Stand-alone backstory. For wij day6, and for @highwaywhump , a little something from Pet Safety, some weeks before Adrian saves Blanca. Fair warning, Blanca doesn't have any agency in this.
Pet Safety Masterlist
Content/warnings: Blood (obviously), sadistic whumper, manipulation, implied drugging, living weapon whumpee (whumper), conditioned whumpees, gendered violence towards a woman, dehumanisation, humiliation, highly implied NONCON (m/f), forced to participate, forced to hurt, bbu setting, Jack Donnell's perverted (noncon) understanding of roleplaying. Hurt, no comfort. Dead dove. This is dark.
"What a freaking bloodbath."
With the heavy weight of two of his comrades kneeling on his back and limbs, Mac can't see the men speaking.
But he can see the blood. It's everywhere. It's on his hands, his arms, mixed with sweat, drying into a sticky film, coating his body hair and making it stick up. It's pooled on the patio tiles under him, in his clothes, soaking through the layers of his gear. It's in his face, a thrilling, nauseating taste on his teeth and lips. It's in his eyelashes, forming little dark lumps in front of his eyes that tint the world even redder.
When he blinks the lumps away, fights back the dizzyness of a knee pressing down on the side his neck, Mac can focus on the shape of the pathetic man whose blood it is that he's bathed in. Two paramedics are kneeling beside him.
He's not dead. He's not maimed. Mac bares his bloody teeth, flashes his enhanced canines at him. He would've done it. He'd have torn the man apart. Every fibre in his being had screamed for it. But there's rules that run even deeper than his hatred. That such a call is only for his owner to make.
All Mac is left to do is growl, a low rumble from deep inside his chest. Even separated by the entire width of the pool, the injured man flinches.
The paramedics flinch, too. They are working with nervous, hasty hands, gloves covered in blood, obviously sweating. Not because of the heat.
Because of Glen, carefully towering over the scene, making sure their patient won't leave.
That call, too, is for Mac's owner to make.
Finally, the whirring of helicopter blades swallows the echo of the man's labored breathing.
Before
Mac knows he's not supposed to take breaks his training regimen, he's meant to focus on his fitness and on getting ever stronger. But he's won his last training fight with ultimate ease, his comrades look up to Mac's impressive physique, and Jack actually does allow his Fighters some narrow lenience, when they perform well and aren't currently on protection duty.
Mac has been undefeated for weeks. And he's not on duty.
So he allows himself to step back from the weight bench and glance out of the window facing the deck around Jack's huge pool.
The auburn-haired Romantic is laying on a sunbed there, the pet that has been called Blanca once, but is Bacardi now. The pet who was kind to him once, and fears him now.
Refurb. She's done something bad, and now she's forgotten who she was and has been made good again.
Mac has seen her naked body before, and he's seen the new scars it features now. He knows what the refurb training entailed. Good, to Jack's taste, means scared.
And she is. Even though she doesn't act the part now, even though she buries all of it under a brave, sweet face. She plays the role Mac heard Jack order her in the morning, for one of his sickening games of play pretend. She's supposed to be a rich socialite, lounging by the pool, a little drunk and a little bored, so that Jack can watch her on his security camera feed and 'built up the tension' until he comes home.
Jack likes his scenes to start out domestic. They never stay that way.
But it will be a while before Jack comes home, and even though it fills Mac's heart with aberrant feelings that make him want to claw at his own skin, he stays at the window. Blanca - that's what he still calls her, that's who he met before - pretends to read a fashion magazine, carefully considering each page, even though everyone knows Romantics can't make sense of letters. She's wearing sunglasses, a big hat, pearls around her neck and a pristine white sundress. Jack chooses the dresses himself, as carefully as he picks the outfits for his Guards. The Guards' gear is meant to be both visually impressive and functional. The Romantic's dresses are meant to tear easily at the right places.
Mac clenches his teeth and because he knows she can't do it herself, he'll just do it for her - he daydreams that, right now, without Jack, without anyone there, she can be at peace.
That's when he notices the man.
Now
Jack embarks from the helicopter, striding towards the scene with large steps and a bellowing laugh. "Oh, Maccy-Mac, big boy, what have you *done*?"
Before as much as looking at the injured man, he bows down to Mac, slowly runs a finger across Mac's blood stained lip, down the titanium canine. Light red blood coats his fingertips, sparkling like rubies.
"That thing is a monster," the bloody mess of a man croaks, his words punctured by pained groans. It's a wonder he's still strong enough to speak. "It's not contained. I'll report you. That. I'll have it killed."
"No, Marty." Cowboy heels slowly click on the tiles, when Mac's owner gets up and strolls over to the stretcher. He's leaving bloody footprints in his wake. "You will not. I could get your ass for trespassing, you know that."
Before
Mac has seen the man before. He's a neighbour, an acquaintance of Jack. Marty. Tall, handsome, otherwise unassuming. Weak. Not a threat.
The fact that he's here, that far into Jack's grounds, means he's been vetted and checked. Probably here to borrow the big lawn mower. Glen is on perimeter duty; and even though they're all meant to act the same, they all know that Glen is the most thorough of them all.
Still. There's someone wrong. About the way the man pauses on his way to the shed. About the way he looks at Blanca.
Mac's lips pull back on instinct, teeth bared. He scans the area around the pool. None of his comrades are there. Nobody is on alert.
Well. One is. He can see Blanca's shoulders tense. Her fingers curl up in the magazine. She barely keeps up the appearance.
To any predator, Blanca is designed to look like prey.
Mac is a predator.
And it seems that the neighbor is as well. He kicks aside a pebble as he stalks towards Blanca.
Inside, Mac carefully picks one of the dumbbells.
The neighbor sits down on the sunbed next to Blanca. He says something that Mac can't hear. It doesn't matter. He knows what's coming, frame for frame.
Blanca replies, inching back from the stranger. His arm shoots forward, grabs her, wrestles her down. He swings a leg over her.
Teeth bared, Mac is over him, before Blanca even begins to scream.
It's the neighbor, who screams instead.
Now
Marty's voice falters. His face has turned an unnatural white. "No, Jack, you... you said I could-"
"Shhh," says Jack. "200k should cover for your trouble." Is not a suggestion. Whatever Jack says is either an order, or a threat.
The young man shivers, silent. Stays silent, when Jack's fingers roam his neck. Lets out a garbled scream, when they prod at the deep gash torn into his shoulder. Then again nothing. He's fainted from blood loss.
"Sir," one of the paramedics urges.
"Yeah. That's a good boy." Jack ignores her. He is talking to the unconscious man, tracing the dressing of another wound. "Beautiful."
With a contented smile, he nods at the paramedic and gives two quick raps on the side of the stretcher.
Glen folds his hands and steps back.
Everyone seems to hold their breath, as the paramedics hurry off.
"Now," says Jack and jovially claps his hands. "Get off of Mac, guys. And where's the seductive little thing that's incined this spectacle?"
The weight on Mac's back shifts, air streaming back into his lungs, as his comrades retreat. Instinctively he pushes himself into respect position. His forehead presses into slick wetness.
"Sir." It's Jim Beam's voice, and next to it Mac can hear Blanca's shivering gasp, her feet scurrying on the floor. "She's here."
"Good. Sit up, Mac. Look at her. Look at the perfect little thing you've clawed from the hands of that intruder."
He does, automatically stretching his neck muscles as he sits on his heels.
Blanca's usually light grey eyes are almost black, pupils blown with panic. Her hair is messy. There's a bruise on her arm, where Mac has pulled her away from the man. She's horrified.
She's just how Jack wants her.
"Sir," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Settling himself on a sunchair, Jack leans back, one hand already fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Blanca follows, falls to her knees in front of him, desperately, silently begging for him to not follow through with whatever he's planning.
Jack clicks his tongue. "Of course you wanted to, manipulative little whore. I watched the feed. You got these horny guys to fight over you. And I guess we all know, who won." The wide grin on his face is sickening. Mac wants his owner to be pleased. He also wants him to be gone.
"Ah. Not now, pet." Jack lazily kicks out at Blanca, before he reaches into his pants and starts stroking himself. "I think, this once, I'll enjoy to just watch." He snaps the fingers of his free hand. "Mac."
"Sir," replies Mac, and the word is supposed to mean so much - a refusal, a plea, a demand, a cry of despair - but everyone else hears it for what it truly is.
Acknowledgement.
It tastes like blood.
Between the two men, Blanca scrambles backwards.
Nobody bothers. She won't get far. All of them know.
"Go on with the scene, Mac." Jack's white teeth shine bright in the sunlight. "Take her right there. Right where you defeated your opponent." He points at the scarlet puddle. "You look stunning, covered in blood. She will, too."
Mac steps forward to reach out for Blanca's arm and drag her up. His hand leaves bloody marks on her white dress.
"Please," Blanca whispers tonelessly.
He avoids her gaze.
Jack wants her to fight. Not for show. For fear of her life.
Mac knows she will.
And they all know her resistance won't matter at all.
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Content Warnings: hospital setting, surgery (descriptions are a little grizzly), minor character death, blood, burns, broken bonesÂ
Follows this pieceÂ
@whumpmasinjuly​
“Induced coma unsuccessful. Vital signs in critical condition.”
“Shit,” Talic hissed as he turned back to Koladi’s table. Warning signs flared up on her vitals screen, low blood pressure, fast irregular heartbeat, multiple broken bones and fractures in her body. He was going to lose her too if he didn’t get her stabilized in a coma within the next few minutes.
“How Lylimeph doing, Zanvir?”
Across the room, Zanvir sighed and brushed away the sweat gathered on his forehead with his sleeve, still leaving a streak of blood on his forehead and surgery cap. He looked down at the bloodied mess on the table in front of him, partially covered by a surgical blanket with Lylimeph’s pale face covered with a mask.
“I wish I could say better,” he shook his head as he went back to work, “Even if I get all this shrapnel out, I don’t know if we’ll have enough bulk blood to keep her stable.”
Talic bit his lip, trying to think as he recalibrated the controls for Koladi’s table. “Ok… Once, once we get these two stabilized, you and I can donate, and we’ll see about Ganex and Byruk helping too.”
“And Lulan?”
“Lulan’s donated twice already, anymore and he’ll be bedridden for days. We’ll just… have to hope it’s enough.”
Talic reactivated the machine’s sequence, hoping this time would go through so Koladi could stabilize. He turned his attention back to Prash. Broken spine, burns covering most of his body from the bomb’s flames, and Talic already had to take a leg too damaged to save. Infection was his greatest worry for Prash at the moment, on top of an endless growing list.
Talic was exhausted. Twenty hours since most of their team got caught in the explosion and they still weren’t even close to being done fixing everyone up. Lexus still had a hole in her leg held together by a medpack. Alek was unconscious from a head wound and a broken arm. Dosair was the only one Talic managed to fix up stabilize after barely reassembling most of his insides.
HĹŤdek died within a few seconds of being placed on an operating table.
It was horrible, but Talic didn’t have time to dwell on it now. Chief Medical Officers never had time to dwell in the terrible, painful things they saw in an operating room. He had four more lives to save. Once he knew they were out of harms way, then he could let everything crash down around him.
But not one moment before.
“Induced coma unsuccessful. Vital signs in critical condition.”
The warning sounded again, and Talic tore himself away from Prash back to Koladi. She was deathly pale, and the rising motion of her breathing was slow and labored. Sweat started gathering on Talic’s brow as he quickly tried to restart the sequence again.
“Warning: hemorrhaging detected in upper abdomen.”
“Fuck, no, no, no, no,” Talic muttered in growing panic under his breath, “C’mon, Koladi, just hold on a little longer, c’mon…”
“Warning: blood pressure not detected. Pulse not detected.”
“No!” Talic abandoned the monitor and yanked back the covering over Koladi’s chest. Already he could see the dark shading of blood pooling under her skin. “Open defibrillators.”
Slots on either side of the operating table opened and he grabbed a defibrillator out from each. The voltage charged and he held the flat ends against her chest. Her body jolted from the current, but the heart monitor remained flat.
“C’mon, Koladi, hang in there…” He charged them again and winced from the loud sound of electricity discharging. Still, nothing. He tried again and her vital signs still remained flat. He tried not to look at the grayish hue growing in her complexion as he charged them up again.
“Talic—”
“I can do it, Zanvir,” Talic didn’t look back at him as he discharged the electricity a fourth time. Still no pulse. He could feel Zanvir’s eyes staring into the back of his head.
“Talic, listen—”
“I’m not losing her!” Talic shouted as he charged the defibrillator again. Koladi jolted on the table, but remained lifeless. “I’m not losing another one, I can do it!”
“The cutoff is three, Vellatang!” Talic flinched as Zanvir’s voice rose to a shout. He turned back to look at him, the defibrillators still clenched tightly in his hands. Only now he noticed how short and rapid his breath was.
“It’s three times,” Zanvir said with a long sad look on his face, “You know that. You’ve done five now. I… You have to move on.”
Talic’s breath froze in his chest. He was right, trying again now would just waste time. He turned back to Koladi, setting the defibrillators down as he finally looked at her still face. There was nothing, no breath, no fluttering of her eyes. Even now, he knew the color of her irises were drained under her eyelids, leaving behind a haunting milky white.
She was gone.
“Go back to Prash, Talic,” Zanvir’s voice grew softer, “He still needs you.”
Talic didn’t need any other prompting. Zanvir was right, he had to move on. He had to hold on, try and save the others as best he could. Just for a moment, he allowed his hands to shake as he pulled the cover over Koladi. The look of death disappeared under the blue sheet, and he exhaled sharply.
“I’m sorry, Koladi…” His hand rested on top of her head for just a moment, almost as though he was trying to comfort her through her passing. He inhaled sharply and pulled away, feeling a sharp sting of sadness in his chest as he came back to Prash. He could still feel Zanvir’s eyes on him, making sure he was able to keep moving forward.
Talic pushed the rest of his thinking to each piece of shrapnel he pulled out of Prash. He could keep going like this, focusing only on those still breathing. There would be time to mourn the others later. But for now, he could hold on for Lylimeph, Prash, and Dosair.
For @whumpmasinjuly day 5, I am returning to my friend T because what can I say? I find his story very compelling at the moment. I have something in the works for August too, so stay tuned but only if you’re patient.
Robot folks!  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @wolfeyedwitch,  @redwingedwhump, @ocean-blue-whump, @impalasexual, @i-can-even-burn-salad, @sadcatjae, @whump-cravings, @kawhump, @pumpkin-spice-whump, @winedark-whump, @whumpingmydarlings, @maracujatangerine​ Â
CW: nonhuman whumpee, male whumpee, medical whump, lab whump, nonsexual nudity, oxygen deprivation, malnutrition(?), guilt
The tiniest shift up. The tiniest imaginable drop down. That horrible dry gasping sound that never seems to end, a sound that is simultaneously the most desperate and despairing thing that Freddy has ever heard. He stands in the doorway, palms pressed down over his eyes hard enough that he sees swirls and lines and colors, anything but T.
But he can only cover his eyes or his ears. Not both. And so the gasping rings on in his ears,
Slowly, Freddy moves his hands away from his eyes, hating every second of it. He’s responsible for this, after all, so the least he can do is bear witness to T’s wasted body, wasted life.
It’s an impact of being so long without sufficient air. They know that now. It’s good medical information, apparently. Knowing what that does to a person. Freddy wants to scream.
T’s eyes are sunken, dark with exhaustion and raw, animal panic. His muscles are outlined starkly against his skin, his bones prominent. Collarbone, shoulders, ribs. They’ve stripped his shirt off to expose just how much the lack of oxygen is getting to him. They’ve stripped more than that off, too, but Freddy drapes the sheet back over T’s body with a burning face, refusing to look.
“H-hey, T.”
Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. Is there the faintest flicker of movement in his fingers, or is Freddy imagining?
“I’m...I’m so sorry. We’re...we’re working on it, I swear. We’re...we’re trying everything.”
Gasp. Gasp. Gasp. The sound is endless, monotonous. How does someone’s suffering become mundane? Is the room always this cold?
“I...I miss you.” Freddy is crouched beside the cot now, even though it brings him closer to the horrible gasping. He’s pretending to check vitals, fingers moving ever so gently over T’s skin as he feels the hummingbird flutter of a pulse, the dryness of the man’s skin beneath his.
T has never felt so fragile before. Usually, he’s all muscle, metal, built to perform. Freddy flushes to think it that way, but it’s true, isn’t it? T is stronger than anyone Freddy’s ever met, faster than any human has any right to be.
Not anymore. Not now. Now, he’s a gasping body in a hospital cot, and a lack of extra oxygen is destroying him. There’s no spare energy to break down food, and he’s lying down all day besides. In the back of his mind, Freddy wonders if this is yet another sick experiment by Dr. Pool, or Dr Zhu.
How long can a body go, with a bare minimum of oxygen? What happens to that body - because it’s only a body, of course, not a person. How much mass can someone lose, how much muscle, how much fucking light from their eyes?
That last one is just Freddy being sentimental and he knows it. If there’s no scientific tool to measure it, it doesn’t exist to these people. But he knows T. He knows T. He would swear he knows T better than any of them, better than any diagnostic. And T is dying. His body might make it, the sophisticated technology will be fine...but T is dying.
“Hold on, T.”
Gasp. Gasp. Gasp
Freddy finds that there are tears slipping down his face.
Tinsel licked his lips at the food arranged on the counter. Tomatoes, lettuce, a bag of lunch meat, it had been so long since he had anything but pellets. Swallowing a watery mouthful of spit, he tried to ignore the smells surrounding him.
Not for Tinsel. Master wanted a sandwich, he was waiting in the living room. Despite how wonderful it was to be in the kitchen, Tinsel didn't want to take too long making it. If he didn't get it done fast enough Master would be upset and, Tinsel threw a look over his shoulder towards the living room.
Crusty and thick, the bread was something fancy, it made beautiful crinkling sounds when Tinsel squeezed it. But how was he supposed to cut it, unless. . . There was a magnetic bar on the wall, covered in knives. The most beautiful knives, some were thin and long and looked as if you could bend them in half. Others were thick and heavy enough to cleave bone in two.
Tinsel's eye was drawn to one whose blade looked as if it were made of ripples, dark and grey against the metal. So beautiful, with a weighted curve. And sitting out where just anyone could grab it. Another glance to the living room.Â
Only for a moment, he'd just feel how heavy it was. He wouldn't use it without being told, not ever. Not unless he had to. As his hand closed around the handle, a voice too close made him jump.Â
 "Do you like it?"Â
 Whirling, knife still in hand, Tinsel backed against the counter. He hadn't even heard Master come in, he was quieter than a cat. Master just stood there, too close, unperturbed.Â
 "It's a nice knife. Not serrated though, not for bread or tomatoes. Unless they didn't teach you that in domestic training. Or maybe you weren't trained at all,"Â
Tinsel's legs pressed against the floor as he pushed further against the counter, trying to stay upright. Put it down, beg, he'll punish you and it'll be over, Tinsel thought. Or he'll just kill you, Tinsel thought, eyes darting to the hidden shoulder holster. You're not just going to lay down and die, are you?Â
 "Go on," Master said, taking a step closer and parting his blazer, almost pressing the tip of the blade against his own shirt. "Try it. Let's see how far you get."Â
Tinsel's head began shaking.Â
 "No, no," he whispered, "I wasn't, I wouldn't,"Â
 "But you were thinking it, weren't you?" Master said.Â
Tinsel's eyes flickered.Â
 "So go on, let's try it. Let's see how far you get," Master said, "Too frightened to go through with it? Or maybe it's because it's to my face, and you were planning on waiting until my back was turned."Â
 "No," Tinsel said. He had to let go, he had to put it down, it was like the metal handle was an iron burning his hand.Â
 "Alright then, I'll help you," Master said, grabbing Tinsel's wavering hand and closing it on the blade. One swift move and Master had pulled it toward himself, Tinsel cried out in horror. Only the blade didn't connect with anything, Master had stepped back, out of the way, and his free hand shot forward, pulling something from his sleeve. Tinsel squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the blow that didn't connect.Â
 "Open your eyes," Master said, and Tinsel squeezed them tighter as the presence around him grew more powerful. "Open your eyes or I'll blind them both,"Â
 They opened slowly, all of Tinsel's attention on the silver blade nearly touching his eye. He couldn't lean any further back, his head was against a cabinet, his hips trapped in the corner of the counter.Â
 Blade? No, it was a--was it a fork? Tinsel made a quite keen and almost forgot to keep his eyes open.Â
 "I can push this through to your brain," Master said, "If that doesn't kill you then at least finishing you off will be significantly easier. While you still have it, let's try using that brain of yours. What's the lesson in all this?"Â
 "I--You," Tinsel couldn't breathe. He had to answer, he had to say something and oh, it was so close his eye couldn't focus anymore. "I won't, won't touch. No knives,"Â
 "So you don't plan on doing domestic work after all?"Â
 "No," Tinsel said, "Sorry, I didn't mean,"Â
 The fork moved closer, he could feel it against his eyelashes as he blinked and the sound died in his throat as he tried to hold still. The strong grip on his hand finally eased, but instead of the knife clattering to the floor Master held it deftly in his free hand.Â
 "Unbutton," Master said. The fork didn't move, and Tinsel's fingers were shaking so hard it took longer than it should have. Yesterday, Master had been so disgusted with the marks littering Tinsel's body he was almost returned. Since then Tinsel had worn it buttoned up to his throat, sleeves unrolled and hanging past his hands. And now Master wanted it unbuttoned.Â
Tinsel stared at nothing over Master's shoulder, keeping his head as immobile as possible. When the last button came undone Master lifted the knife to Tinsel's throat and--he was only using it to shrug off the shirt, which hung from Tinsel's wrists and puddled on the counter behind. Tinsel was so delicate Master didn't have to threaten him like this, he could just reach out and snap him, and they both knew it. So why bother with weapons?Â
 Tinsel cried out and almost moved when the knife broke skin. Behind him, at the base of his ribcage, shallow but oh, slow.Â
 "Wait, wait," Tinsel gripped the countertop unsteadily, eyes squinting against his will. "I'm sorry, I--"Â
 The line traced the edge of his ribcage around to the front, and Tinsel whined when Master moved his hand back around the other side.Â
 "You can't beat me in a fight," Master said, as the knife pushed in again, mirroring the cut on the other side of Tinsel's ribs. Tinsel couldn't help it, he scrunched his eyes closed and tried to control the whine building in his throat.Â
"I won't, wouldn't, please,"Â
 Master finished the line with a quick flick of his wrist that left Tinsel gasping. His head jerked forward involuntarily but when Tinsel opened his eyes they were both still whole. The whole kitchen trembled through a watery kaleidoscope.
Although he couldn't see the red, curved lines under his chest, Tinsel could feel droplets swelling until they dribbled down towards his shorts.Â
 "The lesson?" Master said. Tinsel raised a hand to his face, covering his eyes, and slumped heavily against the counter, knees half-giving way. "I won't, sorry, sorry, no weapons,"Â
 There was a heavy sigh and Tinsel jumped as the fork was tossed on the counter.Â
 "Wrong again. The lesson is anything can be a weapon if you use it correctly. If you choose something obvious then you're going to get found out quicker,"
 "Never, I won't," Tinsel squeaked, sliding down the counter until he was sitting pressed against it, hiding behind his knees.Â
 "And you need to anticipate what weapons your target has access to, including themselves. Which in your case means you need to kill me before I can react."
 Tinsel shook his head no and tried to draw back further as Master took a serrated knife from the rack and began carving a slice of bread.Â
 "Don't forget next time," Master said, "Now, would you like something to eat, or are you too frightened for that as well?"
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In the aftermath of a 'lesson' from Ridley, Dany struggles to hold on to herself.
Ridley and B belong to @hackles-up and are used with permission. This is set directly after the events in [Lost], and references this ['comfort' prompt fill].
[Dany Masterpost]
Content - aftermath of choking, aftermath of noncon, locked in a cage, intimate whumper, implied mutual noncon, manipulative whumper, creepy comfort, degrading and dehumanising language. Believe it or not, though, technically, this is about love.
My mind is drifting through an ocean of darkness. There's flashes of burning pain, the crashing weight of waves pulling me down, there's tides tugging at me, towards a black hole in the center of the sea, then back towards a distant blood red shoreline.
Nothing is real.
'You lost.' An echo of him whispers at me.Â
Digs into my ribs.
Burns on my skin.
Claws at my insides.
Tightens around my throat.
I whimper.
The sound catches in my throat, weak and painful. It hurts. It hurts so much. I can't breathe. My hands fly up, fingertips brush against soft leather. The collar. My collar. Back on. Too tight. Pressing into aching bruises, cutting off my air.
"No," I want to whisper. I can't. My voice is gone. A pathetic croak is all the sound I can make.
Another spike of pain, drilling into my side.
"Look at me, bitch."
I blink. Force my eyes open. There's light, too much light, and in between a figure is looming over me.
I blink again, squint my eyes, until the blurry lines of Ridley's face take shape, far away, behind sturdy metal bars.
I'm in a cage. Laying on the floor of the narrow dog cage, in Ridley's splendid living room.Â
Above me, Ridley smirks. He's in a suit, fingers busy adjusting his tie. His polished shoe is poking into my side between the bars.
"There she is. Good morning, princess. How did it feel? To die, at my Bee Bee's hands? I must say, I liked you a lot better, stripped of that annoying attitude."
I try to shift away from his foot on the cold cage floor. Pain rips through me, tearing right through my core. Horribly familiar. Worse than ever.Â
A weak whine escapes from my throat.
Ridley hums contently. "Yeah. Fucked you raw. You'll be sore for a while. Might give you something to remember. That's what you're for, baby girl. Everyone knows it. I know it. You know it. Even the dog understands." Ridley pauses, adjusts the collar of his suit, while his gaze runs over my body. There's a smug grin on his lips. "You should know, I let him have a go at you, too, after I was done. He knows you're not his friend. You're not his savior. You're his master's fucktoy." He turns around and I follow his gaze to see B curled up at the other side of the living room, chained to the floor by his collar. Ridley clicks his tongue. "I actually had to step in. He fucked you hard enough to almost kill you a second time. You know him. Can't hold back when he's in the zone. What a vicious creature." He sighs. "Still, even when he messes with my property like that, I just can't bring it over me to put him down. I'm too soft on both of you, really."
I can't even sob. I roll to my side, turn my face away from Ridley, from B, from everything. My skin hurts, itches where it stretches under dried come. The blue dress I wore to the reception is torn to shreds.
"I'll have to get to the office now, baby girl. You'll stay in the cage for the day. Keep you safe from the dog, and your own dangerous attitude. And if you're good tonight, I'm even inclined to allow you back into my bed."
Something nudges through the bars. Not his foot again, but something soft. "There. Some comfort, while you recover. My dog hurt you so much. This one won't."Â
I don't look up, almost surprised when Ridley doesn't insist that I do. Instead, I hear him leave with a whistle and a relaxed spring to his steps, followed by the soft closing of the elevator doors.
-
I can't tell how much time has passed. I've fallen into a fitful sleep, nightmares of teeth and pain and drowning. Something small is pressing into my back. Wincing, I pull it out from underneath me.
It's a stuffed animal. The plush dog Ridley has gifted me, with huge plastic puppy eyes and a broken ear. It's sticky, a smudge of blood staining its fur.
My hands curl into fists in the soft plush. I want to scream, yell, curse, but there's nothing left in me but a painful, garbled sob.Â
Fuck you, I think, what I can't say out loud. Fuck you, Ridley Lordin. It won't work. You won't win. I'm more than what you want me to believe. B is more than what you want me to believe.
I press the stuffed dog against my chest. You won't win, Ridley.
I won't give up. I'll hold on. To B. To myself. We're more.
I turn my head to look through the bars. B is half awake, still feverish, his body shaken by violent shivers.Â
I hug the plushie tightly.
"We're more." My voice is nothing but a faint croak. B can't hear me.Â
Whumpee thought they were just going for a little hike. They had just moved to the area, it was a nice day, they had never been out somewhere like this before, the trail was short and for beginners, why not?
Why not double check the trail markers
They didn't realize the mistake until five hours had gone by, their feet hurt, they were out of water, the sun was about to set, and they came to a section of trail that was slim, steep, and much too close to a sheer drop
TW: magical paralysis, arrested, mention of (contract) killing
Note: This is the beginning of a "story" (more like some scenes) I wanted to start for a while now. I will definitly continue it at some point; just be patient with me please.
Masterlist
It was just one simple mistake; one moment of carelessness. It would cost RĂona her life.
RĂona was sent to murder the crown prince. It could have been so simple: break into his bedroom, stab him in his sleep and be in and out before anybody noticed. She´d done it dozens of times, she was good at her job, the best, not for nothing RĂona was called "queen of the shadows". And yet this time she had made a mistake.
She had watched and planed her way in for days. She knew every guard and their movements, she knew the sleeping habits of the crown prince and she knew all protections in his room; or at least she thought that she knew.
From the outside RĂona sensed for invisible barriers and magic shields but it felt save. The moment she threw herself through the open window - completely soundless like a phantom - she was frozen. RĂona fell to the ground like a stone and the silence was gone. Guards streamed in the room, the prince already awake and RĂona couldn´t move a single muscle, so she just lay there watching her life crumble down.
The guards took her while she still was paralyzed and dragged her down into the dungeon chaining her to the wall.
Later - before the paralysis was gone - RĂona would ask herself, why she didn´t feel for a magical barrier twice or why she couldn´t sense this one but right in this moment all she could see were the pieces of her life shattering again and again until there was nothing left but dust.
