Warnings: lady whumpee, blood, death mention, stabbing
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Less than a hour later, Adelaide’s boots are planted on the deck of Virginia’s Daughter, sword clutched in a sweat-slick hand, fear coursing through her veins. The good news for her is that this isn’t one of the vessels full of families, so she doesn’t have to worry about traumatizing children.
The bad news is that instead, it’s full of men with swords.
Or, it was full of men with swords. Some of them are still fighting with the pirate crew, some have been cornered and their weapons confiscated. Others now lie bleeding on the deck.
So far Adelaide has done nothing but stay out of the way, staring wide-eyed, wishing she’d stayed behind. She’s never had the chance to try out her sword fighting skills on anyone but Marshall, didn’t expect to really have to use them today, and certainly doesn’t want to actually hurt any of these innocent people.
But if she continues to just stand here she’ll be in trouble. Never mind the necklace, the Captain is likely to be angry enough with her to punish her again, too.
Even if she could convince herself that it won’t happen, it ends up that she doesn’t get a choice in the matter. Suddenly there’s a sword coming at her, and she parries automatically. The man on the other end’s eyebrows shoot up as he seems to realize that he’s attacked a woman, but it doesn’t stop him. He pulls back and swings again, and again, Adelaide blocking him each time. Her mind is fully occupied with keeping him at bay now, no time to worry about what’s going on around her or how this fight might end.
Until another two-man fight swerves near them, throwing off her focus for just long enough that she allows his sword to slide past hers, embedding itself in her left shoulder. She sucks in a sharp breath that sticks in her throat. The full force of the pain hits an instant later, nearly making her knees buckle.
The man yanks the sword back, ripping through her skin, and she stumbles forward with a cry. Immediately warm blood soaks her shirt. It burns, white hot pain dissecting her shoulder, and she tucks her arm tightly against her side, trying not to move it.
He isn’t satisfied, though. She’s still standing, and in his eyes, she’s a pirate trying to take over his ship. Technically she supposes that’s exactly what she is. She doesn’t blame him for wanting to eliminate her.
But that unfortunately means she has to keep fighting him. Keep swinging her sword with one arm while the other bleeds and feels like it might fall off at any moment. Keep risking hurting him, who doesn’t deserve it, even though the alternative seems more and more likely to be her own grievous injury or death.
She’s not really sure at this point which outcome she dreads more.
The longer the fight goes on, the harder it is to focus. Adelaide stumbles over her own feet, vision wavering, shoulder pulsing with pain, but she doesn’t give up. And somehow, thanks to the hours of training, she’s able to see the opening when it comes, using all her remaining strength to lunge forward and slash a deep line across the man’s torso.
He falls back with a cry, sword clattering to the ground. Gasping for breath, she stares in dazed horror after him, only distantly aware of the fights continuing around her, of someone scooping up his sword as he crumples to the deck, bleeding.
She won the fight. But in doing so, she’d seriously injured a man who just wanted to protect his ship, his belongings, his comrades. Her stomach churns with guilt.
A new commotion breaks out as fights end and the crew of pirates begins herding their defeated opponents to one side of the ship, while others plunge below decks to look for loot. Adelaide loses sight of the man she wounded. She herself is somehow corralled into an opposite corner, where she sheaths her sword and finally is able to press the heel of her hand into the stab wound. Her head spins at the new jolt of pain it causes. As the minutes stretch on, she finds herself sliding down without consciously deciding to sit, blinking furiously to chase away the spots that keep trying to take over her vision.
She’s…she’s very tired. That fight was more intense than anything she’s ever experienced, seems to have drained all of her energy away.
She blinks again, and everyone on deck suddenly changes to new positions. The ones from below are back, lugging crates up the stairs and across the planks back to The Dark Storm. Marshall is directing them. She should talk to him. She needs to tell him that she won her first real fight, but that she’s not sure she’s happy about that fact.
Luckily he notices her a moment later. His face creases in what could be construed as worry, and he quickly crosses to her, dodging the flow of traffic.
“Miss Gray. You’re injured.” He crouches next to her, examining her shoulder.
“I think…did I…kill him?” She never wanted to kill anyone. Didn’t want to hurt anyone at all. “He…he was bleeding. What if I killed him?”
Marshall doesn’t say anything to begin with, just stands and walks around to her other side before bending back down and grabbing her good arm to drape over his shoulders. “You did well, Miss Gray. Let’s get you back to the ship and take care of that injury.”
She thinks she makes some kind of noise when he pulls her upright. It’s hard to tell for sure when all light and sound completely cut off for a moment. But she presses her lips together after that, refusing to swoon or show pain in any way as they hobble their way off Virginia’s Daughter. She won’t give Captain Payne the satisfaction.
Adelaide is early to training, for once. It’s the first time she’s ever been in the store room alone, so she takes a moment to look around, peeking in and behind crates. They multiply every time The Dark Storm stops another ship. Most seem to be food stuffs and other marketable supplies like cloth and cookware. Many are nailed shut, their contents remaining a secret.
Then there is the one she manages to peek into that’s full of glittering gold bracelets and pearl necklaces, which she gapes at for a moment before pulling it shut and quickly backing away. There’s no way she’s allowing herself to be caught even looking at something of that value.
Behind it, though, something even more interesting catches her eye. It’s just a small trunk, nothing lavish, but it’s familiar. It’s hers. She’d brought it with her, on The Golden Rose, full of her own clothing and trinkets that she’d wanted to use once she was settled in her new life.
Climbing over another crate, she kneels down in front of the trunk and throws it open with eager hands. The top layer is made up of a few men’s accessories, to throw off anyone who might have looked through her things when she was disguised. Underneath, though, there’s a couple of favorite gowns, a corset, her own stockings and gloves and pockets and garters…she’s reluctant to touch, not wanting to sully them, but once she’s wiped any grime off of her hands onto her trousers, she runs her fingers delicately over the silky fabrics. It’s been so long since she’s been able to enjoy anything soft and fine.
“What are you doing?”
Marshall’s sudden intrusion makes her jump. Placing one hand over her heart, she glares with no real malice over her shoulder at him.
“These are mine. My things, that I brought from home.”
He props his arms across the crate full of jewelry and peers down at the trunk, looking away quickly and clearing his throat when he realizes what it contains. “They were your things. They belong to the Captain now.”
Now her glare isn’t so congenial, though it’s directed down at the stack of clothing, as if it personally chose to betray her. “I hatepirates.”
“I don’t blame you.”
It takes her a moment to realize she’s talking to one of said pirates. She glances up at him with a slightly apologetic expression. “You’re tolerable, at least.”
“Considering our first few interactions, I’ve no idea why. Now come on, away from the Captain’s loot before you get yourself in trouble.”
Adelaide doesn’t listen, instead digging further into the trunk. A few pieces of her own jewelry are neatly packed into boxes in the bottom, most of which she cares little about. One box, though, catches her eye, and she reaches for it with a gasp.
“This was my grandmother’s. It was given to me at my wedding.” Lifting the lid carefully, she breathes a sigh of relief at the sight of the pale blue sapphire still nestled safely inside.
“It must have been important to you, then.”
“Not because of my wedding,” she scoffs. “But because of my grandmother, yes, and her grandmother, also.” She’d been meant to pass it on to her own descendant, someday, though at this point that seemed unlikely. Children did not seem to be in her future, and she was mostly alright with that.
“I’m sorry.”
She stands and turns to face him, necklace still clutched in her hand, face set in a determined expression. “Why? I intend to keep it. I’m not just some girl that the Captain looted, I’m a member of the crew, and it’s mine.”
Marshall laughs aloud. “And do you see any of the rest of the crew toting around finery like that? Besides, you’re not exactly on good terms with the Captain, if you haven’t noticed. If you take that necklace from this room, you’ll be thrown overboard. If you’re lucky.”
Adelaide falters, swallowing hard. She’s never been attached to too many things in her life, but this necklace is different. She can’t just give it over to a filthy, terrible pirate, who will only sell it to someone who doesn’t care, for more money that he’ll throw away on ale.
“What if…what if I ask him? That can’t hurt, right?” Even as she says it she’s uncertain of the answer. With Captain Payne, anything can set him off, and it willhurt.
Straightening, Marshall blows out a long, loud breath through his nose. “I have no idea how he would react. He may laugh in your face and take it back, or he may…well, like I said. Punish you for taking it. I have a hard time imagining any reactions better than those.”
Tightening her jaw, she stares down at the gem in her palm, studying the delicate gold that frames it. “You’re probably right. But…I have to try.”
Mind made up, she climbs back out of the hole, pushes past Marshall, and heads up to find the Captain. It’s a rare gloomy day, grey clouds hanging heavy above, threatening rain at any moment. More importantly, though, there’s another ship ahead, barely closer than the horizon. The way The Dark Storm is moving, they’ll be upon her in no time.
Captain Payne is up top, near the wheel, eyes trained on his next prize. She almost goes back, decides to wait for another time, but then reconsiders. He’ll be in a good mood right now. It might be her best chance.
Marching straight up those stairs may be the bravest or the most foolish thing she’s ever done. The Captain nearly ignores her, barely glancing her way, but does a double-take once he realizes who’s approaching him and turns all his attention on her. It makes a shiver run down her spine. Any other time, having his attention on her would be the last thing she wanted.
“Miss Gray. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Suddenly she has no idea what to say. Swallowing hard, she opens her mouth, closes it again, second guesses her choice to come up here, then clenches the necklace harder in her fist and speaks. “I found something. Something that belongs…to me. That you’ve taken. And…I’d like it back. As a member of your crew, I…I think I should be able to retain one of my belongings from the entirety of the trunk that you now have.”
Captain Payne’s bushy grey eyebrows crawl higher and higher on his face throughout her speech, but he waits until she’s done to reply. “And what, pray tell, is this item that you claim to be yours?”
She’s reluctant to open her hand and show him. What if he snatches it away? “A necklace. A family heirloom.”
“Mm. Family heirloom. How intriguing.” He takes a step closer, cane thumping against the deck, and she barely keeps from flinching back. That cane has struck her more times than she cares to count. “Am I going to be allowed to see this trinket of…yours?”
Every clearly sarcastic word dripping with condescension that comes out of his mouth makes her want to throw him off the side of the ship, but she draws on her recent training with Marshall and allows her anger to give her the strength to stand her ground and finally produce the necklace without her hand shaking at all. He hums, leaning forward to study it.
“More than just a pretty trinket, then, hm? That piece is quite valuable. And tell me again, you think you deserve it because…?”
“Because it’s mine,” she blurts, then fumbles for something more convincing to add. “And, well…when it was taken, I was just one more person you were looting. But now I’m a crew member. Besides, there are several more pieces of value still in the trunk. I’m only asking for this one.”
The Captain stares her down for a long moment, and she refuses to look away no matter how much she wants to. Then he turns, looking out at the ship that they’re rapidly gaining on.
“You know I could have you thrown into the brig - again - for ever touching that. Tossed into the Locker, even.”
Dread curls in her throat, but she still doesn’t back down.
“But I’ll make you a bargain.” His body faces hers again, hands folded over the top of his cane. “You get to keep your family heirloom, if you can satisfactorily participate in the next raid.” He tips his head toward the ship. “That’s to say, you can’t just board the ship and stand there looking pretty. I’ve seen what you’re carrying these days.” Gesturing lightly toward the sword at her hip, his lips twist upward. “You’ll need to actually use it. Keep the people in line. Stop anyone who tries to play the hero.”
Adelaide freezes in place. Of all the places she’d expected this conversation to go, she wasn’t anticipating…that. Ever since her refusal to help that had ended in her being whipped, he’s ignored her existence when the time comes for raids. She should have known that it wouldn’t last, that eventually he’d find a way to force her compliance.
Is this the time? Can she really agree to actually act like a pirate, to potentially hurt someone, all for a necklace?
She stares down at it, sparkling in her hand, remembering her grandmother fastening it around her neck and telling her how well it matched her eyes. The woman would be highly disappointed in what her granddaughter has become, were she still alive. Not that Adelaide can blame her. She’s disappointed, too, though for entirely different reasons.
But if she doesn’t agree to this now, then what? She won’t have the necklace, and he’ll still some day force her to participate. Perhaps with an even greater cost.
“Fine.” She closes her fingers around the necklace, pulling it back in to her side. “You have a bargain.”
She’s a pirate now, anyway. Might as well act like one.
“Good.” His smile grows. “Go on and prepare with the rest of the crew, then.”
She turns to leave before his voice stops her once more. “Oh, and Miss Gray? If that necklace should…go missing without our bargain being complete? You will regret it.”
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, brief mild gore, referenced past torture, creepy/intimate whumper, stalking, mentioned panic attack
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Unknown:
How’s your hand?
She hasn’t added the number into her contacts. She can’t risk his name coming up on the screen where someone can see it. And there’s something strange, something wrong about giving him a fake name on her phone when his real name is carved into her skin.
Unknown:
Attachment: 1 image
She never wants to look. But she can’t delete the photos without seeing them. Or maybe it’s just some kind of morbid curiosity, or some hope that maybe one time it won’t be a picture of herself being tortured.
It always is.
Unknown:
I miss you.
She’s a bit surprised that she hasn’t gotten in trouble yet for not answering the texts.
Unknown:
Your hair looks really nice today. Imagine that I’m running my fingers through it, smelling your cherry blossom shampoo.
After having a panic attack in the bus stop, she goes immediately home and throws out anything cherry blossom she owns.
Unknown:
I ordered something for you today. A special surprise for the next time we get to have a longer visit. I’m so excited to see it on you, I can’t wait.
That one haunts her every waking hour for days. A longer visit - meaning he’s planning on taking her again, overnight at least. And what could he have ordered that he’ll be putting on her? It could be clothing, another muzzle, another blindfold, more restraints… Whatever it is, she’s dreading it so hard that she can’t eat.
Unknown:
Attachment: 1 image
Surely he’s almost out of photos from that night by now.
Unknown:
Do you think that staying at home all the time keeps me from getting to you anytime I want? You’re so adorable.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, selective mutism, stalking, creepy/intimate whumper, choking, broken ribs, burns
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It’s been a week since Devin’s birthday party. Six days since she received the texted photo from Oliver. She hasn’t gotten anything else from him, but she’s barely been able to touch her phone all week for fear that she would.
It took her a couple of days before she could speak at all, and even now the ability comes and goes seemingly at random. Today, the very first day that she’s ventured out of the house since the party, she managed to force out enough words to order her favorite mocha at the coffee shop where she does a large portion of her illustrating. Now she stands close to the pick-up counter, carefully angled where she can see the door without looking like she’s staring at everyone who walks in.
“Caddy!” The baristas here are about fifty/fifty on getting the pronunciation of her name right, but she doesn’t ever correct them. She waits until they’ve walked away from the counter before sliding in and picking up her drink, then weaves through the tables to one of her usual spots in the back corner.
It takes her a while to be able to focus on the sketches on her tablet. She keeps glancing up every few seconds, watching the door, checking all the tables to make sure she hasn’t missed anyone new coming in and that everyone is involved in their own work and conversations rather than paying attention to her.
Eventually, though, an idea sparks, and she lets the soothing rhythm of drawing pull her in. Her stylus strokes out black lines, and for a moment, she doesn’t have to think. She can just be.
“Cadence!”
Her hand jerks across the screen, leaving a bold streak behind it, as her whole body seizes up. It’s not you it’s not you it’s not you it’s not you. Her old name is unusual, yes, but she’s not the only one in the world who has it. It takes every bit of will she can muster to not turn around and see who is picking up the drink, forcing herself instead to tap the ‘undo’ button and erase her mistake.
“Oliver!”
All of the sounds of the café become muted around her. She can’t breathe. It’s like he’s already here, his hand clamped around her throat.
There’s no way those two names, that close together, are a coincidence.
She knows it, but that doesn’t mean she quite believes her eyes when he slides onto the bench across from her, a pleasant smile on his face as if meeting an old friend, and sets one cup in front of her while taking a sip from the other.
“Toasted White Chocolate Mocha. I thought yours might be running low by now.”
He can’t be here. He can’t be here. This is her spot, her safe place.
But he is.
“Personally I prefer a little less sweet, but it doesn’t surprise me that you’re the type who doesn’t like to taste the coffee in their coffee.” He takes another drink, grey-blue eyes always boring into her.
She’s not sure whether her stylus is still in her hand or not. Everything feels both far away and too close at the same time.
Are people staring at them? She feels like everyone in the room should be noticing that something is extremely, terribly wrong at the little booth in the corner, but logically she knows that they just look like two ordinary people, catching up over coffee. There’s no way of telling that one is a sadistic maniac and the other, his victim.
“You’ve been hiding this week. I almost thought I was going to have to find a way to coax you out of the house.” He leans forward a little, eyes finally dropping from her face to glance at her tablet. “Been busy with the McIntyre project, I see.”
The fact that he knows not only the name of her client, but also recognizes the work she’s doing for them, doesn’t even surprise her at this point. She accepted long ago, the first time he had her, that he knew every detail about her life, and the past weekend made it pretty clear that he still does.
What do you want? she longs to scream, but even in a public space he’ll find some way to punish her for speaking. All she can do is sit, frozen, eyes drying out from not blinking enough, waiting for what he’s going to do to torment her next.
“I’ve missed you.”
His voice makes her want to shake apart into a million pieces.
“You know, it’s a little warm in here. Don’t you want to take off that scarf?” His smile grows wider, as if he’s made a hilarious joke.
It feels like it’s choking her all of a sudden. The bruises underneath have faded significantly, but there are still yellow and green streaks standing out from her skin. She assumes he’s being sarcastic, pointing out that he knows the reason she’s wearing it, but then he shifts positions and something touches her knee, making her jolt. It’s his shoe, and he’s applying pressure, crushing her knee back into the bench.
It takes her a second to figure out what he wants. Once she does, she quickly reaches up with numb fingers and loosens the scarf, tugging at the knot until it opens up and exposes her throat. He leans in with a little hum, studying it.
“Beautiful.” His shoe finally relents from her knee, the bones protesting as they relax back into place. That will likely be sore tomorrow. Another reminder of him she can wear on her body.
Leaning back again, he twists his cup on the table. “You’re not drinking your mocha.”
Immediately she picks it up and takes a sip. Despite being fresher and hotter than the last, it tastes like ash in her mouth.
What do you want? She knows the answer already. He wants to torment her, to make sure she knows that he still owns her, even in her daily routine. As if she could ever forget.
“Pack up your tablet and go to the restroom.”
It takes the words a moment to compute, but she obeys quickly, sliding the tablet into its case with trembling hands, tucking it back into her shoulder bag, then standing on weak legs. She leaves both coffee cups sitting there, only intent on getting to the restroom as ordered.
There are no stalls, only a single room, so she slips inside and tentatively locks the door behind her. She isn’t sure if she’s supposed to or not. She has no idea what his plan is, but she knows he has one. Every single inch of her body is alert, waiting, moments from panicking, her breaths coming far too quickly and her heart pounding. Is she supposed to be actually using the bathroom? She can’t make herself do it. Instead she just stands, stuck, in the middle of the small room, unable to figure out what to do next.
The minutes that she waits feel like hours. Eventually, there’s a knock on the door, sharp and demanding. She knows it’s him. She prays it’s not.
She unlocks the door and he immediately pushes it open, making her stumble backwards, and walks in carrying a single coffee cup, which he sets on the counter. Then he turns to face her, looking her up and down. Burning her with just his gaze. A hand comes out toward her, and she flinches. He slaps her across the face for it with the other hand, the first removing her bag from her shoulder and dropping it carelessly to the floor.
“These need refreshing.” It’s the only warning she gets before his hand is around her throat, for real this time. He backs her into the wall before beginning to slowly, steadily cut off more of her air.
It starts hurting quicker this time. Her already abused windpipe groans underneath the pressure of his hand, and tears automatically prick her eyes. He smiles when he sees them.
Just as she starts to get too dizzy to see anything, he releases just enough that she can suck in a painful gulp of air. He watches her struggle and choke for a moment, thumb stroking across her throat.
“Lift your shirt.”
It takes her a second longer than it should to comprehend the order, her mind still swirling from the lack of oxygen. She fumbles for the hem of her shirt and quickly pulls it up past his brand, knowing that’s what he wants to see.
Without letting go of her throat, he rips off the gauze that she’d taped over it, dropping them to the floor and running his fingers across the marks. “Mm. It’s healing well.” His hand slides over a bit, icy trails following it. “This still looks painful, though.”
The hand on her throat begins to tighten again as the one on her broken rib presses in. Pain shoots through her chest, but she can’t gasp or even whine with her air stolen away.
It goes on, for a few minutes or an eternity, she’ll never know. The ability to breathe comes and goes, she coughs and whimpers when she can, and tries not to pass out when she can’t. All the while, he pokes and prods at her broken rib. She can feel the bone moving. When coherent thoughts are even possible, she’s panicking about the possibility of a punctured lung, wondering if he actually knows how to not kill her.
At last he lets go, with one last stroke of his fingers down her throat, and steps back. She somehow manages to not fall down.
“I’ve got one more gift for you before I go.” He steps backwards, toward the sink. “Come here.”
It takes her a couple of tries to push herself up off the wall. The bathroom spins around her as she walks, making her stumble and have to pause a few times to keep from face planting.
As soon as she’s close enough, he grabs onto her right wrist and yanks her forward. Her hip bone slams into the countertop. He doesn’t have to hold her as tightly as he does, she wouldn’t try to get away, but she knows he enjoys trying to create as many bruises as possible.
“Got a fresh cup just for you.” He’s reaching for the coffee he left here earlier. She knows what’s coming, tears are already starting to stream down her cheeks, but there’s absolutely nothing she can do to stop it. Even if she could get out of his grasp and make it to the door before he caught her, which would never happen, she knows him. He’s rich, influential. No one would ever believe her over him, she’d be dragged through an ordeal where he’d do everything possible to humiliate her, then they’d go right back to where they are now, but with her friends involved because of her failure to remain silent and obedient.
“Now. If you scream, people are going to ask questions. We don’t want that, do we?” The way her wrist bones creak and grind together make it clear she’s supposed to shake her head in reply.
He pops the lid off, sets it neatly to the side. She can see the steam rising from the black liquid inside. There’s not enough time to fully prepare herself, probably never would be, her hand is already positioned over the sink, and -
It’s quick, at least. He doesn’t drag it out, just dumps the entire contents over the back of her hand. Somehow she doesn’t scream. She does bite a bleeding hole through her lip trying not to, though.
Her whole hand feels like it’s on fire. She chokes out a sob, then another, trembling hard and wishing he’d just let her go, let her turn on some cold water to run over it, the faucet is right there.
But of course he doesn’t. He pulls her hand up higher between them so that they can both admire the bright red skin, the way patches of it are already starting to puff up and pucker.
Then he finally drops it, but she still can’t do anything because he’s holding her face in his hands, brushing her disheveled hair back from her forehead and drawing patterns on her cheeks with her tears that won’t stop flowing. “There you go, my sweet. A little parting gift, to make sure you’ll be thinking about me all week.”
He steps back, picks up the coffee cup and crushes it before throwing it away. Then he smiles at her, eyes sparkling. “I’ll certainly be thinking about you. And I’ll be seeing you again very soon, don’t worry.”
Cadence clutches her injured hand and refuses to watch as he turns his back and leaves the room.
As soon as he’s gone she stumbles to the door and locks it, as if she wouldn’t immediately let him in again if he returned. Then she goes back to the sink, turning the cold water on full blast and shoving her hand underneath. It feels good despite being a few minutes too late. She still can’t stop crying. Her mind is whirling with replays of everything that just happened, with the knowledge that he’ll do this again and she won’t know when it’s coming, with wondering if she has aloe at home and what Janaysia and Devin are going to say about this, with the realization that there’s no possible way she’s going to be able to finish the McIntyre project on time now. She’ll have to call them. No, she won’t be able to call them. Any progress she’d made towards being able to carry on a conversation will be gone again now.
She wants to collapse on the bathroom floor and cry until she can’t cry anymore, but she can’t. She has to get out of here, she has to go home. So she shuts off the water, dries her cheeks, crouches down to clean up the bandages he’d dropped, tries to ignore the renewed pain in her ribs every time she breathes, picks up her bag, and deliberately does not look at herself in the mirror. Whatever anyone sees when she leaves, it doesn’t matter. She won’t be coming back to this coffee shop, anyway.
Warnings: lady whumpee, BBU, whumper POV, creepy/intimate whumper (seriously this guy is a real creeper), mild blood, scars, implied future torture, noncon touch (non-sexual)
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The fighting ring is not Manuel Beckham’s favorite place to be. Yes, he owns it. Yes, he makes sure that it’s a respectable establishment, as far as illegal pet fighting rings go, that it’s kept as clean and presentable as any of his offices. Yes, many of his esteemed colleagues can be found here on any given night. And yes, the fights here bring in as much money in a week as some of his legal companies.
But personally, he finds all the blood and sweat and cheering for pain a bit…distasteful.
Not that he’s against pain. But pain should be something beautiful, something carefully crafted with expert hands and enjoyed more privately. It’s wasted on these dogs, and on their owners who roar for more.
Still, he’s obligated to drop by once in a while. The employees always make a huge ordeal out of it, scurrying around like ants trying to make sure everything is perfect for him, always giving him the, “Oh, we weren’t expecting you, we would have had something special prepared for you,” speech.
Of course they weren’t expecting him. If he announced when he was visiting, they could make sure to clean up their act before he arrived. This way he sees everything raw, exactly how it happens on the nights he isn’there.
They sit him in his own private box, though someone is constantly in and out, offering him food and drinks and the chance to place bets. More than one person stopped him on the way there, shaking hands and giving fake smiles and faker compliments. They all want a chance to sit in the box with him, to claim that they’re best friends with Manuel Beckham. He’s yet to invite any of them in.
“You’ll be happy to know,” one of the managers tells him halfway through the night, after one of the dogs takes a brutal beating, “that the new healing program has taken off. We’ve been making nearly ten percent extra each week from healings alone.”
Beckham gives a non-committal hum, sipping his drink. “Healing program?”
“Yes, sir, the new healer pet you ordered. It’s been doing its job well. Your clients are very pleased.”
Healer pet. Right, he vaguely remembers signing off on such a thing. It had to have been at least a year ago by now.
“Well, that’s good to hear.” The concept intrigues him, actually. A pet with magic? He knows they exist, but has yet to come across one.
He makes an impulsive decision in that moment, a rarity for him. “I’d like to see it in action. Once the fights are over, someone can escort me downstairs to watch.”
The manager’s eyes widen almost comically, but he nods eagerly. “Yes, sir, of course! I’ll take you down there myself!”
It’s been years since he ventured into the belly of the beast. As long as the upstairs, the place where all of the business takes place, is presentable, he honestly doesn’t care what happens behind the scenes. He’s still pleased to see as he descends the echoing staircase into a long, grey hallway that they’ve kept it clean and tidy down here. The proximity to a bunch of snarling, filthy mutts is a bit too close for his tastes, but he can ignore that for his curiosity’s sake.
“Just down here is where we have it set up.” The manager - Beckham can’t be bothered to remember his name at the moment - leads the way past closed office doors and several owners tugging their dogs out on leashes. Thankfully most of them are too busy either reveling in their wins or wallowing in their losses to notice his presence.
“Pierce!” A black man built like a bouncer turns at the call of his name. “Mr. Beckham is here. He’d like to see the healer pet at work.”
Pierce merely gives a polite nod to Beckham, who decides immediately that he likes him. No groveling or fake smiles, just business.
“Perfect timing. I’m about to take the next dog in.” Pierce gestures toward the people standing there, a woman he thankfully doesn’t recognize and her female dog that’s nearly covered in blood.
The door opens, and Beckham immediately spots the healer, despite the fact that she’s tucked herself neatly into the corner. He’s hooked right away. Her big grey eyes stand out from her gaunt face, dark circles underneath making them even more prominent. Freckles dot her nose and cheeks. Her dark brown curls are a mess, falling just below her shoulders, but he can tell they’d be gorgeous with proper care. A scar bisects her full, perfect pink lips and runs up her cheek. Everything about her, including the way she folds her hands tightly in front of her and ducks her head just so, is perfect. She’s like a little mouse. He can’t stop staring at her.
When the Guard Dog has been properly restrained, she finally emerges from her corner, head still respectfully down. She doesn’t even need to be told what needs healing. Her hands move gracefully around the dog’s body, mesmerizing blue light spilling from her fingertips, stitching up the deepest of wounds with the slightest of touches.
Once she’s done, she steps back into her corner. The owner takes out a wet wipe and cleans off some of the blood here and there, checking the wounds, but there’s nothing to be found but a few, small white scars. She pays her dues and leaves satisfied.
“Pretty amazing, huh?” the manager asks.
“Yes,” Beckham hums. “She is. Tell me, does she have a name?” He still can’t take his eyes off of her.
“Um…”
“Her trainers called her 472,” Pierce offers. “But some of the guards here have taken to calling her Freckles.”
“How’d she get that scar on her face?” Freckles and a number won’t do at all. Little Mouse, that’s how he’s going to think of her.
Pierce shrugs. “Some dog she healed a few months ago. That’s how her magic works, she takes on the pain of whatever she’s healing, and she gets matching scars.”
She takes on the pain. How completely fascinating. He can see it now, watching her work on the next dog. The slight stiffness to her movements, the way she favors one leg almost imperceptibly. A weariness that weighs down her shoulders. She does an excellent job of keeping it to herself, though. He’d never have noticed if he hadn’t been told. Now he can’t stop noticing, though, can’t stop wondering where she’s hiding invisible injuries, what parts of her are hurting. It must be strange, carrying someone else’s pain. She must be exhausted.
It just adds to her perfection.
Beckham stays until the last dog is healed, watching. He can tell that she knows, but she’s a good pet, never raising her eyes except to look at injuries, never speaking at all, never making even the slightest pained noise even as she heals a broken collarbone and a sprained wrist. He wants to know what her voice sounds like. Wants to know what it would take to make that voice cry out, to make tears fill those impassive eyes.
As soon as he gets home that night, despite the late hour, he locks himself in his office and searches his records until he finds every single piece of paperwork that Beckham Solutions, Inc. has on the Little Mouse. Designation 521472, trained as a Platonic, with an emphasis in healing magic and a little bit of Romantic training thrown in to boot. She was lauded by WRU as being ‘highly obedient’ and received high marks in every aspect of her training.
She’s meant to be a companion. To be petted, and held, and loved. And now she’s trapped in the bowels of the fighting ring, carrying the burden of so many injuries so that the Guard Dogs of a bunch of rich, entitled owners won’t have to.
The more he learns of her story, the more delighted he is.
Hewantsher.
But of course he can’t just go and take her. Yes, she technically belongs to him, but what would his employees think if he snatched away the source of a ten percent increase in earnings just for his own whims? He’s a businessman first and foremost. If he’s going to have the Little Mouse for himself, he needs to make sure there’s a way to replace the money she brings in.
So he contacts WRU the very next day. Informs them that he’s in need of another pet with healing magic, and no, he doesn’t mind paying extra for a custom order. Drops plenty of hints that if they don’t have one that has signed up by conventional methods, they should most certainly pursue unconventional methods of procuring one. Yes, he’s alright with waiting as long as it takes. He wants his Little Mouse now, but he’s a patient man. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, after all.
Months pass. He stays away from the fighting ring altogether, not wanting to tempt himself to act rashly. He finally gets a call from WRU, telling him that they’ve found a candidate. His training will begin immediately, this time strictly focused on obedience and healing. Beckham inquires a little into this new pet’s story, out of curiosity, and finds that his magic works quite differently from Little Mouse’s. No taking on pain involved. Much less interesting. He promptly forgets about him, other than occasionally wondering how close his training is to being completed.
Little Mouse, on the other hand, he thinks about every single day. He quietly begins making preparations for her arrival, whenever that may be, much to the curiosity of his other pets, he’s sure. They don’t need an explanation from him, though. They’re just pets. They’ll find out what’s happening eventually.
At last, almost a year later, when he’s practically worn thin from the waiting, he gets the call. His new Box Boy is ready and will be delivered to the fighting ring the next day.
Beckham doesn’t waste any time. He’s waiting down the hall from the healing room that night half an hour after the fights end, waiting for his Little Mouse to emerge from her very last night working here. The fact that she has no idea makes him a little bit giddy. He’s already set everything up for the new pet’s arrival with Kara, who will be the one in charge of unboxing him and putting him to work. All that’s left is to take her home.
He’s purposely set himself up a little ways away from the door so that he can watch her for a moment when she comes out. It’s a struggle to keep himself from breaking into a smile when she does. She’s just as perfect as he remembers. Time has changed her, though. His Little Mouse has turned into something of a ghost, haunting the basement halls of this establishment. There’s no longer a light, airy quality to the way she walks. The exhaustion he’d seen on her before weighs even heavier now, dragging her down. She moves more stiffly than before, less able to hide the amount of pain she’s constantly in. Her skin is paler than it should be. The bags under her eyes have grown even darker.
But she’s still perfect, and she’s his. Give him a little time, and he’ll bring all of that grace and beauty back to life.
He steps forward, intercepting the path of the guard, though he pays them little attention. His eyes are only on her. “Hello, Little Mouse. Do you know who I am?”
Her throat bobs as she swallows. “No, sir.” It’s the first time he’s heard her voice. It’s quiet and demure, as it should be, barely above a whisper. She shakes her head, but leaves it tipped down toward the floor.
“My name is Manuel Beckham.” There’s a visible, physical reaction to that name. She’s heard it before, somewhere. “I’m the owner of this fighting ring.”
Stepping in closer, he reaches out with two fingers, nearly trembling with excitement, and tips her chin up. It’s been so long since he’s been able to see this face. He takes it all in now, burning it into his memory, relishing the fact that he’ll get to see it every day from now on. Her eyes stay locked somewhere around his chin, thick eyelashes nearly covering them.
“Which means I’m also yourowner.”
Her lips part, and she sucks in a barely audible gasp of air. Perfect, she’s entirely perfect.
“Look at me, Mouse.” Grey eyes slowly move up to meet his own. There’s a million thoughts and emotions shining in them, feelings that are kept dutifully hidden from any other portion of her body. He makes a note of that - her eyes are where the truth is held.
“I’m here to take you home. You don’t belong in this place any longer, toiling away so that stupid Guard Dogs don’t have to deal with their own pain. You’re coming home with me, to finally become the beloved pet that you deserve to be.”
Her carefully controlled demeanor is cracking. No one else would see it, perhaps, but as close as he is he can feel the way she’s shaking, can see the tears form in the corners of her eyes. She’s so, incredibly weary, and this is the one thing that she’s been waiting on since completing her training. A pity, some would say, that so much time was wasted training her for companionship only for her to end up here. Others might feel sorry for the pet herself and how disappointed she must have been, though anyone assigning that much weight to a pet’s feelings is an idiot.
For Beckham, though, it’s all exactly how it should be. She was placed here, fulfilling only half of her purpose, so that she would need him as much as he wants her. They’re perfect for one another.
“Come, little one.” He releases her chin, only to slide his hands behind her neck and unbuckle the ugly black shock collar around her neck. Without looking, he drops it into the hand of the flabbergasted guard, then reaches into his inner jacket pocket and brings out the new collar he’d purchased just for her. It’s thin and delicate, genuine leather dyed pink and embedded with pink diamonds. Just one of many fine pieces that she’ll wear in the coming days.
He brushes a strand of messy hair back from her face, and she melts, eyes fluttering shut. Beckham finally allows a smile onto his lips.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, implied attempted noncon, fear of noncon, mild referenced gore
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“Going to meet with Marshall again, eh?”
A ripple of chuckles runs around the bunkroom. Adelaide slows her movements momentarily, but then returns to quickly retying her boots, ignoring what is clearly a taunt. Why it’s a taunt, she hasn’t yet figured out, but everything these men say to her is meant to either insult her or get a rise out of her.
Footsteps approach, a pair of worn black boots stopping just in her line of vision. She knows it’s Jones without looking up. “Yeah, we all know all about your little, eh…visits.”
“Who knew it would be Marshall that’d end up getting what all the rest of us want?” someone else sneers from further away.
Heat rises into her cheeks, and her stomach turns. Is that what they think she and Marshall have been doing all this time? Of course it is. These men can’t possibly think she’s doing something like sword training, learning to defend herself from them. No, they apparently still have one thing only on their minds, and it makes her simultaneously sick and furious.
“Of course he did. He’s first mate. So while we get reprimanded for even trying to touch her, he gets to -”
In one, swift movement, Adelaide snatches her dagger from its scabbard at her hip and stands, placing the point of it directly underneath Jones’ chin. The look of surprise on his face nearly makes her smile. He covers it up quickly, of course, scowling back at her.
She raises her chin. “What I do is none of your concern, and I’ll thank you to keep your opinions on it to yourself.” She could dispute him on what they’re actually doing, attempt to dispel this nasty rumor, but she knows it would do no good. Shutting his mouth will satisfy her.
Jones snarls. “You think you and your little knife can stop me? Can stop us?” He gestures to the two other men in the room.
Fear threatens to turn her legs to jelly and steal away her voice, but she draws on the bit of confidence she’s gained from Marshall’s lessons and stands her ground. “I think slitting your throat would do nicely toward stopping you, yes. And I thought you were smarter than disobeying a direct order of the Captain, but…perhaps I was wrong.”
“You little minx -” He steps forward despite the knife, and it nearly works. She flinches at the movement and nearly lets him in closer, but at the last second she remembers she’s the one with the weapon. She pushes it back toward him, digging the point into the soft skin beneath his beard. He stops, glaring, but there’s a wariness behind the look, too.
His voice lowers, threatening, spit flying from his lips. “If you think that you can just keep hiding behind the Captain, you’re sorely mistaken. Trust me, I can have you without the Captain ever knowing. You’d better watch your back, miss.”
She does watch her back. Constantly. Every moment that she’s not on the upper decks, she’s afraid. His words make that choking, crawling fear even worse.
But she steels her expression, refusing to show it, refusing to back down. She knows that if he and the other two men really want, they can knock the dagger right out of her hand and do whatever they want. It’s three against one, and the one is far less experienced. They know it, too. She’s just hoping that the threat of the Captain finding out will sway them.
An eternity passes before anyone speaks again. “You’d better let her go, Jones,” one of the other men finally says. “We have to report for duty any minute.”
“Fine. I’d rather let her wait and wonder, anyway.” He gives a wicked smile as he backs away from the knife before turning to stroll out of the room.
Adelaide nearly collapses when the door shuts. She wants to curl up in the corner of the room and sob, to ask herself for the thousandth time why she’d ever left home, but she knows it would do her no good. The moment would end, eventually, she’d have to stop crying and get up and go on with this life that she was now trapped in, and all of the crying and questioning wouldn’t have made her feel any better. Or worse yet, someone would walk in and find her in the midst of her tears.
Besides, she does have a meeting with Marshall to get to, and she’s already running late.
As soon as she walks into the storage room after a tense walk through the bowels of the ship, she blurts out, “When can I begin carrying a real sword? I feel I’m ready for that now.” The dagger he’d given her helps, yes, but it’s nothing compared to the swords everyone else carries.
Marshall tilts his head to one side, studying her. “Did something happen?”
She’s shaking all over, she suddenly realizes, and she still has the knife gripped tightly in her hand. She slides it back into place a bit too aggressively. “I do not wish to talk about it.”
“Alright.” He still looks concerned, but he doesn’t push the matter any further. “Let’s see how you do today, and then we’ll discuss whether you may carry a sword. Remember, we agreed at the beginning that you had to be fully ready to fight with one before anyone else saw you with it.”
Teeth clenched, she nods tersely. “I remember. But I need to be ready now.”
“Very well.” Marshall draws his own sword, gesturing with his head toward where hers is leaning against a stack of crates. “Show me. Prove to me that you’re ready.”
He doesn’t believe in me. He thinks I’m just as weak as everyone else does. Grabbing up the sword, she dives into an attack immediately, swinging hard, barely focused on her aim past the need to hit, to be strong. Marshall deflects several in a row before spinning away and backing across the room.
“You’re angry. It’s making you sloppy.”
She grinds her teeth together and lunges after him, not bothering to correct her form at all. He deflects again, then shoves her away.
“Miss Gray -”
“Yes, I’m angry!” She attacks again, punctuating each statement with a swing of her sword. “I hate this life! I hate them, I hate this ship, I hate you for bringing me here!”
It comes out her mouth without thought, but she fumbles once she realizes what she’s said. Marshall, on the other hand, doesn’t seem fazed. He merely nods, sword still held ready.
“Good. It’s about time that you got angry. You deserve to feel it. And you can use that anger, you just have to pull it in and focus it.”
Hewants her to be angry? She’s never been allowed to be angry before, and it certainly has never been encouraged. Adelaide paces in a circle, emotions pounding energy through her veins and making it impossible to stand still. “I don’t know how.”
“Well, let’s get some of it out, first.” He beckons her forward with his hand. “Come. Give me your anger. Hit as hard as you need, and if you want to say what you’re angry at, do.”
She doesn’t need a second invitation to get back into fighting. It feels awkward at first to start talking again, to pour out her thoughts to this man, but after a moment the feelings bubble over into words.
“I was never supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to have to spend my life frightened, waiting to be attacked, or punished.” The more she speaks, the faster the words and her strikes become. “I’m so tired of being scared! I just wanted to get away from Charles. I wanted to have a chance to live without a man forcing himself on me, and instead, I have a dozen of them attempting it!” She chases after Marshall as he dodges her. “And I hate myself for leaving, and I hate that living with him now seems like it wasn’t that bad, and I hate that this is probably my punishment for forsaking my marriage.”
This time when he pushes her back, she stays, panting, slightly embarrassed for revealing all of her sins, but surprisingly calmer than she had been.
Marshall, thankfully, doesn’t comment on anything she’s just said. “Now that you’re not exploding, we can work on focusing it. Feel it in your center. Don’t try to suppress it, let it give you strength, but keep your head and remember the skills you’ve learned at the same time.”
Right. She can…do that, she thinks. The anger is certainly still burning inside of her, just smoldering now instead of flaming up into a wildfire. She still wants to hit something, still wants to prove herself. But her mind is clearer.
Nodding, she drops back into her ready stance, sword raised. And she waits. Steadies her breaths, slows her heart beat. Marshall has taught her to always be wary of making the first move.
He rewards her patience by making it himself. She blocks his swing, and the next, ducks under a third and skips backward to reset. By the time he’s turned around she’s charging. She bombards him with a flurry of strikes, which he can only continuously parry, stepping back each time until he’s up against a stack of crates. Just as she’s ready to pin him, though, he spins out of the way and finds his footing again in the center of the room.
If she didn’t know better, she’d say he’s…having fun. Almost smiling. She is fighting better than she ever has before, but she can’t dwell on that or she’ll lose her momentum.
Their fights have been getting longer, as she’s been able to hold out better, but this may be the longest yet. It almost feels as if they’re evenly matched for once.
He does still win, eventually, locking down her sword arm and feinting a blow to the head, but she finds she doesn’t mind at all. They’re both out of breath, but she feels like the warmth inside of her is less from anger now and more…a glow, from knowing she’s done well. She’s actually proud of herself, for once.
“I believe…” He huffs, digging the tip of his sword into the wooden floor and leaning on the hilt, “…that you are correct. You areready.”
This piece is for the original Kestrel Sisters AU (not the BBU version). Leigh and Liliana have been kidnapped by Leigh’s former whumper, Malcolm, and are being held in an abandoned warehouse.
Malcolm and Leigh belong to @for-the-love-of-angst ! Thank you for letting me play with them!
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Warnings: lady whumpees with male whumper, captivity, referenced parental death/abandonment, homelessness, starvation, touch repulsion, touch starvation, implied torture, self-deprecating thoughts
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It’s quiet in the dark concrete room. Leigh is awake, but silent, insisting on ‘keeping watch’ even though they’re both aware by now that she won’t be able to do anything to stop Malcolm if he comes for one of them.
Liliana is supposed to be asleep. She’s curled up in the corner, shivering, arms wrapped around her middle as if she could possibly hold in some warmth or ease the cramps in her empty stomach. It isn’t the first time she’s needed to sleep in the cold, and it’s certainly not the first time she’s gone hungry. Hunger has become such a familiar part of her life over the past two years that she wouldn’t know who she was without it.
She’s never let it get this bad before, though. There’s not ever much to eat, but there’s usually something. So far, in the time they’ve been here, which has to have been a couple of days, at least, he’s only offered them water. Which helps, of course, but can only go so far.
Another cramp threatens to rip her in half, and she curls in further on herself, biting back a whimper.
“Lili? You okay?”
It throws her off, still, how casual and familiar Leigh is with her. Giving her a nickname, acting like they’ve known each other for years. Which, for Leigh, they have, in a way. Apparently she was old enough when…they were separated, however that happened, that she actually remembers her sisters. Probably remembers calling her by that nickname when she was just a baby.
It’s all too wild and overwhelming for Liliana to quite get a grasp on, though. Part of her even refuses to believe it. To accept that her parents, the ones that she grew up with, the ones that she fled from as soon as she turned eighteen, aren’t even her actual parents, and that she…had? has? another set of parents out there who…what? Died? Abandoned her? She doesn’t even know, isn’t sure she wants to know. Leigh might be able to tell her, but they haven’t had a lot of time for chitchat in between being tormented by their captor.
“Are you awake?”
Oh, right. She’d apparently gone into a daze, unaware of how much time was passing since Leigh first addressed her. “Mhm. ‘m fine.” Her voice sounds atrocious. Going from months on end of hardly speaking at all to a couple of days of screaming and crying has not done it any favors.
There’s the sound of movement, and a moment later Leigh crawls close enough that she can actually make out her features in the darkness. A look of concern is etched into her face, though that seems to be her default right now, when she doesn’t look angry or in pain. “Are you sure? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“N-no.” Finally deciding that she can’t stand the cold of the concrete floor seeping through her clothes anymore, she shoves herself upward with weak, shaky arms, immediately regretting it when what little she can see disappears into a black void.
When her brain stops pounding into her skull and she’s aware of her surroundings again, there are hands on her, gripping her arms. Gasping sharply, she jerks away. Her spine slams against the wall, heart beating wildly.
“Sorry! I’m sorry. You almost fell, I was trying to help.”
It’sLeigh. Just Leigh, no one is trying to hurt her.
“S-sorry. Sorry.” She sucks in a deep breath, trying to calm her heart. “I j-just, um…got lightheaded.”
Leigh hums thoughtfully, but doesn’t say anything else right away. Liliana can almost feel her staring, analyzing her, but she can’t find it in her to worry about that right now. Her head has started aching again, rivaling the pain in her stomach, and she’s so weak and shaky that it’s taking all of her focus just to stay upright. An extra intense shiver nearly knocks her over.
“You’re freezing.” It isn’t quite a question, but it’s more than a statement. Liliana isn’t sure how she’s the only one shivering, in this frigid room, but then again, maybe it’s just her. She always struggles to keep warm.
“I’d offer to share some body heat with you, but…” Leigh trails off, leaving the thought unfinished. There are probably a couple of ways it could end. “But you just freaked out when I touched you,”and“But you smell like a dumpster,” are both valid options.
“I’m fine.”
Silence falls again. Liliana listens to Leigh’s breathing and tries to match her own to it, but it’s difficult to keep a steady rhythm.
“Listen, I know I’ve already said this once, but…I’m so sorry that you got caught up in this. You…do-…-e here…me…-colm…you…”
Liliana grits her teeth, trying to focus on the words, but they fade in and out, mixing with the pounding of her pulse in her temples. Then they stop, and she should say something, she’s being rude, but she doesn’t even know what was said and she’s not used to carrying on conversations and she’s not really sure what words even are anymore, her mind is just static and pain and cold and hunger, until she feels herself falling sideways and can’t do a thing to stop it.
She wakes lying on her back with her head pillowed on something softer than the concrete. There’s a hand on her face, and she flinches, trying to swat it away, but her arms are made of lead and won’t cooperate. The hand moves anyway.
“Shh, Lili. You’re okay. Can you hear me?”
She gives a sound somewhere between a grunt and a groan in response.
“Okay. I need you to tell me something. Are you bleeding anywhere?”
It takes her a moment to fully comprehend the question, but she shakes her head no.
“Good. That’s good.” Leigh hesitates, and Liliana takes a second to try and orient herself. Leigh’s face is above her now. She must be…yes, she’s lying with her head on her lap. The proximity makes her heart skip a beat, but she doesn’t have the strength to change her position.
“When’s the last time you ate something? Before…before coming here?”
Food. Liliana’s stomach groans at the thought. It’s a struggle to get her mind to go back that far, to remember the day before she was kidnapped, and even more of a struggle to put the memories into words.
“I…I had a…the end of…a sandwich? Like…like…” ¿Cuál es la palabra, cuál es la palabra? “…el pan, con mayonesa. Para el desayuno.” She doesn’t even register that she’s switched to the language she grew up speaking.
“Not a whole sandwich? Just…bread with mayonnaise?”
Liliana hums in agreement, holding up two fingers to indicate how big the piece had been. She’d hoped for at least a little bit of meat left on it when she pulled it out of its takeout box, but hadn’t been that lucky.
“¿Qué más?” Leigh urges softly.
“Saved the…the fries…for dinner.”
“Fries. Okay. Just…plain fries?”
“Mhm.” It had been about a handful. Most were the small, crunchy bits, but she didn’t mind. They had good seasoning, even cold.
“And that was…the day before you were taken? You didn’t eat anything the day of?”
“No. No pude encontrar nada.” She’d just thought she was hungry that morning. It was nothing compared to now.
“You couldn’t find…” Leigh cuts off, then after a moment leans down so she’s looking Liliana directly in the eyes. She tries to focus in on her, but her facial features seem to be wavering and multiplying.
“Lili…I could be completely wrong about this, but…are you…homeless?”
The shame is like a punch to the chest. It’s not like she’s tried to hide the truth from her…her sister. But she was perfectly okay with her not knowing. From what she’d gathered from her clothing and snippets of conversation, she’s a successful businesswoman. Might even possibly be the CEO of a company, if she’d heard correctly.
And her little sister lives next to a dumpster and survives off other people’s trash and charity.
Still, she can’t lie to her. So she nods, slowly, and whispers, “Sí.”
There’s no real reaction. Leigh leans her head back against the wall again, staring off into the distance, not saying anything. Before Liliana can go too deep into her spiral of she’s disgusted by me she’s ashamed to call me sister she wishes I’d stayed out of her life, though, something touches the top of her head, yanking her attention away. It’s…fingers. Leigh is running her fingers through Liliana’s hair.
She freezes, mind going in a dozen different directions. Someone’s touching her, and touching always means pain, but…this feels really nice? It doesn’t hurt at all, but it could hurt, it could change at any moment, she could grab a handful of her hair and pull…but then again this is Leigh, and she hasn’t treated her with anything but kindness over the past couple of days. But she really shouldn’t be touching her hair, her hair is gross, it’s greasy and matted and no nice, respectable person like Leigh should be putting their hands anywhere near it. Except it’s so gentle, and soothing, and she hasn’t been touched like this in…in years, and she can’t seem to do anything but melt into it, eyes drifting shut.
“You were probably half starving already,” Leigh murmurs. Liliana’s eyes flicker open at the sound, but are too heavy to stay that way long. “We ne-…-ou some foo-…-re really worr-…me.”
The pitch blackness behind her eyelids is inviting. Her head doesn’t hurt so much anymore, even her stomach has calmed, no longer trying to turn itself inside out. She doesn’t know what Leigh is saying, but her voice is soothing, despite the fact that it sounds very far away.
Suddenly the hair petting stops, and there’s a warm hand on her cheek, tapping. Pulling herself back up out of the depths of the darkness is difficult, but eventually she manages to pry her eyes open, the pain in her head spiking again with her return.
“Lili, you need to stay awake.”
Stay awake? Had she fallen asleep? She tries to answer, but words are hard. English, especially, is hard. “Cansado,” she finally manages.
“Sí, lo sé.” She doesn’t go back to rubbing her hair, and Liliana wishes she would, but she does keep her hand against her cheek, and that feels pretty nice, too. Occasionally her thumb strokes across her cheekbone.
They spend what could be an eternity like that, Liliana floating on the edge of consciousness while Leigh does her best to keep her on the waking side of it. Sometimes she nearly gives into the darkness again, and the tapping fingers bring her back. Sometimes Leigh hums, or talks, and even though she can’t concentrate on what she’s saying it’s nice to have the reminder that she’s not alone.
Finally, the lock on the heavy door turns with an echoing click that catches her attention. She turns her head on Leigh’s lap just in time to see the door creak open slightly, a man’s hand rolling three water bottles onto the floor.
“Hey!” Leigh’s voice rings out sharply, none of the earlier softness there now. The hand is gone, but the door pauses, not closing yet. “Tell Malcolm that if he doesn’t get some food in here right now he’s about to lose one of his pets.”
The door opens a bit more, and the man steps in - through the haze, Liliana recognizes him as one of the men who’d grabbed her from the alley - light spilling into the room with him. He squints in their direction, looking them up and down.
A sharp pain stabs through Liliana’s stomach, and she winces before shutting her eyes again. Leigh and the man are having a conversation above her that she can’t decipher. Somewhere in the distance, there’s the sound of a door shutting, then a hand begins carding through her hair again, fingers tapping on her cheek. She hums, but can’t make her eyes open this time. It’s just too hard.
The next thing she’s aware of is a scent. It takes her a moment to process it and place where she’s smelled it before. It’s…peanut butter. Her eyes pry themselves open almost of their own volition, even though she’s half convinced that she’s hallucinating.
“Hey, chica.” Leigh smiles down at her, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I’ve got food for you, open up.”
Liliana obeys automatically, and a small piece of something is slipped between her lips. The taste of peanut butter explodes across her tongue. Whatever it is, it’s chewy, with chunks in it that she identifies as peanuts. Leigh is waiting with another piece pinched in her fingers as soon as she’s done swallowing that one.
As she chews the second bite, her eyes flick up to Leigh’s face, and the granola bar she’s holding. A small smile crosses her lips when she sees Liliana looking at her. “You really scared us, you know that?”
Liliana isn’t sure what she did, but she whispers, “Sorry.”
“Just eat right now.” Leigh pushes another bite up to her mouth. “But let me know if it gets to be too much.”
“I can…I can do it.” Having to be hand fed is far too embarrassing. The look Leigh gives her is dubious, but she holds the granola bar out to her anyway. It takes all of Liliana’s strength to raise her arm and grasp it, hand shaking so hard she nearly misses, and once it’s in her hand she can’t quite seem to bring it any closer to her face. She feels pathetic. Leigh hasn’t had food while they were here, either, and she seems perfectly fine.
Without a word, Leigh wraps her hand around Liliana’s and guides the food toward her. It isn’t much better than hand feeding, but Liliana swallows what little pride she has left and accepts it.
She manages to make it through three-fourths of the granola bar before she decides she can’t hold anymore. Leigh wraps it up carefully and sets it to the side, then goes immediately back to petting her hair.
“We’ll try to get some more in you in a little while. There’s another bar here, too, that you can have when you’re done with this one.”
There’s something…questionable about that statement, but she doesn’t currently have the energy to figure out what and why.
They stay huddled together for a while longer, not speaking much. Eventually Leigh helps Liliana sit up again, which sends her head spinning, though not as badly as before. She takes more bites of granola bar whenever she feels she can. Leigh stays pressed up against her side the whole time, and Liliana is surprised to find she doesn’t mind it at all.
Then the lock turns and the door opens again, and Malcolm himself steps inside. A harsh shiver runs down Liliana’s spine at the sight of him. Leigh shifts even closer to her, face set like stone.
“Well, Birdy.” His voice is sickly sweet, his eyes roving over them with far too much delight. “I think it’s time you pay me for the food you ordered.”
Liliana can feel the way Leigh flinches, and finds herself reaching out to hold onto her arm. She doesn’t know precisely what the man wants, but she knows it isn’t good.
“I did you a favor,” Leigh spits. “I kept you from killing her with your neglect.”
Instead of getting angry, he smiles. “Hm. You’re right, the little one is the troublemaker, here.” His gaze is solely on Liliana now, and it makes her skin crawl. “Maybe she should be the one to pay up.”
“No!” Leigh is on her feet instantly. “I’ll do it. Leave her alone.”
“Leigh -” She may not know her sister very well, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t scared for her.
“It’s okay, Lili. Just keep resting. I’ll be back soon, alright?”
Liliana watches helplessly as Malcolm latches onto Leigh and tugs her out of the room. The door shuts and locks with an ominous clang. She’s suddenly freezing again without Leigh next to her, but she’s pretty sure that the way her body is trembling is more from fear than the cold.
She isn’t worth whatever he’s about to do to Leigh. She should have just left her alone.
CW: lady whumpee, lady whump, past torture, manhandling, drowning, dehumanization.
=-=
She was right. Anna thought about the punishment? lesson? What was it this time? Was there even a reason at all?
Rachel had said she wouldn’t be able to as much as open her eyes and she truly couldn’t. She could only feel the pain, the blood, the fear. Rachel was saying something, using the sweet condescending tone he always uses, but Anna couldn’t hear a word through everything.
She groaned, or tried, her throat was too hoarse to allow her to actually make a sound, Rachel picked her up and she wanted to ask her not to. To beg. It almost never works but she can’t stop herself from pleading for any strand of mercy Rachel might have.
Anna heard the chains falling down, and groaned again when Rachel carried her up the stairs to the bathroom. She must have passed out somewhere in the way because when she came back her head was being forced in the full bathtub.
Rachel pulled her out as soon as she started struggling, “Stupid mutt, I told you not to sleep without permission. Didn’t I?”
Anna gave a small nod, her body limp and hurting too much already, she just wanted it to stop.
She passed out another two times during the bath, both times she was forced awake by despair and pain.
“Oh mutt…” Rachel said, chaining the now clean and with dressed wounds Anna near the dog bed inside Rachel’s room, “If you weren’t so stupid I would be so much nicer to you,” she grabbed her victms’ hair, “are you listing to me?”
Anna nodded, trying to force herself to stay awake. She had to force herself to listen.
“Idiot, this is the reason you are hurting all the time, because you fucking deserve it, or do you think I am the only one who would hurt a idiot like you?” Rachel let go of her.
The chain was too short, forcing Anna on her knees, she whined pitifully, trying to be allowed to lay down, else she would choke everytime she fell asleep. The whine only earned her a hard slap across the face.
“Think about what you did mutt,” Rachel said, walking towards her bed, where she lay down comfortably, “in silence.”
Dude, you cannot even comprehend my love of aliens that don’t understand human currency/culture and oh my word, YESSSSSSS. Lol, that was definitely my favorite! <3
And then the shock (*ba dum ch!*) of the electrocution was great! I genuinely thought she was home free lol, I was like, “Dang, this alien is bad at his job-“ NOPE. HE WAS PREPARED!
It was the little things, really, that she hated. He tortured her of course, but what she really couldn’t take was the way he stretched after, like he had done anything strenuous. The way he ate in front of her, not the fact that he did, but instead how his mouth made stupidly loud noises and exaggerated shapes just from eating a sandwich. She hated how he grinned, teeth crooked and lips cracked. It’s strange, she’d always found a crooked smile charming, now she just wants to break his jaw.
He would leave her and it felt like a breath of sorely missed fresh air, but then she would hear his heavy footsteps above her. She would hear the occasional laugh or heavy sigh and she would imagine suffocating him until he couldn’t do either. She could even hear his bed creak when he settled in for the night, groaning loud under his weight. She would sleep too, except he had alarms set randomly throughout the night. She doesn’t know if it’s specifically designed to keep her up or if he just doesn’t know about the incessant noise that mixed with his grunting snores. Because of course he wouldn’t wake up to them. No, he would wake up at around 10 am the next day and he would walk down the steps to start the day with a new torture device to try out. He promised a bat tomorrow, to break her kneecaps.
She would break every bone in his body if she could, all 206, then go back to break them all again.
She hated him and the only thing keeping her going was her burning, festering spite.
Adelaide is early to training, for once. It’s the first time she’s ever been in the store room alone, so she takes a moment to look around, peeking in and behind crates. They multiply every time The Dark Storm stops another ship. Most seem to be food stuffs and other marketable supplies like cloth and cookware. Many are nailed shut, their contents remaining a secret.
Then there is the one she manages to peek into that’s full of glittering gold bracelets and pearl necklaces, which she gapes at for a moment before pulling it shut and quickly backing away. There’s no way she’s allowing herself to be caught even looking at something of that value.
Behind it, though, something even more interesting catches her eye. It’s just a small trunk, nothing lavish, but it’s familiar. It’s hers. She’d brought it with her, on The Golden Rose, full of her own clothing and trinkets that she’d wanted to use once she was settled in her new life.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, brief mild gore, referenced past torture, creepy/intimate whumper, stalking, mentioned panic attack
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Unknown:
How’s your hand?
She hasn’t added the number into her contacts. She can’t risk his name coming up on the screen where someone can see it. And there’s something strange, something wrong about giving him a fake name on her phone when his real name is carved into her skin.
Unknown:
Attachment: 1 image
She never wants to look. But she can’t delete the photos without seeing them. Or maybe it’s just some kind of morbid curiosity, or some hope that maybe one time it won’t be a picture of herself being tortured.
Warnings: lady whumpee with male whumper, selective mutism, stalking, creepy/intimate whumper, choking, broken ribs, burns
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It’s been a week since Devin’s birthday party. Six days since she received the texted photo from Oliver. She hasn’t gotten anything else from him, but she’s barely been able to touch her phone all week for fear that she would.
It took her a couple of days before she could speak at all, and even now the ability comes and goes seemingly at random. Today, the very first day that she’s ventured out of the house since the party, she managed to force out enough words to order her favorite mocha at the coffee shop where she does a large portion of her illustrating. Now she stands close to the pick-up counter, carefully angled where she can see the door without looking like she’s staring at everyone who walks in.
