Pheonyx turned and briefly took in the visage of the older archer. The sunlight was peaking through the trees and hitting the side of his face, making his blue eyes shine even brighter than before. Dark hair now looked golden from the sun’s rays. His crossbow was loose in his hands and angled towards the ground. The tender hold he held on the weapon was a facade for the lethality he possessed.  Despite the dirt and general scruffiness, he looked almost ethereal. God-like.

With that image in mind, Pheonyx gestured to the direction that Kismet went. 

“After you, Apollo,” he said with a smile. The other man snorted in response to the nickname, but he adjusted his grip on his crossbow and began to follow the hound’s lead. 

He wasn’t quite proud of it, but Pheonyx took a brief moment to watch Daryl walk in front of him. Green eyes were glued to the other man’s backside and he watched as those dirty jeans hugged him in all the right places.  

“Ya comin’, Firebird?” Daryl called over his shoulder, breaking Pheonyx from his less than innocent thoughts. 

I wish, he thought, Wait…. 

“Firebird?” Pheonyx asked in confusion, jogging to catch up with him.

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