For@whumpawoman Angstpril; prompts are Whumper-Run-In,Panic Attack, and maybe even Revenge.
This arc is a collaboration with @for-the-love-of-nsfwhump , Damiel is hers and in this universe, they’re married to Ira. Also - this is a piece of writing I’m very proud of, and I hope that you like it.
Cw panic attack, referenced captivity, referenced lady whump, referenced death of a loved one. Not much whump, yet big on the angst.
Emma is pulling at Isaac’s hand, and he almost has to jog to keep up with her short legs. “Your uncle is an old man, Emmy,” he says, half joking. He’s not old, but he can’t walk fast. Not since he’s had a bullet lodged in his hip, in the night that cost him everything.
“But I can see the playground already! Can I go? Please?"
He can see it, too. A big wooden pirate ship, some swings, a handful of other adults and kids wrapped into warm clothes on this sunny day in late fall. It’s just some meters, he tells himself. It’s safe. Still, it takes him some seconds to force his fingers to open and let his niece’s gloved hand slip out of his, as she races off. There’s something to the way she runs. Despite the childish joy to her movements, the somewhat clumsy way she sets her feet, he still thinks of Sophie. Sophie, who can’t be here, who has never met her niece, and whose laugh he misses every single day. The last thing he’s seen her do was run. Run by his side, to safety, to freedom. It had been so close. They could’ve been together. They should be.
They aren’t. He’s alone.
On the playground, Emma has reached the pirate ship and is already climbing up, gloves dropped on the ground, hands and booted feet steady on the small climbing grips. Sophie and him have always wanted kids. They’d talked about it often enough, before they went to bed. Two, at least, one boy and one girl, maybe. He wonders, if they’d ended up with the light brown curls Emma shares with him, or maybe more of the straight black hair from Sophie’s side.
He’ll never know.
There’s another kid going up the wooden wall next to Emma now, a black girl her age with a cloud of curls around her and purple earmuffs. He’s still out of earshot, but he sees them talking, racing each other to the captain’s stand on top. The other girl’s parent is standing close, arms folded, attentive. They’re tall, at least six feet, lean and muscular, and something about them makes Isaac’s stomach clench. They look like them. Like the figure from his nightmares, the one he sees in every crowd, the reason why he can’t ride the subway or go to crowded pubs, or do anything outside. Like the tall, lean monster, the one who took Sophie away from him, when he’d ran away with her, when she’d finally seen him, and believed him, and she’d looked at him and told him she loved him. The monster has hunted them down without remorse, they’ve grabbed her and hurt her and dragged her away. Isaac still remembers her screams, her panic, her fear, and the cold, brutal efficiency of the hunter.
His steps have slowed involuntarily. Usually, he’d just turn around and leave. The park is big, he can go somewhere else, somewhere he doesn’t have to be around his memories, but his with Emmy, and the tall figure is right next to her.
It’s not them, he thinks. It’s not them, they are far away, they are somewhere in the woods hunting their next victim, they aren’t the folk to hang around on playgrounds, they wouldn’t care about Emma.
His shirt is soaked with cold sweat, as he forces himself to step closer. "Emmy,” he calls. His voice is trembling, broken almost. “Emmy, baby, come here, we’re leaving.”
She doesn’t hear him, or pretends not to, as she jumps onto the slide down.
The tall one has heard him, though, head snapped back, taking in the whole situation, the playground, the other parents, and Isaac, frozen in place. Long braids are falling from underneath their woolen hat, eyes narrowed, lips pressed together into a thin line.
It’s them. It’s not their shadow, not a memory from the past, it’s them, the hunter, it’s the one who shattered everything Isaac had ever dreamt of to pieces in a single night.
“No,” Isaac whispers tonelessly. “No, no, no.” He wants to step back, but his legs are rubber, there’s the edge of the sandbox behind him, and he falls, to his knees, shivering, panting. His hands claw into the sand, like they did into the forest ground six years ago, but he can’t feel, there’s nothing, only emptiness.
“Sir,” they call, and he thinks he remembers their voice. They’ve called someone else Sir that night, too, in a voice rougher than today, but he recognizes it anyway. “Are you okay?”
He’s not. He’s not, he will never be, he can’t ever be okay, and it’s because of them, and they don’t even seem to know. He stares at them blankly from where he’s kneeling on the ground, at them and the white-haired young woman suddenly by their side. He wants to warn her, to warn Emmy, anyone, but his voice has left him, and he’s helpless to watch. The woman is holding a toddler, and she hands him off, to them, and Isaac’s vision narrows, gets black around the edges. He can’t breathe. He hears them talk, French, he thinks, and that it’s odd that he can still find a coherent thought, and then a soft hand is laying on his arm and the woman is talking to him. “Breathe, Sir, breathe with me, alright?” Her voice is quiet and smooth, and he wonders if he’s actually breathing, maybe he’s not, maybe he’s just dying, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad.
“In through the nose,” the woman says, and he feels her hand gently pressing his to give him a rhythm. “Out through the mouth.”
Shakily, he nods, follows her lead. He doesn’t look up, just stares at their hands, hers over his, in the dirty sand of the sandbox. In through the nose. Her hand is small, a little red because of the cold, and there are some scars, crisscrossing lines in her tan skin. Out through the mouth. Her nails are clipped short, a little dirt underneath them, and her fingers are calloused, as if she works a lot with her hands. In through the nose. There’s a broad black band tattooed around her wrist, and he sees some colorful patterns emerge over it, vanishing under her sleeve. Out through-
“Cherie,” the hunter says.
His breath hitches. His eyes are glued to the wedding band.
“Pas maintenant,” she mumbles.
Isaac sees their feet show up in his vision, clad in bright yellow winter boots. They were wearing boots back then, too, but those were black. Do they know who he is? Do they know, what they did to him? He doesn’t dare looking up.
“Tu lui fais peur,” she says. “J'arrive. Cinq minutes, Dami?”
Dami.
Dami. Damiel.
Isaac gags. He remembers the name. He always will. It’s them. The person who just steps back. The person with the purple woolen hat and the bright winter jacket, a happy parent on a playground, a protective spouse.
A beautiful wife. Two kids. A boy and a girl.
They retreat, while their wife goes on counting, and Isaac nods. In and out. Yes. He’s breathing. His heart rate is slowing down, his vision is starting to clear.
Damiel.
Damiel, the monster, who took the world from Isaac, gained everything Isaac himself lost forever.
“Are you better?”, the woman asks.
Isaac looks up, into her dark eyes, clouded with worry. She’s not as pretty as Sophie was, but there’s something to her. Something that made Damiel love her. To choose her, as mother to their kids, to build a family with.
There have been moments, many of them, in sleepless nights, when Isaac thought about revenge. About what he’d do, should he ever encounter the monster again. Death couldn’t be enough. Torture couldn’t be enough. Hollow and empty, nothing compared to what they did to him.
He knows, now.
“Yeah,” he whispers, and allows her to help him back to his feet. “Yes, thank you. I will be.”
I didn’t fulfil the ten writes I planned - butI did manage to work with 10 prompts, and I’m proud of all of them! These are some pretty good pieces of my writing.
So, here they are:
For“The Romeo and Juliet AU” (Dany with @painful-pooch s Mykhailo; trauma and coping, referenced noncon):
[A Chance] for prompt Left Behind (it’s a rescue!)
[Playground] for prompts Whumper Run-In and Panic Attack
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Thank you for hosting this event, dear Angstpril team, looking forward to the next one! And thank you to everyone who I collaborated with, it was great fun!
This is for @whumpawoman Angstpril, prompts Exhaustion and Left Behind. Set in Ira’s story, several months after Gemma and Mark, and a few weeks before she will meet Dami for the first time.
Cw BBU, pet whump, very briefly referenced forced prostitution, vaguely referenced noncon and the whole messed up WRU/BBU system. But this, well - this is a rescue.
At 34, Poppy DeMarco felt too old for her job. There were days that went alright, sure, but lately, the bad days prevailed and it grew harder and harder to unwind at night.
Today was a particularly bad day.
The case was routine, pimping and prostitution, some college kid wanting to make a quick buck by producing porn of his romantic WRU pet and selling her out to his most loyal followers.
And as always with these business majors, he’d been ridiculously amateurish. Felt invincible, even now, when two of her colleagues guided him into a police car. Thankfully, the car door slamming shut cut off his babble about his dad’s connections, about how they’d all get disciplinary hearings, and everything he’d done was legal. Spoilt asshole.
“Gotta loooove frat boys,” her colleague Rosa mumbled next to her. “Can’t believe I’ve dated one back in the day.”
“Mmh.” Poppy only half listened, focus set on the white-haired girl kneeling next to the huge bed, dressed in nothing but a white leather collar and some… thing of translucent white lace. Position 2. All pliant. She hadn’t moved during the entire operation. “Show me your wrist, dear?”
She obeyed without hesitation, even though her dark eyes were wide with fear, and her shoulders trembled, dry leaves in the wind. “Good girl,” Poppy said, sickening routine using WRU’s conditioning herself, and she could almost see the relief in the girl’s posture. Gingerly, she held the girl’s wrist in her own hand, careful to avoid the bruises coiled around her arms, while she scanned her code.
“805609,” the girl mumbled. “Designation romantic.”
“Right,” Poppy confirmed and nodded at Rosa. “Legally registered to a Adam Summers, the man himself. Third owner already.”
“She’s so young.” Rosa’s voice was flat.
Poppy sighed. “They all are, aren’t they?”
“Still.” Rosa shuddered. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Don’t. Only makes our job harder.” Poppy let go off the girl’s hand, but she didn’t draw back. Instead, she inched closer, looking up at her from under long lashes. “I’ll be good,” she said, voice melodic and the tiniest bit hoarse, perfectly seductive, yet still seeming natural. “Please, don’t send me back. Please… let me be good.” She reached for Poppy’s forearm, graciously, and her whole body followed the movement.
Poppy had tried to learn that sort of elegance in her dancing class, back when she thought she could actually have a private life. She’d failed.
What did they do to you to make you like this?
No. Poppy was going to listen to her own advice. Don’t think about it.
“It’s okay, darling,” she said, gingerly brushing off the girl’s arm. It was scarred, under the bruises. The girl was scarred everywhere. Cuts, mostly. Burn marks. Something that looked like lashes, across her flat stomach and on her thighs. Poppy didn’t even want to think about how her back looked like. She just felt tired. “We’ll take care of you.” The words tasted like ash on her tongue. They wouldn’t. They’d follow protocol, and protocol said to bring her back to WRU, who’d make arrangements with the owner; either keep her there until he’d come back from prison at horrendous day rates, or refurbish and resell.
The kid faced at least a year in jail. Probably more, given the scale of his productions. He’d never pay the upkeep for a pet. He’d resell. She’d be a discount. She’d never look like the virgin every prospective wanted.
“What’s your name?” Poppy didn’t even know why she asked, she hated herself as soon as the words were out. It wasn’t even like she could have a name of her own. It had been taken from her, like everything had.
“Ira.” She looked up again, a shy smile on her face. “Ira Winters.”
Of course, she remembered. Summers had advertised with the name he’d given her. He’d made the girl a porn star, after all. Poppy’s stomach turned.
Rosa’s thoughts seemed to go in the same direction. “Have you seen these… clips he made of her?”
“What I had to.”
“Mh. Me too.”
They both looked at the half naked girl in silence. It took some minutes, before Poppy spoke to Rosa again.
“People disappear in the system, often enough, you know.”
“Mh. Pets, especially,” Rosa confirmed.
“Nobody bats an eye. And Frat Boy won’t miss her, where he’s going.”
The girl - Ira - glanced at them, gaze shifting from one to the other. Careful. Knowing. “He is…,” she whispered. “He is my owner, but I… uhm. I won’t miss him either.”
“She’s fucking bright,” Rosa mumbled under her breath. “You think she’d stand a chance?”
Poppy swallowed, pushed her hands deep into her pockets. Did she? Pets were made to be dependent on their owners, Romantics most of them. Being third hand helped, though, it seemed. The last pets she’d worked with would’ve begged to go to prison alongside their owners. This one, Ira, was a lot further, it seemed. She might have been over that bond - but her past was so clearly imprinted on her skin, she’d always carry it with her.
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But she sure as hell deserves one.”
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 is a collab piece! Meli is my Kingdom Hearts OC, A’ninsi is @hopepetal ‘s FF14 OC. So why not throw them together and see what happens? We came up with all kinds of things that could happen to them in this AU, so it’s possible there will be a continuation in the future.
Warnings:referenced loss of limb, death mention
<><><><><><><><>
The Light burned.
A swirling, raging storm inside of them, that could not be quelled by any force… but it could be briefly suppressed, thanks to Ryne’s magic. Although… it wouldn’t matter in the end, would it? if A'ninsi kept the Light, they’d be turned into a lightwarden. If they let it break free, all their work would be undone.
Not to mention the very minor detail of their lost leg. It turned out to be incredibly difficult, finding their sense of balance on one leg and a crutch. They had gone back to their room to rest when suddenly…
…they were somewhere else.
A'ninsi’s first thought was “The Echo?” but they quickly dismissed the thought as they practically collapsed against the nearest thing- a large boulder which they had been lucky enough to appear next to. Leaning on it for support, A'ninsi looked around. “By the twelve…” they murmured, “what…?”
A familiar voice- an irritating one at that- rang out in their mind. “Oh, do calm yourself. You should be used to traveling the rift now.”
Their eyes narrowed. They would’ve snapped back at him, had it not been for the pain that shot through them. “Twelve-”
“I simply transported you to another world. And I was even kind enough to give you a friend.” They could practically see the smirk on Emet-Selch’s face as he continued. “You’ll find she’s in quite the opposite predicament to you. Have fun~”
A'ninsi gasped as heat built in their body, the Light straining to break free. A soft cry of agony made its way past their lips, and their grip on the boulder loosened. No- gods, not now! Keep it together, A'ninsi! Their vision went blurry, and they squeezed their eyes shut. After a moment, they slowly opened their eyes. It seemed the worst had passed… for the moment.
Once again, they looked around, now searching for the “friend” Emet-Selch had dragged into this. As if summoned by the thought, a purple-haired girl stumbled into view in the distance. One hand gripped what looked to be a strangely-shaped sword, while the other pressed up against her side. She didn’t seem to have noticed A’ninsi yet.
A'ninsi swallowed hard, steeling themselves. They didn’t think they’d be able to fight if it came to it. After a moment, they called out.
“Hello?”
They looked down at their chakrams. There was no way they’d be able to fight as they were right now. Gods… Emet-Selch really had the worst timing, didn’t he?
The girl spun around at the sound of their voice, sword held out towards them. A beat of silence passed before she called out, “Who’s there?”
A'ninsi’s breath caught in their throat. “I’m not going to hurt you!” they called, “in all honesty, I doubt I could even if I wanted to.” They were half hidden behind the rock, so they waved slightly. Their relaxed tone and movements didn’t match the fear and apprehension shown by their ears flattening against their head, their tail flicking back and forth.
Hesitantly, the girl lowered the sword just a bit before starting to walk slowly toward them. She stopped before getting too close, but was still close enough that they could see the distrust in her narrowed eyes.
“Who are you?”
A'ninsi smiled wearily. “My name is A'ninsi. I was teleported here by someone- I have no idea what this place is or why you are here, before you ask.” They took a deep breath, trying to calm themselves. “Who are you?”
After a moment, the girl lowered the sword to the ground. “Teleported, huh?” She shook her head, glancing around as she muttered to herself. “Just what I need, someone else yanking me around to do whatever they want…”
Sighing, she turned back to them. “I’m Meli.”
A'ninsi sighed, their eyes briefly flicking to the sword before returning to the girl- Meli. “I’m sorry about this, Meli.” A pause. “He said you were struggling with a condition opposite of mine. Are you having trouble with Darkness?” they ventured. This was probably a sensitive question, but… they needed to know.
Meli stiffened, mouth dropping into a scowl. “I’m not struggling with Darkness,” she spat. “I chose the Darkness I have.” An aura of it rose from her body, swirling around her as she spoke.
The Light inside of A'ninsi flared to life, a burning anger. They cried out as it began to escape, desperately trying to pull it back. Their vision turned white at the edges, everything becoming blurry.
They lost their grip on the boulder, collapsing with a cry. The Light continued to rage inside them, pulsing out around them in small bursts. A'ninsi coughed up liquid Light, their whole body shaking. “No…. gods, please… help me,” they begged, feeling tears well up in their eyes.
Meli stepped forward, arm outstretched as if to help, but hissed and quickly stepped back, a grimace on her face. “Ugh. S-sorry. Sorry, I…” She made a pained sound in the back of her throat and stumbled a few more steps backwards. “I didn’t mean to.”
A'ninsi gasped for air as tears began to fall. The pain spiked sharply, causing them to let out a warbling cry of panic. A moment later, the pain began to subside, leaving A'ninsi to fully collapse against the ground, panting heavily. They closed their eyes, pressing their face against the cool earth. “…sorry about that,” they mumbled, barely able to keep conscious. “…the Light doesn’t exactly… like Darkness.” They opened their eyes and slowly pushed themselves up to sit against the rock.
“N-no kidding.” She was bent over, one hand on her knee while the other still held her side, panting. “Give me a second, I’m just gonna try to…”
She shut her eyes, breathing deeply through her nose, though pain kept flickering across her face with each inhale. After a moment, the navy and black bodysuit she’d been wearing dissipated into a dark mist, leaving behind a more normal outfit.
She straightened stiffly. “That should help, hopefully.”
A'ninsi sighed, feeling the tension leave their body. “Ugh…” They looked up at Meli, tilting their head slightly at the outfit change. An unspoken question. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend earlier. It’s just…” They gestured vaguely at themselves. “…well, you saw what I was struggling with. When he said you were the same…” they trailed off, shaking their head.
“Yeah,” she huffed. “I’d definitely say you’re struggling a lot more than I am.” The words were undoubtedly sarcastic, but still, there was a concerned look in her eyes. “Who is this he, anyway?”
A'ninsi sighed. “Emet-Selch. The man who teleported us here. It’s… a long story, not to mention a confusing one. He’s the reason I’m like this… why I lost my leg… he’s a real pain, certainly.” They looked around. “I don’t know why he brought us here, but I doubt it’s for anything good.”
“Yeah, okay, no.” Meli began digging in her jacket pocket, and pulled out a small mirror. “That settles it. I am so completely done with crazy psycho men dragging me into their plans. I’m getting out of here, feel free to join me if you want.”
She placed fingers from both hands on the mirror, closing her eyes. Nothing happened. Her eyebrows furrowed, and after a moment she opened her eyes with a frustrated growl. “Why isn’t it working?”
A'ninsi watched curiously, shrugging at Meli’s question. “Well, if he summoned us here, I doubt he’s going to let either one of us leave until we’ve done what he wants.” They crossed their arms, leaning back against the boulder. “Good luck with that, Emet-Selch,” they muttered.
They looked down at their leg. “Couldn’t even be bothered to give me a crutch, could you.” This was going to be a nightmare. Gods, the others must be so worried… “I’m sorry, Meli. You were dragged into this because of me.”
Meli was staring down at the mirror still, hands trembling just enough to barely be noticeable. She finally clicked it shut harder than necessary, clutching it tightly in one fist while the other went back to the spot on her side. Her breaths were coming quickly, chest heaving.
But she squeezed her eyes shut again, jaw tight, and a moment later seemed to have calmed. The mirror returned to her pocket. She looked back over at A’ninsi, offering a small smile.
“Well…we might as well make the most of it, I guess. Probably should look around some, see if we can find anything useful. Um…I can help you walk? If I can…actually get near you now, that is.”
A'ninsi couldn’t help but feel concerned at how upset Meli seemed to be. They didn’t know how to help, so they just sat there, watching. Their eyes followed the mirror until it was put away, and their gaze returned to Meli’s. “…yes, I think that would be best. You should be able to come near me as long as the Darkness doesn’t… come out, I suppose?” They sighed. “Gods… any moment now I’m going to wake up and be back at home and everything will be all right…” Trying to convince themselves was a futile attempt, but an attempt they made all the same.
Meli laughed without humor. “Yeah, in my experience that doesn’t ever happen, unfortunately.” Slowly, tentatively, she walked closer to them, as if waiting for it to start hurting again at any moment. When she made it all the way to their side without incident, she breathed out a sigh, and crouched down.
“Here, put your arm over my shoulder.”
A'ninsi took a deep breath slowly reaching out and putting their arm over her shoulder. They winced slightly at the pain the movement brought- it seemed they had hurt themselves when they had fallen. No matter. “Ah… sorry, I may be a little heavy…” They let out a breathy laugh, unsure if it was because of shock or fear. “…I haven’t had to be helped like this in a long time,” they murmured.
“I doubt you’ll be that heavy, you’re actually smaller than me. I’m not used to that.” She adjusted her position, ready to stand. “Okay, here we go. One, two, three!” A pained whine left her as she pulled A’ninsi up to their feet.
A'ninsi gasped, their ears twitching at the whine. Concern flashed across their face, but they didn’t press- wouldn’t press- for now. They leaned against Meli as little as possible, trying to support most of their weight on their one leg. They became concerned once more when they saw the bandages on their stump bloodied, but didn’t mention it. It could wait until later.
Now that they were standing again, they could get a better grasp of their surroundings. Their eyes scanned the field and the forest beyond it, searching for something- anything- that would provide shelter. “…it wouldn’t do us much good to be caught out in the open,” they muttered, half to themselves.
Meli shook her head. “No. If we’re gonna find anything…food, shelter, whatever…it’s probably gonna be in those woods over there. Think you can make it that far?”
A'ninsi nodded. “Yes, I believe so. I don’t like the prospect of being possibly closed in by the forest, but it’s better than out here.” They shifted slightly. “I wonder… what kind of star is this?”
They started off together at a slow, painstaking pace. Meli glanced briefly upward at the sky, then back down at their path. “What do you mean, star?”
A'ninsi tilted their head slightly. “This place. This star. Where we are?” Maybe Meli used different terms than they did, like the people of the First. “I wonder if it’s a shard…”
“Oh, right.” She looked around them, though there wasn’t much to be seen besides grass and distant trees. “Well, we’re definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
It was A'ninsi’s turn to be confused. “Kansas? Is that a city-state?” they asked. “I haven’t heard of it before.”
“No, it’s…well, yeah, actually, it technically is a state, but…never mind. That’s just…a saying. Where I come from.”
A'ninsi nodded. “…ah. Alright.” They went silent for a moment, thinking. “Sorry, I’m not really good at conversation.”
“That’s okay,” Meli replied a bit breathlessly. “Let’s just focus on getting to the trees.”
A'ninsi was silent the rest of the way, doing their best to keep their focus off the pain in their leg as they searched for something that would offer shelter. As the two traveled deeper into the forest, they spotted something. “Over there. Is that a cave?” They pointed with their free arm.
Meli followed with her gaze. “Could be.” She turned them both in that direction, picking her way carefully over roots and uneven ground.
A'ninsi was careful not to trip, leaning carefully against Meli when they needed to. As they drew closer, they could see that it was a cave. “Well… this could work, for now at least. It’s better than nothing.” A'ninsi looked up towards the sky, which had been gradually darkening as day turned to night. “Well… at least this place has a night time,” they muttered.
They made their way cautiously into the cave, and Meli helped A’ninsi to sit up against the wall. It didn’t seem to go back very far, so there was no need to worry about anything hiding further inside.
Looking around, Meli nodded. “Yeah, this should do okay. I’ll, uh…go back out and see if I can find us anything to eat or drink.”
A'ninsi groaned softly as they settled against the rock. “Thank you,” they murmured. “Call for me if you need help, and I’ll do the best I can.” They closed their eyes, the cool stone feeling nice against their skin.
Echoing footsteps left the cave, followed by the shing of a weapon being summoned. Then everything fell silent except for the distant twittering of birds.
A'ninsi sighed, hating having to just… wait. To be useless and unable to do anything. It was the worst feeling. And there was nothing they could do about it.
It was probably a couple of hours before Meli returned. She looked a bit worn, feet dragging, but she managed a tired smile at them, holding up a couple of items in her hands.
“Okay. So. I officially hate wilderness survival. But I don’t think I did half bad at it.” She settled down in front of A’ninsi, grimacing as she did so. “I found a stream. It looked nice and clean. I drank some of the water and I’m not dead yet, so…” She shrugged. “I managed to find a huge leaf and scoop some up in it, but unless I can figure out a better way to hold water I’ll have to go back a lot.” She held out the strange leaf pouch to them so that they could drink themselves.
A'ninsi laughed slightly, looking quite tired themselves despite having not gone on any long trip. “…alright, but if I die I’m going to be very mad,” they joked, taking the leaf pouch and drinking the water. They hadn’t realized how parched they were until they had practically gulped down the whole thing.
“I also got some of this.” She set down a second leaf pouch and let it fall open, displaying a small pile of various berries and nuts. “I don’t know what they are, though, so…I was hoping you might recognize some of them…?”
A'ninsi laughed, shaking their head. “No, sorry. I’m sure we’ll find out whether they’re poisonous or not soon enough, though.”
“Yay.” Meli sighed, picking up one of the berries and eyeing it critically. “Guess it’s better than starving?”
“If we do die,” A'ninsi pointed out, “at least we won’t be starving.” They popped one of the berries into their mouth. “Tastes fine.”
Meli followed suit, eating the berry she’d been holding and chewing carefully. “Yeah, pretty tasty. Not sure how well it’s gonna keep us going for…however long we’ll be here.”
“That’s fine,” A'ninsi shrugged, “I’m sure we’ll find some sort of settlement… somewhere. Unless our dear Emet-Selch put us somewhere with no people.” They crossed their arms, leaning back. “Right. We should probably set up shifts so we aren’t completely unguarded.”
“I’ll take first shift,” Meli offers immediately. “You could use the rest, and I don’t sleep much, anyway.”
A'ninsi nodded. “That’s settled, then. Wake me if you need me.” They got as comfortable as they could, closing their eyes as exhaustion dragged them down into sleep.
CW: pet whump, BBU, derogatory language, threat of noncon, sad Star hours
***
“Get in there,” Mr. Bianchi growls, pushing Star into the small closet.
She turns around before she makes it in, growling at him. “No. I don’t want to.”
“Get the fuck in the closet, puppy.”
Star looks out across the hotel room, at Comet and Sunny, who are standing behind Mr. Bianchi. “I thought I was supposed to come with you, Sir,” she whispers, trying to make her voice as sweet as possible, trying to appease him. Anything so she won’t be left alone in the closet.
Mr. Bianchi sighs. “Do you understand where I’m going today? Why we’re here, not at home?”
Star shakes her head. Of course she doesn’t, he doesn’t tell them anything, and if he does, she can never remember it. Too many hits to the head, or something like that.
“Dumb slut.” Mr. Bianchi stares at her, smirking condescendingly. “I have a very important business meeting. One where I’m not renting you and Sunny out, so I want my good pets. The ones who make me proud.”
Both Comet and Sunny look uncomfortable, but they don’t say anything.
Star clenches her hands into fists, setting her jaw and jutting her chin out. “I can be good.”
“Please. You look pathetic like that.” Mr. Bianchi steps forward. “You always say that and you never follow through.”
“Don’t fucking leave me!” Star’s eyes are wild with anger, with fear. Not the closet. Please. She doesn’t want to be alone again. “I’m useful. You like bringing me to these things, I can help you!”
“Only when they want something to use,” Mr. Bianchi hisses. “Like you did for Mr. McIntyre.”
Star’s face flushes, remembering the Irishman and what he did to her…
“Whatever.” Mr. Bianchi takes another carefully measured step forward. “Get in the fucking closet. Don’t make me ask again, or I’ll…”
“You’ll what?” Star snaps, internally cursing herself. If she wants to avoid the closet, to stay with her bonded, she has to be good. She falls to her knees, batting her eyelashes. “I’m sorry. Please forgive me, Sir.”
“You’d be more convincing if you weren’t swearing at me a few minutes ago. If you really want to be sorry, then get in the closet.”
“Please.”
“Would it make you feel better if I let Comet beat you first?”
For the briefest of moments, Star swears she sees revulsion flash in Comet’s eyes, but he schools his face back into neutrality.
Star is well and truly alone, and she focuses back on Mr. Bianchi. There’s no getting out of this, she can tell that much. “What if I run?” she asks, fire in her eyes.
“You’ll run where, puppy?” Mr. Bianchi lets out an amused, barking laugh. “You’ll leave the hotel room and everyone will see what a little slut you are and send you to the pound. If you even get that far. I know you won’t leave Sunny.”
He’s right. She can’t leave her bonded behind and that’s the only thing stopping her from leaving.
“Stop dragging this out and get in the goddamn closet.” He takes another step forward and grabs her collar. Her heartbeat stutters, she can feel his breath on her neck. “Come on, puppy slut. You’re either going to feel so fucking good when I get back—“ His hand dips down, brushing across her ass. “—or I’m going to make your life a living hell and add another scar to that gorgeous, fucked up face of yours.” He grabs her roughly, drawing a yelp from her. “What’s so bad about the closet, hmm? I want the truth.”
Humiliation washes over her, cheeks turning red. “I don’t want to be alone,” she growls. She hates him and she loves him and she can’t lie to him.
“Aw. Poor puppy,” Mr. Bianchi mockingly coos at her. “Get in the closet.”
Star looks at him with bitter fear and anger, her heart dropping as she backs into the closet.
Mr. Bianchi grabs black rope and winds it around her wrists, leaving them bound in front of her. “Get comfortable while I go get the gag,” he says, leaning down to kiss the top of her head. “I need to store my puppy right.”
Star settles, sitting with her back to the side wall and her legs curled into her chest. Deep sorrow is already pooling in her lungs and the door hasn’t even been closed yet.
Comet and Sunny look down at her, not saying anything. She wants them to, wants them to scream and fight back and do *something,* anything to get her out of this.
They don’t move.
Mr. Bianchi comes back with a red ball gag and grips Star’s jaw, forcing her lips to part so he can shove it in her mouth and buckle it behind her head. “Pretty,” he says, brushing back her hair.
The gag is already hurting her jaw, drool dripping down her chin.
Mr. Bianchi backs away, giving Star a smile. “See you in a few hours, puppy.”
There’s no ceremony as he closes the door, just darkness falling over the shaking, scarred body of the pet. Some light peeks through the slats in the wood, but not enough to bring Star any sense of comfort. She doesn’t mind the dark. It’s the loneliness that gets to her in the end.
She hears the door to the hotel room slam shut and knows that she’s well and truly alone. WRU made her need to be touched, made her crave something against her skin, a caress or a fist or a whip. She wasn’t meant for loneliness.
Star tips her head back and starts tapping out a rhythm on the wall. All of her first memories are songs, she doesn’t know why.
A single tear slips down her face, she tongues at the gag. This isn’t her purpose but it has to be now. She was bad and this is what bad pets get.
They have to be alone.
She has to lean how to be alone, so she keeps tapping out the rhythm of the song like she’s drumming with her bound hands.
CW: pet whump, BBU, EXPLICIT NONCON, MINORS DNI, NSFWHUMP, derogatory language, dehumanisation, guns, Rhys is his own content warning, lady whump
***
Rhys is on her in a second, slamming her head against the headboard and wrapping his strong hands around her throat. “You fucking bitch,” he hisses. “You stupid fucking animal.”
A bruise is forming on his cheek, sharp and angry and swollen.
Star laughs. “That hurt, bitch?”
She hates his fucking accent, hates how rough it is in her ear as he growls, “Not as bad as you’re going to be hurting.”
“Isn’t the punishment supposed to fit the crime?”
He slams her into the headboard again. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Didn’t…fucking…do anything, you Irish bastard.”
Rhys starts putting pressure, cutting off her air. “Bitches don’t talk. Bitches get fucked, you cunt.”
Star has given up on surviving this, her bonded is safe and she wants this bastard far, far away from her. “Gonna kill you,” she chokes out.
“No. You’re going to take my cock like the fucked up Romantic you are. Understand?” His grip tightens.
She smirks up at him, her face turning red. “The fuck are you going to do if I don’t listen? Fuck me? Hurt me? You’re going to do that anyways.”
“I’ll take your bonded,” he hisses into her ear. “I’ll take him and I’ll ruin him and I’ll give him back once he’s a fucking shell of who he used to be. I’ll make sure when you look into his pretty eyes, there’s nothing there. He’ll just be a walking corpse.”
Star’s mouth goes dry. “Sir wouldn’t…”
“I wouldn’t test that theory. He gave me you for the night, didn’t he?” Rhys lets go of her throat, roughly grabbing her breast. “I think there’s a lot your Sir is willing to do to have my protection.”
“Your protection doesn’t mean shit, seeing how you got punched by a pet.” She makes a pouty face. “Can’t even protect yourself from a whore like me?”
“That’s right. You are a whore. At least you know that much, you stupid bitch.” Rhys takes his hands off her throat to tie her hands to the headboard and pull out a knife. “I’ll take your bonded. I’ll make him mine. Wipe any thought of you out of his head. Because you’re not actually in love. You’ve just got all those stupid programmed thoughts in your head. I’ll wipe them out. I’ll make him love me.”
“You can’t,” she hisses, fear overtaking her senses.
Rhys begins slicing apart her shirt, baring her skin to him. “Pretty tits.”
“Fuck off.”
“Watch your mouth or I’ll give you something good to do with it.” He pulls the shredded pieces of her shirt away and starts teasing her waistband with the knife. “Let’s see if you’re worth all the stress you cause Hunter, hmmm? If you’re a good Romantic slut. Because you’re sure not a worthy one.”
She spits in his face. “Your definition of worthy is fucked.”
Pure rage shoots through his eyes, and he reaches up to wipe the spit off his cheek. “Stick your fucking tongue out, cunt,” he growls. “Or I’ll fuck you with my knife and make your bonded watch.”
Star can barely comprehend the terror rushing through her, but shakily, she sticks her tongue out.
Rhys sets the knife down, pulling out a gun and turning the safety off. “Go ahead. Lick the gun.” He puts it out, rubbing it against Star’s tongue.
The bitter taste of the metal makes her gag, but she gives the gun kitten licks. Her gaze is angry and defiant, and she looks at Rhys, trying to let him see that she won’t break.
Rhys laughs. “Good cunt.” With no warning, he shoves the gun into her mouth. “Hold it. If you drop, your bonded is mine.”
Star gags at the intrusion, but closes her lips around the metal obediently. She doesn’t want to die, and even more, she doesn’t want Sunny to break.
Rhys roughly yanks her panties down, picking his knife back up to trace the crease of her thigh. “Now I see why you’re a Romantic.”
She glares at him. She can take this, it’s what she’s meant for.
Rhys undoes his pants, lining himself up with her entrance. “Don’t drop the gun. Or…”
He doesn’t need to finish his sentence.
Rhys thrusts in and Star bites down on the gun, metal scraping her teeth. Fulfilling her purpose for Sir. Like she’s meant for.
***
“Was she good?” Mr. Bianchi asks Rhys.
Rhys shrugs. “Tight. Defiant, but I fixed that.”
“What’d you do?”
“Put a gun in her mouth.”
“That’ll shut the whore up.” Mr. Bianchi finally looks over at the corner of the living room, where Rhys had discarded Star after using her. “Time to go home, puppy. Your bonded is in the car.”
Sunny. Star perks up at that, dragging herself to her feet, her inner thighs still sticky with Rhys’s spend.
Mr. Bianchi clips a leash to her collar. “Call me about our business deal tomorrow morning.”
“Sure. Thank you.”
Mr. Bianchi nods and pulls Star out the door. “Finally, you didn’t get a bad report.”
“Because he’s fucking terrifying,” she whispers, voice hoarse from the gun.
He slaps her across the face. “Dumb bitch.”
Star is tossed backwards by the hit, and he takes the chance to throw her into the car and climb in after her. He taps on the slide to let the driver to start going.
Star grabs onto Sunny, holding him tightly. “Don’t ever leave me,” she whispers. He’s here. He’s okay. She was good enough to save him this time.
“I, I won’t,” he responds, gently rubbing her back.
She did it. She kept him safe, no matter how ruined it made her. Star tightens her grip, trying to ignore the watchful, lustful gaze of Mr. Bianchi.
They all know what’s going to happen when they get home.
CW: lady whump, BBU, pet whump, burning, dehumanisation
***
Star is on autopilot. There aren’t enough customers for her to stay focused, and her head is throbbing with a dull ache.
Cas has already started cleaning the kitchen for the night. Star listens to him singing while he works, smiling at the sound. That’s it. If she focuses on his voice, maybe the pain will disappear.
She’s so enthralled by his beautiful singing that she doesn’t notice the new customer at the end of the bar until the woman clears her throat.
Star throws her towel over her shoulder and walks over. “What can I get you?”
“728501, right?”
Star freezes. 728501. It’s been…three months, roughly, since she and Cas escaped. Three months isn’t long enough for her body not to react to the numbers. Slowly, she raises her head to meet the woman’s eyes. “Handler Reyes.”
Handler Reyes smirks. “501. Greco’s been so damn angry since you’ve been gone.”
“G-good,” Star stammers out, trying to keep her bearings despite the world crumbling around her. Handler Reyes wasn’t her primary, but the woman had helped Handler Greco with some of her training. Star remembers the pain left in the wake of the woman’s baton, the bruises and welts and shocks and blood, red against the white floors. “Why are you here?”
“Believe it or not, pet, I’m here to get a drink. Seeing you is just an added bonus.” Handler Reyes drums her fingers on the tabletop. “I’ll have an old fashioned.”
Star puts the sugars and bitters into a rocks glass, keeping her eyes on Handler Reyes. She can’t let her know that Cas, another escaped pet, is just in the kitchen, oblivious to what’s happening at the bar. She can suffer, but she won’t let Cas be taken back there. He deserves to be free, he’s not meant to live in captivity.
She’s a mutt. Her freedom doesn’t matter.
“Greco has been…well, right after they found out you escaped, he put a Guard Dog in a coma. Kid wasn’t going to make it out of training anyways, but still. I’ve never seen him that mad.” Handler Reyes looks at Star’s shaking hands. “Trouble?”
“Yeah, I’m having trouble,” Star snaps, adding water to the glass and stirring to dissolve the sugar. “Are we really going to play this game?”
“What game, 501? I just want my drink.” Handler Reyes leans back in her chair, crossing her arms across her chest. “One of my friends recommended this place to me. Said the bartender wasn’t half bad and the cook was pretty good. Where is he, anyways?”
“Manager sent him home early.” Star can’t breathe, frozen in place with the glass in her hand. “It’s just me tonight.” She has to protect Cas. “And stop playing games with me.”
Handler Reyes shrugs. “I’m not playing games, you dumb mutt. I just got off of work and I want a drink. That’s it. I’d fix that attitude of yours, 501, or I’ll have to punish you.”
Star glares at her. “I’m going to get punished anyways once you bring me back, so fucking do it, you coward.”
There’s a moment of silence before Handler Reyes bursts into laughter. “You’re still a spitfire. Even when you’re not in a white shirt and black shorts with a collar around your neck.”
Star snarls, her heart racing, but she adds large ice cubes to the glass with shaking hands and selects a high proof bourbon. Three months. That’s all she got. Three months of happiness.
It’s not long enough to satisfy her, but it’s long enough that she knows going back is going to hurt so much worse, knowing what she could have instead.
For the first time since she’s seen Handler Reyes, Star looks over at the kitchen, where Cas is cleaning away, still singing.
He doesn’t know. He’s going to walk out once he’s done and find nothing but an empty bar, nothing but an empty space where a mutt used to be. She has to hope, though, that he can move on. That he’ll find something and some reason.
She has to leave some kind of sign, something to let him know that she didn’t just leave him, that she was taken.
The image of Cas thinking she left because of him hurts her more than the idea of going back to WRU.
Is that…tears are building in her eyes. Star brushes them away and pours the bourbon. “So take me back. That’s how this ends, right? Handler Greco gets his spitfire mutt back in a collar and on her knees?”
“No.”
Star’s eyes widen. “What?”
“Keep stirring my drink, 501. My, my. It’s taking you an awful long time to make a simple cocktail.”
“Because you’re a goddamn Handler,” Star retorts, stirring the drink obediently. “I can’t fucking focus because the last time I saw you, you were bashing my face in with an electric baton.”
“Good times, 501. Good times.”
Star adds the orange to the drink and slides it across the bar. “So how do you want this to go? I’d prefer quietly, and I’ll come without a fight.” She has to protect Cas at all costs.
“Please. If I was going to take you back to WRU, I would have already.” Handler Reyes takes a sip of the drink. “Mm. Good job, 501. You make a mean cocktail. Throw a mean punch too. A natural Guard Dog.”
“So then just get this over with!” Star roars, slamming her fist against the counter. “Fucking take me back to Handler Greco already!”
Handler Reyes wrinkles her nose. “See, that’s the problem. The only reason I’m not dragging you back to WRU by that pretty brown hair of yours is because I’ve got a bone to pick with Devin Greco and you back in his arms would bring him far too much pleasure for my liking.”
Star grips the edge of the bar, knuckles turning white. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. That fuck Devin Greco walks around thinking he’s the founder of life as we know it. Getting you back would make him even more smug, somehow, and I couldn’t handle that. Plus, he’d probably just buy you himself so you could never leave.”
Star’s heart skips a beat. “B-buy me?” Not Handler Greco. Not the man who did nothing but drug and beat her and say it was for her own good.
“Oh yeah. He’s obsessed with you.” Handler Reyes takes another sip of her drink. “God, this is good. If you weren’t so feral, I would have put you as a Domestic.”
Star is speechless, her eyes wide and her breath coming quickly.
Handler Reyes chuckles. “You’re terrified, aren’t you? I miss hearing your screams coming from Greco’s training room. And as much as I hate that man, he got the most delicious sounds from you. Do you still know your positions, trainee?”
Star nods, her whole body trembling under Handler Reyes’s cold stare.
“Position six.”
Star’s arms move on their own, extending all the way out with her wrists together, right in front of Handler Reyes.
“Good mutt.” Handler Reyes digs around in her purse. “Do you think I can get a scream out of you?”
Star’s mind immediately shoots to Cas. If he hears her scream, he’ll come running out, and Star doubts that Handler Reyes won’t send him back to Handler Rowan. “No, Handler.”
“We’ll see.” Handler Reyes pulls out a lighter. “This way, I can scar you all I want and not get busted for damaging the merchandise.”
She has to be strong, she has to take this for Cas. “Will you tell Handler Greco you found me?” she asks, fear in her voice.
“Maybe. Maybe not. But first—” Handler Reyes opens the lighter, and a bright flame ignites. “You’re going to burn for me, pretty thing.”
Star bites down on her lip as Handler Reyes brings the lighter closer and closer to the underside of Star’s forearm, watches with building anticipation and a sick feeling in her stomach as she can feel the heat on her skin.
The flame makes contact with her skin, and Star barely manages to contain her whimper. The pain is immediate, searing, and Star wants nothing more than to pull away from the fire. But she holds her position, even as she can smell her own skin burning, mixed with the smell of the bar.
Handler Reyes takes a sip of her drink, tracing the lighter around a small portion of the back of Star’s forearm. “One hell of a bartender, 501.”
Star grits her teeth, tears building in her eyes from the bitter pain. “That’s not my fucking name.”
“It’s what your barcode says. It’s the only thing that matters.”
“Why don’t you do me a favor and burn the barcode off? I’m not a pet. I don’t need it anymore,” Star hisses.
“You’ll need it one day. You’re still just a mutt.” Handler Reyes smirks. “I think you like it, too. The barcode. Belonging somewhere. So no. I won’t burn the barcode off. But I’ll burn the rest of this pretty skin until I get the sound I want.”
“Fuck you.” The pain builds, and Star feels her skin slowly being destroyed. She’s going to be sick. But she can take it, she has to take it.
Handler Reyes doesn’t say another word, Star keeps her screams smothered, and in this silence, she can hear Cas singing away in the kitchen, unaware of how well Star burns. Good. He needs to stay that way at all costs.
The seconds stretch into minutes and the minutes stretch into hours and what must be an eternity of pain passes before Handler Reyes puts the lighter away and goes back to her drink.
Star doesn’t move.
“Impressive. Even the best Guard Dogs I’ve trained would have pulled away, or at least shed a tear.”
Star stares at the far wall, her lip trembling. She’s just a mutt. She’s supposed to take it.
Handler Reyes finishes her drink and slides the empty glass across the counter along with a ten dollar bill. “Keep the change.”
She didn’t say to release position, so Star stays still as a statue.
Handler Reyes pulls out her phone and snaps a picture of Star’s arms, making sure to get her barcode and numbers in the shot. “Just in case Greco gets on my nerves. Relax, 501.”
Star gingerly brings her arms back to her sides, the pain making her eyes misty.
“Go clean yourself up. Don’t worry. I won’t come back again. You’ve served your purpose.” Handler Reyes stands up, looking Star over. “Not a scream. Damn. You really are a cold and calloused mutt.”
“Yes, Handler,” Star whispers.
“Good mutt.” With that, Handler Reyes walks out the door, leaving the smell of burning skin behind.
Star runs over to the sink, letting cool water rush over the burns. It helps, a little, enough that she’s able to bite back her cry of pain when she puts a jacket on. Cas can’t know what happened here.
There’s things to do. Glasses to wash, liquor to organize and label, drink mix to throw away.
Star stands in place, staring out on the bar.
Something wet runs down her cheek.
She’s crying.
Just like that, Star is crying. From the pain and the humiliation and the knowledge that she’s just a mutt and she’ll never be anything more. Just a mutt. Just a toy.
She twists a towel around her hands until she cuts off her own circulation and silently, she cries, tears streaming freely down her cheeks.
She breaks. She rebuilds. She repeats.
And she pushes it all down the minute she hears Cas call out for her, wiping away her tears with the sleeve of her jacket. “Coming, Cas,” she says, keeping her voice neutral.
He can’t know how close he was to going back, what Star just let happen to her. He can never know. It’s just the way it is. She has to keep him safe.
She doesn’t know why, but she’s drawn to him like nothing she’s ever felt, so she has to keep him safe.
It’s what good mutts do.
It’s what good people do, too, and Star is a mix of both these days.
CW: pet whump, BBU, facility whump, lady whump, nonsexual partial nudity, dehumanization, possesive whumper
***
“Lift in three…two…one.” Devin Greco lifts up one side of 728501 while another Guard Dog handler, Analyn Reyes, grabs the other side of her. Together, they move the trainee onto a metal table, her pale skin almost sickly in the harsh lighting. Greco looks down at her, smirking. “You’re good, Analyn. I don’t need you anymore.”
“I want to stay,” Analyn says, her voice smooth. She moves to stand by the wall. “You’ve talked so much shit about how you got this trainee, I want to see what’s under the surface.”
“We’re lucky she’s drugged.” Greco starts stripping 501 down to her undergarments. “Since you’re here, grab the clipboard and start taking notes.”
When he’s got 501 out of her clothes, his eyes go wide. “Holy fuck.” 501’s got some scars on her, some injuries that he didn’t find during intake, hidden by that stupid baggy shirt she was wearing when he grabbed her. She’s only been at WRU for two days, not long enough for all the marks to heal, and certainly not long enough for some of these scars to fade.
“What?” Analyn asks.
Greco gives her a long look. “You can come see, but don’t get too handsy.”
“Don’t worry, I don’t want to get too close to the fucking mutt,” Analyn says, walking back over. “Holy shit.”
Greco smirks. “Told you. Alright, let’s get this started before she wakes up and starts trying to bite. Hands are—”
“Start from the head and work down,” Analyn says. “Head, neck, torso, arms, legs.”
He glares at her. “Fine.” He turns all of his attention back to the pet on the table, reaching out to push her brown hair out of her face with his gloved hands, already planning her next punishment. “Tiny, tiny scar on her right temple. Practically unnoticeable.”
“Got it,” Analyn says.
“Nose is crooked by…not much. Maybe half a degree. Shouldn’t be noticeable to any perspectives. Hell, I think it gives the kid some character.”
“Leave the personal comments out of it,” Analyn says.
Greco rolls his eyes. Analyn Reyes is a good Guard Dog Handler, but she’s all protocol, no fun. Doesn’t bend the rules, not even with something like 501. The rules are meant to be broken when it comes to a feral, gorgeous mutt like her. “Faint scar on cheekbone, bruise on jaw,” he calls out. “My girl’s a spitfire.”
“Your girl is going to be a fucking menace, based on what you’ve told me so far.” Analyn taps her pen against the clipboard. “Need me to take the collar off so you can look at her neck?”
“No. I saw it when she came in. There’s nothing there.”
“You mean when you had her tied to a chair for days trying to see to see if she would break.”
“I’m glad she didn’t,” Greco murmurs, tracing his fingers across the trainee’s shoulders, admiring the strong muscles there. “I’m going to make her crumble into a million different pieces so I can be the one to tape her back together.” He pulls his hand away, only to slap her across the face.
Analyn makes a face, seemingly annoyed. “Next thing?”
“Worried she’s going to wake up?” He shoots her a smug smirk. “I want to see what the kid was hiding from me during intake. All the damage that this body has taken.” He runs his gloved hands down her torso, lingering on a wicked two inch long scar, tiny dots from stitches on either side. “Well, hello there,” he says, running his hand over where the scar divots into her skin. “Kid got stabbed.”
Analyn looks over. “Seems like it.”
Greco’s eyes lock back onto the sleeping face of 501. “What else are you hiding, Marlow?”
“728501,” Analyn corrects.
“Does it matter? I like knowing her name. Makes it so much better looking at her now.”
“Anything else on the torso?”
“Relax, Analyn.” Greco puts his thumb against 501’s lip, parting them. “I think she’d look amazing with some metal fangs.”
“Greco. Irrelevant.”
Greco shrugs. “Not to me.” He pulls his finger away from her lips, tracing her arms. “Few faint scars on the arms, looks to be shallow knife wounds. Her knuckles are bruised, but I guess I already knew that.”
Analyn makes the notes quickly, and Greco moves onto her legs. “A few various knife wounds on the legs. Nothing much. But damn. She’s muscular.”
“Already knew that.” Analyn frowns. “Flip her over.”
Greco eases his arms underneath the sleeping trainee and rolls her onto her stomach. What he sees makes him stop in his tracks, makes anger cloud his vision, his mind roaring with thunder. “What. The. Fuck.”
“Oh, *shit.*” Analyn keeps tapping her pencil against the clipboard. “How…”
501 has a massive bruise spanning most of her back, a combination of purple and angry red, swollen up from her skin. Greco gingerly reaches his hand to touch it, feeling how warm it is. It’s almost like 501 was attacked by a wild animal, thrown into the wall over and over again. If she hadn’t been walking this morning, Greco would have assumed something was broken.
“How did this happen?” Analyn asks, her voice hushed.
Greco’s still trying to figure that himself, running through all possible options in his head. It couldn’t have happened today, he hasn’t left his girl alone—
He went home last night and left her under Handler Robinson’s care. “That *bitch,*” he hisses, pulling out his phone and calling her.
“What?” She answers in a bored tone.
“What the fuck did you do to my dog?”
“She jumped at me. So I had one of my trainees teach her a fucking lesson.”
“No. Fuck that. She could beat the shit out of all your trainees.” Greco’s vision is going red at the edges, he can barely breathe. “Tell me the truth, Analyn, or I swear to fuck…” Greco’s got plenty of influence around here, just as much as Willow, but he has more…connections than her.
“I’m telling you the truth. I had one of my trainees use her back as a punching bag while she was tied up and muzzled.”
“Who gave you permission to do that to her?”
“I have seniority over you, Greco. And she’s fine.”
The line goes dead, and Greco stares at his phone, seething. “That bitch.”
Analyn snickers. “She had it coming.”
Greco stares at her “Don’t. Don’t even go there.”
“Fine. Fine. I’ll note this in the injury report.”
“The bitch mutt fucking hid this from me, too.” Greco grabs 501 by the back of her hair and yanks her head back. “Oh, kid. I’m going to teach you one hell of a lesson when you wake up.”
“I’ll forward this information over,” Analyn says.
“And find out which one of Willow’s mutts did this to my girl.”
She gives him the middle finger. “Do I look like your fucking secretary? Figure it out yourself.” With that, she walks out of the room, leaving Greco alone with 501.
He begins carefully redressing her. “I didn’t want anyone else to touch you,” he murmurs into her ear, not caring that she can’t hear him. “Those mutts are nothing like you. They’re worthless.”
Marlow Lancaster. 728501. Greco wants to ruin both.
“I’m going to give you purpose, kid.” Greco grabs a muzzle, fastening it to 501’s face. “And I’m going to show you that you should never fucking lie to me like that. You tell me everything. Even if I don’t ask.”
It’s funny, how innocent she looks in her slumber. Like a true eighteen year old, barely old enough to vote, not even old enough to drink. But she’s not human. She’s a vicious, bloodthirsty mutt.
“If you’re extra good—“ He runs his hand through her hair. “I’ll let you really fuck up the dog that hurt you. Wish you could hear me right now, kid. You’re mine. Understand? Mine.”
It’s laughable that she thought she could go to college. Something with so much potential shouldn’t bother with that.
“Mine. You’re never going to forget me, not even once we’re apart. Mine, kid. All mine.”
CW: EXPLICIT NONCON, NSFWHUMP, MINORS DNI, lady whump, BBU, former pet whumpees, dehumanization, derogatory language, degradation, self-hatred, defiant whumpee, this is fairly intense so let me know if I missed anything!
***
“Excuse me.”
Star turns around, one hand on her hip, the other holding an empty glass. Tonight’s been slammed, she’s barely had a minute to breathe, let alone go pop an Advil for the pain creeping into her bones. “Give me one moment, I’m making a drink.”
The man across the bar, the one who interrupted her, sheepishly smiles. He’s not unattractive, in his late twenties. His friends have been by the pool tables for the last thirty minutes, all playing horribly. “I’m afraid it can’t exactly wait. Someone’s in the bathroom, he seems really sick and I don’t know what to do.”
“Fine.” She sets the glass down and wipes her hands off. She looks around for her knife, better safe than sorry, but swears internally when she remembers that Cas took it because he thought she was in a bad mood this morning.
Damn you, Cassiel. She glares over at the kitchen, but all he does is wave eagerly at her.
Star steps out from around the counter. “Alright. Let’s go. The sick dude, he one of your friends?”
There’s a slight pause before the man answers, something off about his voice. “No. I just went in to…you know.” His laughter sounds forced, and Star doesn’t like how close he’s standing. Her fingers twitch, wishing she had her knife.
“Actually, you know what?” She says, stopping in her tracks. “Let me go grab the bouncer, if this guy’s really that drunk, I could use the help.”
The man puts his hand on her upper back. “I’m sure he’s busy. I’ll help you out if he gets too rowdy.”
Star looks over her shoulder, but she can see Andy busy checking people in at the door and watching over the crowd. “Yeah. Okay.”
They make it to the bathroom, and the man opens the door. “After you.”
She nods at him and steps in. The lights are off, and she fumbles for the light switch, but not before she hears the door lock behind her.
Starr finds the light switch, and her heart sinks at what she sees. There’s no sick man in sight. Instead, there are three other men standing there, one holding a switchblade.
“What the fuck!” Star yells, turning around to escape, but the man from before blocks her.
“Not so fast.” He steps forward, crowding her into the center of the room. “Don’t make a sound, little boxie, or Owen will slit your throat.”
They want her to fight. They want to take her back to WRU and make her into a good Guard Dog. They want to get the pretty finder’s fee on runaway pets.
Star stares defiantly at the man, a growl escaping her throat. “Let me out and I won’t shatter your skull.”
“I’d like to see you try.”
Star whips around, seeing that each man has stepped even farther forward, boxing her in. Her heart pounds into her chest. Think. Be reasonable. If they want to take her to WRU, they probably have some drugs or something to knock her out. She just has to fight her way out of here.
She was always one hell of a fighting mutt.
Star shakes her head and takes up a defensive stance, slowly stepping around to make eye contact with each of the men. “I’ll kill you before I go back.”
“Go back where?” One of the men asks, a sadistic grin on his face.
Star stares at him. “You know where.” There’s a single beat, one half moment of silence before she lunges forward, aiming a kick at the man’s chest. It lands, and he goes stumbling backwards, but someone is grabbing Star from behind, pinning her arms behind her back.
She snarls, thrashing in the grip and shooting her leg out behind her.
Greco taught her well, she’s lucky for that, lucky she caught onto the training so quickly. She catches her attacker in the sensitive spot just above the knee and wrenches herself from his grasp. She doesn’t wait a moment before she attacks the next person, trying to land a flurry of punches and drive the man away so she can get to the door.
Get to the door. She knows this drill, she’s done it before. Get to the door and protect your owner. She always was such a good fighter, but these days, her body is breaking down.
Pain shoots through her back, and Star winces, her rhythm thrown off by the sudden flash of agony. She stumbles backwards, hitting the far wall, and one of the men takes the chance to jump on her and start punching.
Star’s vision blurs, her ears ring as the blows rain down on her face, blood dripping from her nose and mouth and cheek. She puts her hands up to protect her head, knowing her only option is to try to protect herself
The first man walks up to her, grabbing her by the hair and twisting her head back to look at him. “You fucking bitch.”
One of the other men slams his fist into her stomach, and Star doubles over, gasping for breath. “Who’s she going with first?”
So they’re going to take turns carting her back to WRU, back to the white walls. Star whimpers. She has to get out of here, she can’t go back but her body is being torn apart by pain.
“You take her first,” the man with the switchblade says, gesturing at the first man. “You were the one who got the dumb bitch in here.”
He smirks. “With pleasure.” He twists his hand further into Star’s hair and pushes her forwards.
She kicks and screams and scratches at his arms, but she knows no one can hear her. No one can save her. It’s just her with no chance to say goodbye.
The man bends her over the sink and lets go of her hair, only to grab her hands and roughly zip tie them behind her back. “You’re lucky you’re pretty,” he hisses into her ear.
What’s that supposed to mean? Star stares down at the sink, still trying to kick her legs to get the man off of her.
“Stop fucking moving,” the man with the switchblade says, grabbing a fistful of Star’s hair and yanking her head back, forcing her to look at herself in the mirror.
Star sees her long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, she sees her green eyes full of pain and fear, she sees her pale skin underneath the bathroom lighting with her hands tied behind her back and she sees her face bloody and bruised and broken. She sees the man behind her run his hands down her back because she doesn’t want to feelit.
Star goes still. “How are you going to take me back without people seeing?” she asks.
“Take you back?” The man with the switchblade laughs and presses the knife to her neck. “Oh, you dumb bitch. You’re not going anywhere.”
“What do you–”
Star is cut off when the first man hooks his fingers in the waistband of her jeans and slowly starts pulling them down.
Aren’t you lucky to be here, 501? Not down the hall with the Romantics?
The pieces click together as soon as the man has pulled Star’s jeans and underwear all the way down. “I’m not a–” She can’t think, she can’t process what’s happening. “I’m not trained for this, Sir.”
“You don’t need to be trained,” the man hisses. “You just need to stay right there and don’t fucking scream.”
Star’s eyes dart to the side, panic clouding her brain, her breath coming in quick pants. This can’t be real, this can’t be happening, she doesn’t know what to do, how to react.
The man with the switchblade digs the knife into her throat, drawing a bead of blood and sharp pain with it. “Look at yourself. Go on. Watch yourself.”
Star looks at the mirror, her heart shattering as she sees her eyes. No longer human and brave and defiant and everything she liked about herself, everything she had gotten back from WRU. Just afraid.
The man runs a finger across her slit, and Star whimpers, sick to her stomach and disgusted with herself. “I’ll go back,” she whispers. “I don’t want this.”
The man hushes her. “You don’t need to talk. Just take it, bitch.”
The other two men walk to stand by the door, both staring at Star, staring between her legs at what’s now bared to them.
Star can’t close her eyes, can’t look away. She can’t do this. Greco might have drugged her and beat her and broke her down but he never did this to her. She’s never had sex before, not even in her false memories. She doesn’t even want to have sex. “Please,” she whispers at her reflection.
Her reflection doesn’t answer.
“Going to prep her?” one of the men asks.
“Nope.”
Star feels something press against her entrance. She’s dry and scared and she doesn’t want this, please, she doesn’t want this. She twists around, trying to free herself.
The man with the switchblade tightens his grip on her hair and presses the knife further into Star’s throat. “Keep moving and you’ll bleed out.”
She doesn’t want to have sex with this man. She doesn’t want to die like this, she wants to die in the hospital like she’s supposed to in a few years.
She stays still and hates herself for it.
“She’s nervous,” the man with the switchblade says, smirking. “I don’t think she’s done this before.”
“Good. She’ll be tight.”
Tight? What does that mean…oh. Oh. No, absolutely not, she can’t, she doesn’t want this, she can’t even think about it.
There’s no fighting this, no way out.
So Star screams, hoping someone, anyone will hear her and come in and save her from this…this thing that Star can’t name, even if it’s just having sex.
Greco had protected her from this for so long.
Maybe it’s not a good thing that she left him, because now…this can happen. Without Greco, she has to have sex.
Her scream is short-lived by the man with the switchblade putting his hand over her mouth and snapping, “Hand me her panties.”
There’s a brief rustle of movement before she sees her gray underwear being passed to the man with the switchblade. He pries her mouth open and shoves the fabric in there. “Finally. Now you can fuck her.”
Star chokes on her underwear, her eyes filling with tears. No. She can’t cry, it has to be fine, it’s just sex, right?
“Hold her head up,” the man behind her says. “I want her to watch herself get used.”
Get used? Maybe that’s what this is. She’s getting used. There’s not a difference between that and sex.
The man with the switchblade yanks Star’s head back up, and she’s forced to confront her dead green eyes again, the underwear distorting her face and making her look disgusting. Worthless. Like a piece of shit, useless bitch who deserves to die.
Maybe it’s a good thing she’s gagged so Cas doesn’t have to see the worthless mutt he rescued being…used like this.
She holds her gaze at her reflection and her reflection stares back as she hears a bottle cap opening and a clumsy hand spreading something gelatinous and cold across her vagina. “Don’t want her to tear, knowing the three of you are going after me?”
There’s *more?*
The man with the switchblade grabs at Star’s thin black t-shirt, and with one strong pull, he rips it off of her and slices her bra off with his knife.
She’s naked and she hates this so much and Handler Greco was supposed to keep her safe from this.
It’s what she gets for leaving him behind.
“Perfect tits.” The man behind her runs the back of his hand down her back, stopping at her bound wrists. “Let me show you how a real man fucks a whore, gentlemen.”
A whore. That’s the word she was looking for, the word to describe what she really is. She’s a whore.
“Gonna fill this useless bitch up with my cock.” The man thrusts in.
More of Star’s hope vanishes.
He pulls out. Thrusts in again.
Any light left in Star’s eyes is gone.
He pulls out again. Thrusts in again.
Star, the whore mutt, doesn’t want to be here anymore.
Pulls out, thrusts in, over and over and over.
All Star can do is look at her bruised, bloody, pathetic face in the mirror and hold back her tears and watch herself shatter. She should have stayed with Handler Greco. She should have done something different.
But instead she takes a stranger’s cock like a good whore with her underwear in her mouth and she’s breaking. The reflection in the mirror moans around the gag. The reflection’s cheeks are streaked with tears, the reflection’s body rocks with each thrust. The reflection reacts, moves like a good pet.
I managed to squeeze in ten prompts into six writes, so I will take that victory. I had a fun time with this event, hosted by @whumpawoman. (Mostly writes with Jo, I have a favorite).
Writes that take place in Khagai: A wonderful world that belongs to @marshs-whump-blog. This is part of our “Sad AU” which will probably one day get a cooler name as more writes get posted.
I didn’t fulfil the ten writes I planned - butI did manage to work with 10 prompts, and I’m proud of all of them! These are some pretty good pieces of my writing.
So, here they are:
For“The Romeo and Juliet AU” (Dany with @painful-pooch s Mykhailo; trauma and coping, referenced noncon):
[A Chance] for prompt Left Behind (it’s a rescue!)
[Playground] for prompts Whumper Run-In and Panic Attack
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Thank you for hosting this event, dear Angstpril team, looking forward to the next one! And thank you to everyone who I collaborated with, it was great fun!
We did it! Our first ever Whump a Woman Angstpril has come to a close. Thank you so much to everyone who participated and helped make it a great event, and congratulations on all of the wonderful pieces you created, no matter how many there were!
For those that completed at least 10 prompts, we have a completionist badge for you!
Feel free to save this image and use it however you like. A great way to display it is at the top of a masterlist of everything you completed this month! If you’d like us to reblog your masterlist, please tag us (@whumpawoman) in the post.
You can also tag us if you post any late entries, and we’ll try our best to reblog those!
Again, thank you so much for hanging out with us this month and creating fabulous content for us to enjoy.
(Part of the “Shattered Diamonds”- (formerly: “happy”)AU with @ocean-blue-whump, where Dany and her trophy husband Lorenzo have been abducted together. This is written for @whumpawoman Angstpril, “Begging” and “Self-Sacrifice”)
CW: explicit noncon (oral), multiple whumpers, caretaker x whumpee, caretaker whump in a way?, humiliation, insults, referenced dissociation, forced to watch.
“I’m done,” Dany says, after what seems like hours, but according to the little digits in the corner of Ian’s computer it has been less than one. 51 minutes of frantically searching for matching boats, of writing messages that seem professional despite the panic clawing at her, of calling in favors she’s saved for something important. Nothing could ever be more important than this.
51 minutes of obsessive work.
51 minutes of not daring to look at her husband on the ground, trembling and whimpering.
She’s been so good. So efficient. Excellent work ethic, everyone had always said. She just hopes it’s enough.
“Done?”, Kauffmann says and idly steps in, looking at the screen over her shoulder. She can feel his breath against her neck, and all she wants to do is slam a fist into his face.
“Yes.” Her voice is surprisingly steady. “There’s others working now. They’ll do what they’re told, they’ll report in, and then I can go on. But I’m done for now.”
“Hm,” Kauffmann muses, and steps back with a grand gesture. “Well then.”
Dany is next to her husband within a heartbeat. She reaches out, but her hand freezes midair. She can’t. She can’t touch him. Not after what happened to him; what happened because of her. She’s trembling, has to close her eyes and inhale for a moment before she can speak. “Enzo,” she whispers. “Enzo, my love.“
Enzo doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even open his eyes. Just moans in pain, whimpers, cradling his dislocated arm. Dany blinks back tears. It’s on her. It’s all on her.
Anaria knew what she wanted. She’d gone through this war for a reason, for a dark reason that had been unlike her before all this, before she’d been captured and tortured and played with like a toy.
She was different now. So verydifferent. Before, she’d thoughtshe could hurt, could kill, but she really couldn’t have. Now, she could.
They had Hakur’s keep surrounded. It was the end, and he knew it. There was nowhere he could go, and that made Anaria feel good. Just like all the times she’d been trapped, now he was too.
Warnings: lady whump, graphic depictions of violence, blood
Anaria hadn’t thought much about her death up until recently. She’d lived a sheltered life in the castle, she realized. Yes, she’d been prepared for battle, and taught magic, but death was not a thing that had truly occurred to her.
Not until now. Not until Hakur had captured her and tortured her and played with her. Now, she figured her death would be at the end of a blade, or worse, somehow - something gory and painful.
Pain was what she was lost in. He’d cut her right thigh open, right near the artery, and she was bleeding, bleeding bad.There was so much blood. It coated her leg, drenched the floor, seeped into her clothes. She was going to die this way, it seemed.
Anaria shouldn’t have left Girad and the party of soldiers in such a rush. She really shouldn’t have, but she’d been angry.Girad had been pressing her about her motives, about whyshe was helping wage this war, why she was so intent on Hakur.
And she hadn’t been able to stand it. So she’d left. She had her coat wrapped around her, slits cut in the back for her wings to go through. Her feathers shuddered in the cold wind.
The girl’s mind was blank, having nothing to turn to in those silent moments, bar the pressure on her back. Medically, placing a bird’s wings on a human should be impossible. But it had been done, with help from less than legal friends, and several bio-magical theories.
Shivering, the girl stood in her cell, slightly loopy from the pain medication. Her face twisted, bewildered, as she saw the feathered appendages nearby her. She poked them, finding them soft. But she could-
She could feel it. They were hers.
The experience was nauseating, overall. As she regained feeling, she had no choice but to accept these limbs as hers, undeniably attached. For the first month, they dragged behind her, creating depressing masses of dust on the unswept floor.
Then, in the confines of her cell, she first moved them. Raising. Lowering. Forward. Back. She grew a bit more confident, beginning to flap them gingerly, smiling to see them work. The day she left the ground, they led her out of that tight room, offering praise. The girl’s heart leapt to think she’d done what they wanted.
But warm moments ended in black-floored, bleach-scented rooms. Before she could quite process it, she was picked up, and pressed to the table.
They took out a camera. Guns had been all too common in the corridors. Both were black, plain and simple. Both pointed at her.
Fear crept into her heart, driving her wings to flap in an unrestrained flurry of feathers, knocking away the scientists around her. Her eyes locked on one, smiling to see her so strong. The one who had led her here. The one who named her. The one who watched. Grabbing at shiny steel, the fearful mass flew from the table, jabbing the scalpel at the anesthesiologist. She raised a hand to stop it.
It went through.
Laying blow after blow on the woman, the winged girl felt her face grow warm with tears. The woman was beneath her. The girl only had time to raise her clasped hands before something hit her with a slamming force. Electricity. She collapsed into a quivering mass, with no choice but to stare at what she’d done.
The anesthesiologist’s hand was mangled, torn, bloody, and half a finger was missing. Unsalvageable.
Falling asleep, Tsu couldn’t find it in herself to be sorry.
The screen blared with a dozen warnings, seeming to demand the woman’s attention at every spare moment. She clicked from place to place, sometimes typing, sometimes leaning over and uttering commands into a little microphone. Not even a child could be this demanding. This struggle was worth four, all of them playing dead. Dodging death with a facsimile. That was their MO, and it always had been, far as the ex-nurse knew.
Again, Phoenix felt her head drag down to the desk, and again she slapped her face, hard enough to leave welts behind. Her face was covered in them. A fight with unconsciousness was especially taxing.
A flashing light. She pressed the button, and begun to speak a moment later. The hesitation was required, radio had always been that way.
“Hawk, if you could be a dear and retrieve the Cat now-“ “Like old times? Sure.“ “Now’s not for the time for jokes, unless you want to drag the Rabbit back, too.“ “Hey, hey!“ Sounding almost offended, the agent sent up his complaint, but heard no answer. Phoenix’s hand lifted lightly from the button, before careening into her own face. The urge to fall into it and slip into snores was overbearing.
Anger was unbecoming, but the operator found herself starting to unravel. Everything sounded, looked as if it had been packed in cotton. A five-minute timer began its incessant beeping, a ploy to wake herself up in case the worst had happened.
She took it as a reminder to drink more of her coffee- and she hit ‘reset.’
The teen strode calmly through the torn and tattered street. Driftwood and sand lay scattered across cracked roads. Devastation of the highest order. Destroyed. Lives would be soon to follow, if the girl did nothing, if they did nothing. Yet- it had grown harder to move. To carry others back and forth, to ensure they found help.
There was no help for her. She wouldn’t take it. That was her own fault, but the teen wouldn’t have it any other way. The glow of her Soul Gem had begun to dull, recently. Edging closer to death, according to any and all sources. The Magi had been thrown into the ground, cast into the dark, only to be roused by splinters of wood, and sickening green mist. Still, the oversized splinters left marks in the teen’s frame, and still, the teen covered them. They’d lose an ear to lectures later, if the ploy gave them time now.
When she said ‘be safe’, it was not an echo of some far off command. It was a blessing, one she reserved for all but herself. Her shield was not made for her. She was supposed to be a messenger, a guide, a guard, not a fighter.
But here, she had to fight just to stand. They had to. The mere act of standing had begun to tire them, to send them into pain-driven dizzy spells that they feared they’d never recover from. A war is carried on the backs of its soldiers, and when they break, the day is done.
So the teen wouldn’t break. They had to kill this thing, yet.
This is a collab piece! Meli is my Kingdom Hearts OC, A’ninsi is @hopepetal ‘s FF14 OC. So why not throw them together and see what happens? We came up with all kinds of things that could happen to them in this AU, so it’s possible there will be a continuation in the future.
Warnings:referenced loss of limb, death mention
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The Light burned.
A swirling, raging storm inside of them, that could not be quelled by any force… but it could be briefly suppressed, thanks to Ryne’s magic. Although… it wouldn’t matter in the end, would it? if A'ninsi kept the Light, they’d be turned into a lightwarden. If they let it break free, all their work would be undone.
Not to mention the very minor detail of their lost leg. It turned out to be incredibly difficult, finding their sense of balance on one leg and a crutch. They had gone back to their room to rest when suddenly…
She can hardly stand, her grasp on her side doing almost nothing to stop the steady flow of blood from the wound. It’s dripping to the ground, coating her hand in red. The world is already starting to get fuzzy at the edges as she blinks up to see him backing quickly away, the blood-soaked dagger clattering to the ground as he throws his hands up just in time.
She wakes in darkness, wrapped tightly in her bedclothes.
Then she stretches, every muscle aching as if long disused, and there’s no give, no shift, in the fabric wrapped around her body. Wrapped around her face.
She can’t breathe, and she fights to free her hands, to tear the wrapping off her face. As she struggles, she feels the wood encasing her on all sides, only an inch or two away from her body.
It’s a coffin, nailed shut. She claws and pounds at the top in a fresh jolt of panic. Her voice barely echoes, and there’s not even a slight give to the wood holding. She smells the deep soil, moist and sweet.
The woman considered herself swift. Fast. But even as she scrambled to Suzuki’s side, nothing felt fast enough. Before she knew it, her eyes were filled with glistening, threatening red- She pressed her hands to Suzuki’s side, desperately trying to hold the blood in place. To hold it in. Her tail swept gently before the adventurer’s empty eyes, to hide her view of the gore.
Help. Help. She needed help, but didn’t know where to get it, she didn’t have one of those- things, the talking things. Frantic, her tail whipped around, curling about the device. A radio. Pressing the button, Tyria could only really shout into it and pray. She couldn’t- find words. They mentioned a beacon. A signal.
They pressed harder, feeling liquid life drain past their fingers no matter what they did. Suzuki was pale, as if she’d seen a ghost. Gasping lightly for breath. Shuddering. Tyria felt the bleeding begin to slow, and in that dumbstruck moment thought it may be a miracle.
Until they saw the signs. Until they raised their hands from the thinning rivulets of red, and turned to the girl’s neck- Finding the thrum, the beat of life gone.
…
They didn’t know why they thought it was a triumph, even for a moment. Her heart had wringed out the last bit of life, and Tyria was ignorant to it, to the crimson pooling under their knees, to her stonelike fingertips.
They froze. Their hand was pressed to the girl’s neck, but they found it as pale, as cold, as stillas they had seconds before.
It looked as if the world had fallen on their shoulders, crushing them slowly. They hunched over Suzuki’s body, watching her face, watching for any final flicker of the friend they knew.
She’d drained out on the ground, there was nothing left to salvage, nothing left to do, nothing that could be done. But. Driven by a force they could not name, Tyria drew the body into their arms, offering one last hug. Pale. Freezing. It was as if their friend had taken a sprint through a beautiful frosty winter before coming to greet them, face stung pink by the icy air.
But she was ashen. She was dead. “Hey. Heyheyhey- Suzu.”
No cheerful answer, no smile. “Suzu, Suzu, hey-”
Tyria shook the girl’s shoulders, watching, desperate, as her head lolled back, bun beginning to come undone. Messier than she’d like it. Tyria screamed. A sound of mourning, a torn, ugly sound that seemed both too shrill and too soft, a rift between a shriek and a sob, a wail. The sound was strangled, hurt.
Sobbing, Tyria held the girl close, expecting no miracles, no joy, no hugs, no pride. Just- clutching onto a shell that shook with her trembling breaths.
CW: pet whump, BBU, derogatory language, threat of noncon, sad Star hours
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“Get in there,” Mr. Bianchi growls, pushing Star into the small closet.
She turns around before she makes it in, growling at him. “No. I don’t want to.”
“Get the fuck in the closet, puppy.”
Star looks out across the hotel room, at Comet and Sunny, who are standing behind Mr. Bianchi. “I thought I was supposed to come with you, Sir,” she whispers, trying to make her voice as sweet as possible, trying to appease him. Anything so she won’t be left alone in the closet.
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.
(First time posting my writing on tumblr, I made it D&D fanfic because why not. I wrote this earlier today for my DM, but after my friend told me about the whumpawoman angstpril and I saw what today’s prompt was, I couldn’t resist posting it for this. Enjoy!)
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Nerea holds deathly still, continuing the pattern of her breaths— until, finally, the last of her partners falls asleep. Finally. Now she can give up the act. She doesn’t have to pretend to be asleep, she can just think.
Nerea doesn’t plan on sleeping tonight, plans on staying up until she physically can’t anymore. She has a lot to think about.
For instance, the stabbing guilt she feels for being here.
Back on the ship, it had been hard to hide her casual relationship with most of her crew from the rest of the pirating world. Nerea had known it could easily look horrible from an outsider’s perspective. She’d known from the start that some outsider could accuse her of using her Captain status to force the inclined members of her crew into the loose courtships she practiced, no matter how much her crew vouched for her.
But she’d pursued it anyway. She’d dared to hope she made her crew feel as happy as they said she did, had dared to dream that their happiness was achievable if she fought the world hard enough.
Knowing that they died, knowing she could’ve done more to stop it, knowing how much damned trusthad been put in her by those friends and partners who died so young— it burns her from the inside out. She hasn’t begun to grieve yet, too aware that eventual acceptance is expected of those who grieve and knowing she can never afford to accept what happened.
She’s the last person to deserve another chance at happiness so soon after her crew died. Yet this trio of wonderful people chose her.
Nerea swears she’ll never tell them what happened between her and her crew. If she did, they’d start with pity and end with gentle questions, questions she’d inevitably have to answer. And if the questions pressed too far or too deep, Nerea would have to speak a sad piece of the truth aloud, something she barely even wants to admit inside her own mind:
This trio is so similarto the people she lost.
She knows that’s not the reason why she loves them, she knows it could be written off as her having a type, but that’s not it.
It’s not that simple. It can’t be.
Not when Kayden’s laugh sounds just like Finneas’ used to, so full of life. Not when Va’Rida’s eyes lighting up when she’s excited transport her back to Theirastra’s gleeful rambles about the stars. Not when Sarah’s smirk, an assured look of power, is so similar to the one Merrin used to wear when they fired their favorite canon.
It isn’t simple and it isn’t fair, not when her lovers in the present show glimpses of the ghosts in Nerea’s past. Not when said lovers have no clue what they’re doing.
Nerea could never tell them. She’s too afraid that this trio of wonderful partners would jump to conclusions, would assume they’re being used as replacements— because they aren’treplacements.
They’re the people who make Nerea laugh, even when she feels like crying. They’re the people who hype her up when she’s right and love her when she’s wrong, always standing by her side. They’re the people who can look at the darkest sides of her, the deepest insecurities and worst mistakes she’s shown them, and still genuinely say they love her.
They don’t mind that she’s moving fast, and they remind her to slow down enough to appreciate what she has. They don’t judge her, don’t laugh at her, don’t mock her. They love her.
They’re everything she wants and nothing she deserves, and she knows she can’t tell them any of it. She’ll settle for being the best partner she can, settle for praying the small morsels she brings to the table are enough.
Nerea hears Kayden’s breath hitch in his sleep. She stretches a hand towards him so she can run it through his hair. Within seconds, it resumes its normal cadence. Nerea resolves to keep doing little things like that for as long as she can.
Maybe then she’ll be worthy of them. Maybe then she won’t feel so guilty for the secrets she’s sworn to keep.
