nobody puts baby in the corner

Baby had always been the sort to cover her body, to wear clothing as if it was a second skin so that she could feel comfortable.  Here, though, she was displaced and had that sense of comfort literally stripped from her.  When she had been confronted with the outfit, there had been a moment of hesitation: she had wanted to ask where the rest of it was.  (She didn’t dare open her mouth, worried it would be insulting.)

Now, she stepped out in it—her cheeks were flushed a shining crimson, her hair was down and splayed wild against her back.  The worst, though, was that she was painfully aware of how the dress was the only thing covering her: movement against her skin reminded her of this, and she flushed a brighter shade.

“Do I look okay, Mistress?”

“I don’t give a shit what you are,” Vivienne responded quickly and coldly. “And I don’t care what you want. This place is not meant to cater to you, it was created to cater to people like me. You have no rights, no say in anything,” she snarled. The vampire was extremely stubborn when it came to her feelings, she never admitted to anything that wasn’t her being rude to someone. She knew deep down she thought the girl before she was gorgeous and she wanted to have a taste, but she wouldn’t give in to her desires yet.

“You seem to not know a lot of things. It’s probably because of that hollow head you have, no brain to catch information. It just goes through one ear and comes out of the other,” she said before grabbing the brunette’s wrists through the bars, “If you like to kiss the pain better then I suggest you prepare your lips because I’m about to make this evening unbearable for you,” she whispered to her before motioning for the guards to open her cell.

When the woman begins to fling insults, she has to blink.  Blink: again and again.  As if her eyelashes might catch the tears that threaten to spill forth and run down her cheeks—she does not have the words to fight back, and for a moment she begins to believe them.  Believe them: because who is she to assume what this place means, who is she to know that sort of rights that are intended for the whole of humanity here.  She wants to say—this isn’t right—but instead she keeps her mouth closed, bites down on her lower lip and gnaws at it with her teeth.

She feels embarrassed, but she also feels on fire: her cheeks are flushed, her breath is coming heavier now.  She feels shame, but she revels in it.  (Like she needs this from the woman, like she yearns to be belittled.)

“But you’re wrong,” she finds her voice again, “you’re wrong because I’m smart, because I’m kind, because I have a head full of creativity.”  It is bold, and she knows it, but she isn’t ready to give in to the voice in the back of her head.  (The voice that says: you need this, you need to be ruined.)

When the door begins to open, she moves back so that her spine is pressed against the furthest wall, eyes wide at the woman—she is scared, she is in terror.

“I promise I won’t ask questions, I promise I’ll do whatever you want if you... Can’t you see, that your heart is too kind for this?” she tries, resorting to what she knows—resorting to what makes her feel comfortable here.

        “you can stay.” the master said. “you can leave. i’ve got her now.” he told the guard handing money to rent the girl. “now you don’t have to go to that dark cell for the night. i hope you don’t mind. now sit.” he said with a charming smile. cameron cold tell she would be good company, so he would be kind to her unless she was rude to him.

Baby grinned at the man—the kind man that had saved her from the guard that liked to push her around, with his taunting words and watchful eyes.  Immediately, she fought the desire to give him a hug for her salvation: she swallowed the idea of it, settling down beside him.  “I don’t mind at all, Sir.  In fact, this is the most kindness I’ve had since being here...” she trailed off, the smile permanently tugged up on her lips in his company.

Bodhi just looked at the female slave for a moment without saying anything. His eyes moved over her and he knew from the past that his stares would make slaves antsy when they were looking for a response from him. Especially when he had his broody face on. He knew he could look intimidating, but he figured intimidating was pretty expected with a 6500 year old werewolf.

The wolf would admit that he rather liked the fact that she was red in the face, could sense chemo-signals of all the emotions she was going through right now and the master loved it. He appreciated of course that she called him sir, which would cut her some slack, not much but some.  He raised a brow at what she offered to make it up to him with and couldn’t help but scoff. “I’m not one for stories and I’m not one that needs cleaned up after, how about you think up something I’d like a little better if you really want to make it up to me.”

She felt uncomfortable under his gaze—her emotions were raw, and she was left with them.  It was suffocating: to know that she so eagerly wanted approval.  Each emotion sifted across her face, always the apparent open book who could never reign them in—until she was left with a face of wilful need, because she needed to ensure that she wasn’t leaving a sour taste in his mouth, because she needed to ensure that she wasn’t disappointing one of them.

None of the others had been displeased with her, and it left her upset to think that this one might be so.  (The realisation: if she left now, then she certainly had not done enough.)

Baby stood there, biting down on her lower lip in contemplation.  She hadn’t been broken in, hadn’t been broken at all within these walls: she could do nothing at his words but peer back, eyes wide like a deer caught in the headlights again.  Innocence rolled atop her so easily—she, with her sweet little eyes and lip caught between her teeth.  

“Food?” she tried, the only option.  She took a step closer to him, trying to offer a little smile in his direction. A smile: I don’t want to let you down.

“Pen and paper? That’s all?” The price of a slave kept lowering. It used to be a full high-quality meal. Then just any meal. Now, a pen and some paper.

“Deal.” He agreed with a low laugh.

He calls a guard over to open her cell, and while that’s happening he studies her. She’s a pretty girl, he noted absently. Wide eyes, a sort of innocence surrounding her.

God, he wanted to rip it away and see what was left.

“We should know each others names, though. I’m Blaise. A warlock.”

That’s all?

She couldn’t help but smile: didn’t he know?  Didn’t he know that a pen and paper could fill her more than any meal that she could ever request?  It could fill the soul in ways that she couldn’t begin to explain: it would be like being home, it would be like feeling the beauty of words flowing from her fingertips again.

She hated the knowledge: she would do anything for pen and paper, now.

“That’s all I want.  I like to write, and I feel lost without the ability to get it all down.  What if I forget?” she tapped her head, as if she had so much stuck up there—she feared losing it, she feared dying in this cold place without writing another word.

When the door open, she lingers there—he looks at her like he wants to eat her, to make a meal of her right there—and it leaves her shifting between her feet, uncomfortable at his hunger.

“I like the idea of magic... I used to dream of it as a little girl, that I could turn the sky pink,” she grinned back at him, quick to forget that raw, consuming look.  

“I’m Baby... but... am I allowed to call you Blaise?” she asked, peering up at him with eyes so wide: as if she was asking permission.

Baby was not prepared for the blow against her bare rear—she feels exposed, she feels humiliated bent over his lap.  Like a small child taking her punishment: she wants to cry in protest, wants to ask him to stop.

(It is a matter of pride, she thinks.)

But she can feel the way her own skin feels on fire, the way she years to be embarrassed by him, in this place.

When the blow comes, she squeaks—a sort of harrowing sound that escapes from between teeth that had been clenched together, in the same way she had clenched her muscles.  The tension had created more pain: and she was sure flesh would turn red, would bruise by the time he was done.

She almost forgets:

“Honestly, we could go round and round as to why emotion makes you weak.” For Jason, he had been trained that emotion was a weakness for various reasons. Love wasn’t going to save you from torture. Love wasn’t going to save you from pain. Teaching your mind to shut off completely was what was going to save you from those things. Jason could take a lot of pain, and he didn’t have emotion to thank for it. But everyone was entitled to their opinions, weren’t they? So, he wouldn’t press the subject with the girl. If she wanted to believe emotion would set her free in a place like this, so be it. He wouldn’t rain on her parade. 

“Well, thanks?” He’s been called many things, but emotionally stunted wasn’t one of them. “I wouldn’t know about being a good person, though.” Jason’s done some terrible, fucked up things. He’s hunted children. Hell, he’s killed children if they weren’t human. Who else did that kind of thing? “Baby is an interesting name. At least they didn’t call you something weird like Peace.” Jason knew nothing about hippies. Well, nothing that wasn’t a stereo type, really. 

“I can’t agree with you on that, I think emotion makes you strong,” she challenges him, but her tone is quiet—quiet, for she never knows who lures in the shadows, just beyond the bars they call home.  “We can agree to disagree, I’d never force it down your throat, though,” she offers, by way of reaching middle ground.  For, she believes that her ability to understand her emotions has made her a better person—she is a walking open book, though, and emotiveness comes so readily with her features.  She hurts, in this place: and it shows on her features, like a sad little bird whose voice has been taken away.

“Being good doesn’t mean that you’ve never done anything bad,” she insists, always in this centralised, metaphorical sort of mood.  Indeed, deep contemplation came with the sort of person that she was—never accepting the world as it was, always trying to make it better.  “Being a good person means that you’ve kept your heart and soul despite the bad,” she finishes her thought, reaching down to hug her legs up to her chest.  “They probably considered it... They were good parents.  Do you miss yours?” she asked—she asked, because even though hers were both dead, she imagined that everyone here had different stories, and she yearned to understand the chapters before this one.

She is bent at the waist—lower lip is caught between her teeth, as if she fears letting it go.  At least, with her lips, she gets to have some control: she can choose how hard to bite down, she can choose how much of the lip she catches between those human teeth of hers.  (Human teeth: she can’t help but realise, in her position, that human teeth are too weak for this world, and that the supernatural will always win.)

When the blow comes, she jerks forward with the force of it, lets out a whimper when her teeth sink into her bottom lip.

(She feels the way blood drips into her mouth, tastes like she is consuming metal.)

Tears sting at the back of her eyes, her entire body tensing with the force of it.

“Sometimes, or they fly away. But only the prettiest ones, because who wants to look at an ugly bird. Like this one time, I was lunching with the Maharajah and he gave me like the tour of his palace and he had this like.. whatever those places are called with all the birds, and he had this one like super old parrot. That thing, was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen in my life, he needed to be put down.” Laughing brightly as she tapped her lips, Asmodai eyed the pretty slave.

“What’s your name, Dove?”

“But don’t the ugly ones deserve love, too?”

She does not even think before she shoots back with a metaphorical response—always so full of heart and life.  For, she so quickly begins to contemplate an existence as an ugly bird: the poor bird cannot help the way it looks, and she feels sad for it already.  “Perhaps the ugliest birds have the prettiest souls, the sweetest songs, or the funniest words they have learned.  How do we know if we don’t pay attention to the ugly birds, or ugly parrots?” she asked, wide eyed amongst the questions that spilled forth from her moment of absolute clarity.

And then, she is grounded again and realises that she is being spoken to—that she ought to be polite, that she ought to be civil.

“I’m Baby,” she whispers back.

“Being good isn’t any fun. Don’t you want to be bad with me.” He asked with a smirk, eyes raking up and down her body, lingering on her hips. “I could think of a few things to do with you that would be way more fun than having a heart. Do you want to come back to my place? It’s way nicer than these shitty cells.”

Baby considers his proposition: but she has never wanted to be bad.

Even as a child, she was always the sort that yearned for approval moreso than the rest of her peers—she never wanted to displease anyone, never wanted to be considered bad.  Even now, the idea of it didn’t sit well in her gut, left her nose wrinkling and her eyebrows raised at the thought of it.

But, she does not know how to refuse him, does not know if she can.  Will it upset him if she does not agree?  Will he be sad if she does not keep him company?

“Will you let me have pen and paper if I come with you?” she asks.  For, it seems the smart thing to do: she does not turn him down, but she uses the opportunity to negotiate for what she wants in a non-confrontational way.

It was almost too easy to get the girl to trust her, it was like watching a little bug becoming trapped in a spiders web. A web woven so carefully that would give her the best use possible. “Don’t worry darling, I’ll take good care of you.” She said in an overly sweet voice. “Take my hand and we can hide away.”

Baby was surprised: oh, how kind this woman was.

Instantly, she was so ready to dismiss the claims down in the dungeons that this place was filled with beasts.  For, how could it be true when she so easily stumbled across someone willing to protect her, someone so willing to take care of her?  She felt safe: she remained blissfully unaware of the dangers that this place held, and so readily offered a sweet little smile in return.  She was the bird walking into a cage full of lions; cluelessly so.

“That’s so nice of you, I want nothing more than to hide with you,” she spoke through chattering teeth, so scared that she had started to shake until her teeth clutched together.  Baby reached for the woman’s hand with her own soft, unmarked one and gave it a little squeeze, as if to show her appreciation.

“I’m Baby,” she offered a smile, a sweet little grin that read: and I trust you.

What a peculiar little thing she was. Izzy’s head cocked – tilted as she eyed the girl. Watched her try to decide… something. But then she spoke and flattery, flattery always had a place with the wolf. She smiled, spreading those read lips to show a flash of white. It wasn’t unnoticed, the touch to her own lips and their lack of color. She stepped up to the girl and took hold of her chin in an easy, light grip to tug her closer. Her lips pressed against hers, firm. Lingering for only a moment. When she did finally pull back, she still wore that smile, though the lip color had been muted. “ There, “ she said, brushing her thumb under her bottom lip to clean up the mess. “ I’ll share. “ 

Baby is shocked—and it shows in her reaction.

In the way that she immediately stumbles back, knees knocking together as she goes.  Her eyes widen, as if she is a small animal that has been caught under the shine of a car’s headlights, and she looks scared.  Scared, for this is the first physicality she has received since her arrival: and for a moment, she wonders if the woman is going to slap her.  She wraps her arms around her middle section, instinctively, as if she is trying to make herself smaller.

She tries to speak, but at first it comes out like a little, high-pitched squeak.

“Thank you,” her fingertips dance along her own lips, again, with heightened confusion.  She peers back at the woman, wants to ask: but why?  Instead, she avoids the question by looking back down at the ground.

“That’s very kind of you,” she says, instead, because she does not feel it is her place to query, to enquire.  (She is scared, and she tries not to tremble with the unexpected attention.)

He didn’t like the way she stared — so earnest, so full of life in a way he never had been. She had the nerve to ask him about pain, to seem so concerned about a stranger; he didn’t much like that either. Everything about her stood in polar opposite to himself, and it forced him to think of those first transformations. Spine breaking, body shattering, something wild taking hold of him that ignored his howls of pain. Transformation. “Not once,” he lied, and the lie came easy. He liked what he was. The beast had lived in him long before he first turned, after all. “Hell, even if it did, it’d be worth it. Makes the good parts that much sharper.” 

She frowns at his admission—reads between the lines, and is filled with the same sort of tragic sadness.  For, she cannot fathom pain being associated with something that she finds so good, so worth it.  (It would be like her fingers feeling broken each time she tried to write, a sort of agony that she would endure for her love.)  “I know what you mean,” she replies, thoughtful and considerate in her responses to the man.  “I once broke my wrist, and I kept writing anyway.  It’s the only time I’ve ever broken a bone, but I just couldn’t stop the ideas from flowing,” she explained, a small smile to offer as if she might understand his plight.  (Or try to.)

Autumn’s hazel hues flick up at the sound of the other woman sniffling. Her instinct is to throw her arms around her, comfort her with a gentle and caring touch, one different from all the violence that circled their fragile human lives. She restrains, however, never knowing how the other slaves in the castle would react after any treatment they’ve suffered.

Delicate features crumble, tears filling her own eyes as well but blinked furiously away. Not wanting to show any weakness, wanting to be strong for Baby. Hiding one’s feelings is such a saving grace in the castle, crying and anger get you hurt. But, with it just being the two slaves, a guard stationed just far enough away, they can speak in a quiet peace. ❝No,❞ she answers in a broken whisper, speaking the painful truth she wished beyond anything wasn’t true. ❝No it wouldn’t. But…I think pretending that it is…it’s all that can keep us going.❞

Instantly, she wants to berate herself for crying—she struggles, but she reminds herself that kindness extends to her, too.  (She must be kind to herself, she thinks, for this body and mind is all that she has in this world.)  It is the hardest lesson to learn: but she acknowledges she cannot expect compassion from a stranger if she does not readily offer it to herself, if she is not patient with this mind of hers.  And so, she lets herself sob for a few moments: the first tears that have fallen since she arrived, and they wreck through her body with hard shakes, leaving her chest sore when she finally stops for breath.

She is quiet when she hears the words of the other—they are plain, they are real, and they feel like hurt.  But, she accepts them: she accepts them because she cannot fight the words when they are truth.

“Do you think they would give me pen and paper, if I pretend for long enough?” she asks, hopeful.  For, this girl seems to understand the complexities of these walls greater than anyone she has yet to meet her.  “On the outside, I was a writer.  I miss it... I really miss it,” she whispers, with a sort of finality: as if she must bid farewell to the written word and merely let her creativity sit in the confines of her mind.