Full of unpleasant, violent, and sometimes sexual content. This blog is not a safe space. Proceed at your own discretion. Sideblog to @horrible-on-main.
That’s right, you heard me. A masterpost of masterposts.
#my writing - access my most recent creations
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Active stories:
Some get more updates than others, but these stories are theoretically “on the go”.
BBU: A Girl Called Spider
Spider didn’t wait for a name, she named herself. Spider dreams of deep water and tunnels beneath the earth, and blood.
Unlikely Salvation
Urban fantasy. Torturer Ariadne is saved by one of her victims, seeks redemption.
AU: Chewtoy
Ariadne is a prisoner at the facility where she works, used as a stress toy for her sadistic boss.
AU: Healer and Handler
Ariadne is assigned to supervise kept healer Alex. Discomfort ensues as she starts to realise quite how badly kept healers are treated.
Annihilation
A teenage psychic weapon, her reluctant handler, and the war they’re fighting.
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Inactive stories:
I may or may not ever return to these, but they certainly aren’t at the forefront of my mind or on the docket to be written any time soon.
Liam
Same ‘verse as Unlikely Salvation. The story of a kept mind-reader.
Loiral and Marcus
Dungeons & Dragons fantasy. Minor drow noble is captured by an evil priest from the surface and tortured into compliance.
BBU: Mina and Marten
Unboxing channel YouTuber receives an unsolicited package containing a pretrained human pet. Awkwardness ensues.
BBU: Just Acting
Romantic-designation pet is asked by her new owner to train up another pet.
Tacitus
Warhammer 40k. Conflicted daemonologist kept as a captive asset by the Inquisition. Also a timeline with a daemon prince getting his revenge.
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Other:
Biodrones
Not a coherent story, but a collection of linked ficlets. Sci-fi.
Shorts, #short
Thoughts, snippets and prose under 300 words
Misc Writing
Stuff that falls outside my main stories, >300 words
#my art - Visual art
#my stuff - Other, mostly prompts and moodboards
The smudge of faint light that was the sun-behind-cloud has dimmed, blending inexorably into gray. It might be below the horizon already. Dusk gathers reluctantly, without fanfare, dousing the world slowly in ever dimmer shades.
I build a fire the way my brothers taught me, so many years ago. In the deafening silence I can almost hear their child-voices arguing over whether it should be shaped like a teepee, or like a square pyramid.
(The square pyramid has won out, as ever, in my habits. The teepee, whatever its aesthetic merits, is a pain in the ass to make stable.)
It always rained on our camping trips. More than anything I still associate camping with the damp, the smell of wet earth, the sound of rain on the tent-skin above my head. Anywhere we went, it always rained. Our mother used to say we must have offended some rain god.
She didn’t believe that – and I don’t think we did either – but my brothers and I would make offerings, sometimes, in the way that children do. We’d gather round and pleasing stones, and peel the bark from sticks, and cast them into the nearest body of water along with our fervent hopes for sunshine. If the clouds parted, maybe we did believe a little – if only for a little while.
Those rain-soaked outings taught me, at least, the important lesson of keeping some kindling stashed away somewhere dry. My memories of fire-building are sodden with that childhood rain. Wet bark leaving debris on cold, clammy fingers. Disappointing curls of steam coaxed from sticks too wet to catch. Newspaper scraps turning to mush in our hands, damp earth soaking steadily through the knees of my canvas dungarees.
When I stand to get more wood, I’m almost surprised to find my knees dry. It hasn’t rained, and all that has seeped up from the ground is a chill. I tug my coat closer around my neck, the way my mother used to do for me when she’d catch me shivering.
The dark has crept up on me. My eyes have adapted, but the sky is barely lighter than the trees now. The fire I’ve built is bigger than I intended. But why not? I’ve no shortage of wood. Perhaps a roaring fire will lift my flagging spirits.
It lights easily, because I’ve built it well. The candle-flames from the pine-needle kindling light the little twigs. The bright tongues of yellow lick upwards from the twigs to the sticks above, charring the surface until they, too, catch, and so on until the flames are bright enough to sting my dark-adapted eyes.
And when I look up from my fire, the world has vanished, swallowed into blackness as if my fire and I are alone in the void, the only two things breathing in all the world.
I’ve gotten cold, sitting still, and while the fire is bright and hot on my face, the heat hasn’t built enough yet to warm me through. So I start by boiling water for cocoa. The fire is too big, and I have to push some logs to make room for the grill. The flames leap greedily through the ironwork as I nestle it into place.
It’s too soon to cook without setting the food on fire, but a pot of water won’t mind the flames. While it heats, I tip a generous serve of cocoa mix directly into my mug. Who’s going to stop me making it as thick as I like?
If I squint, I can almost pretend I’m not alone. The fire is too bright to see clearly through. There could be another person opposite, sitting as low to the ground as I am, hidden by the smoke and the dancing flames.
There could be, but there isn’t.
The water boils, and I scoot the pot out of the flames onto the near end of the grill, then help myself to a ladleful – careful to angle it so it can’t spill onto my fingers if it spills.
Memories swirl about me, as thick as wood-smoke and twice as choking. I’m ladling out cocoa from the big pan into my parents’ and brothers’ mugs, solemn with the weight of recently-earned responsibility. I’m standing behind the food counter, ladling out soup with a smile into each bowl as it’s presented to me. I’m in my own kitchen, serving stew from the pressure cooker into the nice stoneware, and the faces waiting at the table are so familiar it hurts inside my chest like I’ve breathed in something I shouldn’t have.
It’s not often you get out a ladle to serve just one, I guess.
I put it down, and fumble through my mess box in the dark to find my teaspoon, and stir my cocoa, but the floodgates are open now.
The spoon clicking against the inside of the mug recalls stirring tea – one mug and then the other, always two. The thickness of the cocoa recalls my mother’s voice, exclaiming at how much I’ve used, again. The smoke tastes of late autumn bonfires, sending off the branches from pruning back the trees. There should be marshmallows. I choke up.
Tears drip down my cheeks like raindrops, and even the salt tastes of memory.
“What about… Foxglove?” she suggests, tracing a finger over the illustrated flowers. The book is open on the floor in front of her as Spider lays full length on her stomach on the plush carpet.
“Too pornstar,” her owner answers, without looking round from his screen.
“I could be a pornstar,” the pet points out. He isn’t watching, so she doesn’t bother to kick her legs suggestively.
“I didn’t buy you to be a pornstar,” he returns.
“Yes sir,” she agrees.
The pages are thick and glossy. She turns them with care. The book feels like a very precious, delicate thing to let a Pet touch.
“Delphinium?”
“What is delphinium when it’s at home?” He does look up long enough to glance at the page. “That’s far too much of a mouthful.”
“You could name me, master,” Spider suggests, again.
He’s supposed to want to. It’s a mark of ownership. He just waves a hand dismissively. Stomach sinking, she returns her attention to the pages.
“Oleander?”
He thinks for a moment about that one. “Give me some more suggestions.”
“Datura?”
“What? No. You’re not a fruit.” Neither is datura. A Pet never disagrees with her Owner.
“Azalea?”
“Azalea.” His tone tells her instantly that she’s found it. Her heart leaps. “I like it.”
“I like it too, Sir,” Spider simpers.
Azalea. She rolls the syllables around in her mind. She does like it. The flower is pretty, too.
“Azalea it is."
“Thank you, Sir,” Spider chirps, and means it.
It’s an intense relief to be named at last. And she thinks Azalea can be a good Pet, a successful Pet. Her life here might be good. She might be okay, for the first time she can remember.
Spider feels her owner's cock twitch under her as she settles into his lap, but he pulls back from her face as she moves in to kiss his neck. Obedient to the cue, Spider straightens, tilting her chin down so she can look up attentively through her lashes.
“Truthfully, Azalea,” he opens. “Do you enjoy this?”
Recognition is almost electric. Spider hasn't thought about this Scenario in months. She didn’t really expect she’d ever need it here. The script jumps to her tongue nonetheless.
“Of course, sir.” Surprise doesn't need to be feigned. She laughs a musical little doll laugh that says I don't quite understand, master, but I'm sure you know best. “I'm a Romantic.”
“I'm aware that you don't get much choice in the matter,” Avon states, as if that is a refutation.
I am an enthusiastic and consenting participant – the Company Line is far too formal for the occasion. Spider runs through options in her head, gauging which will land best, while her mouth covers her hesitation with flirtation.
“I’d have trouble not enjoying it, Sir, considering what you're bringing to the party.”
“Flattery, Azalea,” he chides, “What have we said about flattery?” But he smiles, like he always does, and Azalea answers with a giggle.
“Romantics are recruited from participants with a high natural sex drive,” she recites. “I signed up for this role” – I never signed up for this – “because I wanted a life with a lot of sex in it.”
Avon nods, seeming mollified, and Spider’s heart unclenches.
Dissatisfied owners return their products. Spider does not intend to be returned.
When Riven was 12 years old, he snuck out in a riot, just to see what all the fuss was about. Although really there wasn’t much sneaking involved. He just unlocked the deadbolt, opened the door, and went outside. He didn’t set out to join a lynch mob. He didn’t know what they were about, when he joined the back of the crowd. He wouldn’t have chosen any differently if he had known.
An older woman there did try to send him home, first saying that it wasn’t safe, then that what they were doing wasn’t for children to watch – which of course only made Riven want to know what they were doing. He might have let her make him leave – he wasn’t so good at saying no to adults, yet – but a man with a long gun said that he should stay. He said that children ought to see the right way to treat warlocks in this country.
Even at that age Riven understood that – although the man never threatened the woman, nor even implied it – the man won the argument because he had the gun.
Being a part of the crowd was intoxicating. Riven had never been drunk yet, but he imagined it felt something like this. The chanting – one voice rising from many throats – got into his bones. Nothing at all like a hall full of kids being made to sing in unison. A wild, surging energy lived in every moving body, in every pair of eyes. Riven had no name for it but he felt it, carrying him like a rising tide as the crowd marched erratically from house to house according to no pattern he understood, breaking down doors and dragging the occupants into the street.
Witches and warlocks, they said. They looked the same as any other people to Riven, as the adults beat them and screamed at them and threw them down against the asphalt – ways Riven had never seen adults behave in his life – but no one stopped them. No one even tried.
It was the sounds that would really stick with him. The meaty impact of fists and feet and worse on flesh. And the voices – the warlocks howling, the crowd baying like dogs. Riven raised his voice with them and it felt good, just the same as the chanting and the marching.
When they found a warlock who fought back – a flash of light, the distinctive stench of magic in the air – the adults beat him until he stopped moving, and then they poured gasoline over his clothes and lit him on fire, right there in the street. The mob howled like wild animals as the bright orange flames took hold – almost loud enough to drown out the screams – and no one seemed to remember that Riven was only 12 years old.
He didn’t see what happened to the body. He didn’t think to look, carried forward by the momentum of the crowd. Burn the witch, they chanted, burn the witch, burn the witch, burn the witch.
When he finally made it home – staggering exhausted, although he hadn’t done anything that should have tired him out – his mom screamed at him, saying he was crazy and he could have been killed. Mostly this was confusing to Riven. There hadn’t been any point when he hadn’t felt safe.
Chewtoy Ariadne and Interrogator Riven MacLauren belong to @just-horrible-things.
If Alex wasn’t suffering, screaming, somewhere down here, Taryn Morgen would consider herself lucky.
Riven MacLauren wasn’t supposed to still be here. After hours. The graveyard shift, guards nearly asleep at the door, not looking too carefully as Taryn-in-a-blonde-wig drove the van straight into Site 17 with Ross curled up in the trunk, while the body of the van’s previous operator was in a ditch somewhere off the interstate. There was no hesitation, killing for Alex.
There is no hesitation, killing now. Invisible, crouched behind the barely-cracked door of the interrogation room, she and Ross watch MacLauren doing what MacLauren does best. There’s a prisoner chained to the wall, knees long-since buckled to throw the weight of her broken body into her wrenched shoulders, combat boots hovering in a pool of her own blood. Odd. They put a prisoner in combat boots.
You done yet, Ariadne? taunts MacLauren. Learned your lesson?
Yes - sir - please - - ‘ll be good -
Unfortunate, really, that the last words the sadist hears will be such music to his ears.
Taryn snaps his neck with a flick of her wrist, and he crumples, dead.
She throws her hand over the mouth of the prisoner, then. Shh, shh. It’s over. He’s gone. Just tell me. Please. Where is Alex Morgen?
The prisoner - Ariadne - gazes at the nowhere where Taryn’s voice was coming from in absolute terror.
Please. I won’t hurt you. I’m a friend. Please. Alex Morgen. Where is he.
She swallows, voice hoarse from screaming. Block three - room - fifteen -
Take her back to the van, Ross. I’ll go for Alex.
~
She knew it was only a matter of time before he got sick of her, before the thin line separating her and them was erased, but it didn’t stop her from begging for mercy from Riven, from the world, from the walls that were her world. Please, no, please, not yet.
The lash slices over her bruised ribs, licked the spot that might have been broken - definitely was broken - and she lets out a choked-out scream as her knees buckle below her, sending her spinning in her cuffs, yanking tendons out of place in shoulders that had been wrenched behind her for hours as she awaited Riven’s return.
The next lash catches her around the ankles, and she howls.
How was she going to work after this?
Please let her work after this. Please, anything but a real prisoner.
You done yet, Ariadne? Learned your lesson?
A chance. A chance to prove herself. Yes - sir - please - - ‘ll be good -
The next lash, the next taunt, never comes. Her tormenter collapses, a puppet with cut strings, and all at once an invisible hand holds her mouth, and she didn’t think she could feel fear anymore of anything worse than Riven but one thing you know, working in Seventeen, is it can always, always get worse.
She answers the question, about Alex Morgen, the high-profile prisoner Riven’s been having her work over the last few days. She doesn’t hesitate. Her loyalty is only to whatever and whoever controls the degree of her agony at that moment, and Riven is now replaced by an invisible hand.
An invisible hand that clutches her around the broken ribs - they grate against each other, she gasps for air, and the dark blotches that have been dancing at the edge of her vision have mercy on her, and she loses consciousness as the warlock pulls her limp form from the shackles.
~
Fix life-threatening injuries only, for everyone, Taryn says to the healers, and it hurts her to say that when one of the victims is Alex, but there are two healers and seven victims and Taryn knows, very well, how that ratio goes. Barnett is the type of leader who would demand priority for his brother. Taryn is not.
It would be different, if she were a healer. She’d give Alex and only Alex everything she had until she drowned in her own blood. Because how many times would he do that, had he done that, for all of them?
He’s barely aware of her as she picks up one of his cold hands - uninjured, the mark of a healer with some capacity left for obedience. Those hands are potentially valuable to the feds rather than hazardous. They’re cold, from his magic subconsciously trying to heal his own internal bleeding. They’re the only part of him not covered in blood and bruises, at least of the parts she can see. She’s scared to look under Alex’s shirt. Every one of his exhales has a soft, desperate nh-hn behind it.
Taryn starts Alex’s IV herself, snakes a needle into one of the spiderlike veins in that left hand she’s holding, pushes morphine and hangs fluids. Watches for his breathing to even out and lose that gasping hitch at the end. Thinks about how Riven MacLauren died too quickly.
She realizes she’s being watched, by the prisoner in the next bed over, with bloodshot eyes that look too afraid to blink and quickly avert themselves once Taryn tries to meet their gaze.
Hello, Ariadne, she says, trying to channel reassurance and calm. You’re safe now. I’m Taryn Morgen. Welcome to the Resistance.
Beautiful words to hear, for most people pulled from Site 17. But if anything, Ariadne only looks more terrified.
P-please - she stutters out. Please, nh, m-mercy -
Yeah, Taryn says, exhausted. Yes, mercy. Of course.
Dany fights. And gets a little murder, as a treat.
[Dany: Princess]
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Referenced Leo Luciano is @hackles-up s character. Fills the prompt from ailesswhumptober, day 22: "changed dynamic"
(fair warning - this piece is long, for my standards, around 3k words. But worth it, I promise.)
Content / warnings: whumpee fighting back, captivity, humiliation, implied future noncon, escape attempt, aftermath of branding, stabbing, shooting, blood, death of a side character, very brief discussion of suicide as a means to escape, threat of noncon, threat of necrophilia, in general a lot of very nasty threats.
Being left in Luciano's small office feels like forever, though it could've only been minutes. Even in my undressed state, my body is feverishly hot, heated by the fireplace in the corner and the fresh brand on my back that continuously erupts searing pain.
My head is dangling over the edge of the desk, and I resist the urge to fight my bonds and look up. Luciano clearly has done this before, not once, but multiple times. The branding iron bears witness to that, as do the worn leather cuffs that fixate my wrists to the table legs, and the sickening routine of his motions.
He's done it before, and he's done it here, and that makes my chances to get out of it slimmer and slimmer.
I squeeze my eyes shut. I need to think before I fight, but that's hard to do in this position, with Frankie's fucking drugs still in my system and the constant pain flooding through me.
Wherever I am, whatever this place is, Leo Luciano is in charge here. That fucker Frankie drove me into a parking garage, before I lost consciousness. If they haven't moved me since, I'm somewhere in the city center still. I vaguely remember to have seen a bit of sky through the curtain when Luciano had yanked my head up, sunny and cloudless, and high above the ground. That makes it likely that I have in fact not been moved, that this is one of the high rises downtown, and that once I'm out on the streets, someone would see and help me.
All I need to do is get out of the building. Probably need to get dressed for that, a naked person draws too much attention. And ideally, get some sort of weapon.
So that's the plan then. Wait until I'm out of the bonds. Find the right moment before what ever sick event he's planned. Get rid of whatever lackey he'll send. Find clothes.
Get out.
I'll have to do it with a fresh burn wound impeding me, every physical exercise will make it worse - but if Luciano's threats are true, which I don't doubt for a second, this is the best shape I can hope for in the foreseeable future.
I count my breaths - in for four, holding for four, out for six - and try to clear my mind. That party of Luciano's doesn't matter. What happened to my Dad doesn't matter. Frankie's betrayal doesn't matter. The smell of sickness doesn't matter. Right now, the only thing that matters is that I find the right moment to fight back.
And if on cue, I hear the door open. Several sets of steps enter, one circling me and kneeling down in front of my face to look at me. "It's really her," the young man murmurs and whistles through his teeth. "Stuart Hammond's spoilt little brat. Boss outdid himself with that catch."
Guard. Inexperienced, but wants to show off.
"Shut up already," someone else chides. "Let's get this done. Three hours isn't exactly a lot of prep time."
Now I have a time frame. And an idea who the others are. Employees of this place, charged with organizing this. Way too practiced. Something cold is slapped onto my back. White pain blinds me. I throw my head back and scream.
Someone laughs.
"Shhh, pet," the same voice from before shushes. "It's just a salve. Mr Luciano doesn't want this to get infected." Rough strokes spread the salve over my skin. All I can do is clench my jaw, squeeze my eyes shut and let the pain carry me.
I only understand that it's over when the hand rests on my shoulder and I feel the soft pressure of a bandage over the wound.
"Now. Will you be a good girl and follow us?", she asks. A woman. How can a woman be a part of this?
Doesn't matter.
I need to play along. I need them to trust me.
I nod. "Yes," I whisper, swallow back the 'madam' that nearly slipped out. Not be too compliant. I'm Danielle Hammond. Of course I'm not fucking ready to be a pet. But it makes sense to act afraid. "Please don't hurt me."
"We'll leave that to the paying customers," she replies with a dark chuckle, and leans over. I feel the bonds around my arms and legs spring open almost simultaneously.
The pressure around my neck remains. I swallow against it. I won't think about it. Won't bother with the intent of humiliation, being put into a collar. What matters is, that bonds are off, and the woman and another attendant lift me off the desk and onto my feet. I let out a soft whine when the muscles around the brand shift and strings of searing flames seem to dance over my back.
"Can you walk?", the woman asks.
I clench my jaw, swallow back the pain, and nod. I need to be able to walk, if I want to run.
"Good," she says. "Stay still." With one hand, she reaches onto her pocket and pulls out a measuring tape. Before I can grasp the absurdity of the situation, she's slung it around my bare breast, then underneath it, dictating the numbers to the other attendant.
"He wants white for her," she adds. "Innocence, wealth, and all. I imagine white lace, white harness, and maybe a translucent cape. Just make sure his mark stays visible. If you need to buy new, put it on his bill."
I wish that the incredulous horror on my face was an act as well. "What the fuck?" I breathe. "What's wrong with you?"
"Language," she tuts. "And you don't ask questions. You're a good girl, you wear what we give you, you let us pretty that sweet face up, you don't complain, you keep your tone down, and I promise it won't hurt that much."
She lets go of me and I stumble back. "I won't let you dress me up in -"
The young guard lazily pushes his jacket back to flash a gun. He doesn't reach for it, though. He reaches for a knife. "We can also make it hurt more," he says, almost eagerly expectant. "I'd like that. But I'm only allowed to do so, if you fight. So. Do you fight?"
Like fucking hell I will. Not now though.
I shake my head.
"Well then." The attendant takes over again and looks me down critically. "We like our girls clean here. We'll give you a full wax, do your hair and make up, mani-pedi, then get you dressed. It works much better for all of us, if you cooperate. Otherwise, it'll just be fun for young Gino and his knife."
I nod again, try to look away from the blade. They won't do any of that beauty regime in Luciano's office. They'll have another room for this, I'll get a chance to see the corridors, understand the layout of this place. Refine the plan.
Get. The fuck. Out.
~
The room I'm led to is two floors down. 17, according to the elevator. The attendant swipes a keycard to operate it. It seems like you can get to the ground floor without a card. But still, I make a mental note to grab one of these as well.
Floor 17 looks like a luxury hotel. Thick, cream carpets, tasteful pictures, doors with key card readers and room numbers. The preparation room, for lack of any other term, is basically a hotel suite as well, set up with mirrors and chairs and well equipped carts with all sorts of tools and accessories for hairdressing and cosmetics. It's almost like the suites at charity events, where the rich and famous can be set up and prepared by the cosmetics companies sponsoring these events. Except, of course, that those don't have cuffs on the armrests of their chairs.
"What is this?" I ask.
To my surprises, I am even graced with an answer. "This is a very exclusive, private gentlemen's club, sweetheart," the attendant says, with something almost like smug pride in her voice. "Your Dad is a member, as well. He didn't frequent us nearly as often as your new owner does, though."
"I don't have an owner," I snap.
"You do." She sighs. "You'll get used to it, I promise. Now, does Gino need to tie you up and keep that knife to your throat, or will you be docile and let my girls do their work without making a fuzz?"
The girls are two shy middle-aged women with collars around their necks and flat eyes. WRU pets. It's illegal to have them work for a company that's not a private household. I almost laugh out loud at the thought. Yeah. That's definitely the one illegal thing going on here. Apart from the kidnapping, torture, trafficking, and obvious forced prostitution.
I bite my lip and nod. "Docile," I mumble. "I'll be good."
~
By the time the pets leave, they've done my fingernails and toenails, styled my eyebrows, cut my hair, weaved it into a soft updo, and waxed my entire body. With the wound on my back, even under their soft touches, it was the single most excruciating bikini wax I've ever had.
The most horrifying thing though is, how nobody cared about my screams. The pets went on, unbothered, the attendant barely raised an eyebrow and Gino, stood by the door, one hand on his gun, used his free hand to lazily stroke himself through the fabric of his pants.
Back in the chair, in nothing but translucent white lingerie, my stomach is revolting. Tears have sprung up in the corners of my eyes. The woman pauses from nestling a cheap children's costume crown into my hair to dab a handkerchief at my eyes. "Don't use up all your tears just yet," she says. "They'll work much better later." She pauses, frowns. "You know what? Maybe I won't even use water resistant make up. I think your pretty face will look even better with some messy tear streaks work."
I fight the urge to slap her hands away. I could. She has just fixated one of my wrists to the chair. My right wrist. I'm left handed.
And now, with the pets gone, just her and the guard, this might be the best chance that I get.
And miraculously, it just gets better.
"I need to go the bathroom," Gino says. "You can handle her alone for five minutes, right?"
The woman snorts, as she puts a hand in her side and looks him down, gaze on his crotch. "I think one minute will be enough to handle that hard-on. Your first time on that sort of job, I guess?"
His cheeks flush in embarrassment, and for a long enough moment, nobody is looking at me. Biting back the pain at my every motion, my hand slides into the cart with the hairdressing tools, finds the pair of scissors they've used to cut my hair.
They're not big, but they're pointy enough to do their job. I slip the scissors under my naked thigh, right before the woman turns back.
Behind her, Gino hurriedly swipes his card to open the door and leaves.
"Men," the woman says and rolls her eyes at me, as if we were sharing a secret. As if she weren't working for them. As if she weren't the one who set me up to be assaulted by just that sort of man.
She reaches for the bobby pins on the cart and leans in over me to go on fixing the ridiculous crown. The cuff cuts into my wrist painfully, as bury my right hand in the front of her blouse and twist it to pull her in closer. My other hand presses the scissors to the soft side of her neck, right next to her trachea.
"Women," I hiss.
Half laying over my lap, she turns impressively pale.
I pull her closer. "It works much better for all of us, if you cooperate," I whisper her own words back at her. "It's a fucking mess to stab someone with scissors, but I think I can manage."
"He'll... He'll shoot you." Her voice is as flat as possible. The scissors dig into her skin at her every breath anyway.
"Get the keys. Open the cuff," I say, straining to sound strong, to keep the pained tremble from my voice. Her added weight presses into the burn on my back. Something in the wound must have reopened, pain searing new and fresh across my body. I press onto the scissors. "Or you die before I do."
With trembling fingers, she pulls a key from her pocket and starts fumbling with the lock around my wrist.
I really hope Gino takes longer than a minute.
Finally, the cuff springs open. I twist my free wrist, but don't take the pressure off her.
"Now kneel. Put it around your own hands. Tie yourself to the chair." The woman obeys, eyes darting to the door and back. I keep myself from doing the same. The door lock will announce itself with a beep. If it beeps now, I stand no chance anyway. I toss the key to the other end of the room and pull myself out of the chair carefully.
"Good girl," I hiss. "Now, open your mouth."
She stares at me in horror, before her mouth opens for me. There's a box of scrunchies on the cart, and I stuff them into her mouth, before I wrap a thin towel over it, effectively gagging her.
It's not like screams from this room would provoke any reaction from the outside - but I need to focus, and I don't think she'll let me. Only when I step back, I realize that I forgot one detail. Clothes. I have no time to uncuff her, and no other way to get her blouse. Just as I weigh my options, there's a soft beep from the door.
Fuck. Fuck.
I grab the scissors and whirl around.
Gino's eyes widen, as he sees the woman on the floor, his hand jerks to the weapon in his belt.
He's too slow.
I'm faster.
I slam the scissors into the side of his neck, once, twice, until they get stuck.
Gino scream is soft, more of a garbled, incredulous squeak, as he raises his hand to where I stabbed him. The door falls shut. I can just hope that nobody heard. There's blood everywhere. He stumbles to his knees in front of me. My bloody hand is wrapped around his gun, pulling it out of his waistband as he sinks down.
He stares up at me, surprised, a bit offended even. Not understanding. Well. He doesn't need to.
I lift the gun to his forehead and pull the trigger. The caliber is bigger than I expected. His head all but explodes. Bone, brain and blood spatter everywhere.
The woman lets out a choked noise around her gag.
I don't care. Any hope of discretion is now gone anyway. And I've ruined the second possible set of clothing.
I kneel down next to his body, pull off his black jacket and wrap myself in it. It's drenched with blood. At least it's dark. Harder to see the stains on it.
The key card is still in his hand, and I carefully pull it out. It almost slips from my slick fingers. "Fuck", I breathe, only now realizing how fucking nervous I am. I can't be. I can't afford it. I fasten my grip on the gun, before I wrap my fingers around the card, smack it in front of the reader and stumble out into the hallway.
~
My bare feet sink into the carpet as if I were stomping through snow, and it takes me some moments to understand that it's not the thickness of the carpet but the exhaustion of my body that slows me down dangerously. I hear shouts from the other end of the corridor. "The girl is getting out. She's armed."
The girl is getting out.
I wish.
I force my legs to move, to carry me towards the elevator. It's a desperate stumble, not the powerful sprint I need it to be. The shouts are closing in. There's no way I can make it. Fuck.
I press the card to the door to one of the rooms. If I can lock myself in, I might be able to make a call, or to -
The bloody card slips from my hand to the carpet, the LED at the panel lighting up an angry red.
"Don't move, bitch!", someone yells.
I don't listen. I do move, turn around, point the gun at the man who called out. The same man who picked me up in the parking garage. One of Luciano's lieutenants, probably. There's more men behind him, all Luciano's guys, all with raised guns.
"What are you going to do?", I hiss. "You can't scare me with death."
The man chuckles, stows his gun away, unimpressed, while the others are still trained at me. "Oh, dear little princess. It's not just death. Shoot me, shoot one or two of these men, but you know as well as I do, in the end you're going to lose. And I am sure you are aware of Mr Luciano's reputation. With every of your moves, your death will simply become more and more painful."
"No." I shake my head and point my gun at his head. "Oh. No. Not like that. Fuck you. I won't submit."
"You're shaking, ragazza. There's still a drug in your system, your body is tormented, all you're running on is spite and adrenaline, and while it's almost admirable, it's not enough. We stand here five more minutes, and you'll faint without one of us even laying a finger on you."
I reach behind me with my right hand, try and steady myself at the doorframe. The brand on my back is pulsating. I don't reply. I don't take the gun down, either.
"Nobody is coming to help you, princess. Your father is done. Your power is gone. Face it, and you'll live."
"Live? To live through what you've planned for me tonight?" I let out a bitter laugh. "I'll rather just die quickly."
He shrugs lightly. "Good luck then. Go ahead. Put that gun to your own head. Pull the trigger. I'm sure Mr Luciano's friends will gladly desecrate your ruined corpse, as well. And then-" The man smirks. "He'll have your remains sent to your dad's jail cell."
My hand is heavy. My vision blurs. Is it because of the tears? Because of the threats? Because of the drugs? Because he's right? Because my body knows, what my mind refuses to be true?
I've lost.
I'm weak.
I can't hold the gun any longer.
The moment I lower my arm, he's over me. The gun, wrestled away. My body, pinned to the ground. A knee presses into the bandage on my back.
meet oscar | quinn shares their grief | quinn returns from a mission | quinn confides in oscar | major attacks quinn | quinn calls oscar | quinn attacked, stabbed | oscar finds quinn, and so do the feds | joseph begins the interrogation | oscar chatting with coworkers | “I can’t f-feel… feel them” | humiliation tactics | oscar offers comfort (cw: ref’d noncon, dubcon) | this drabble | breaking on the floor | deal making
There is something wrong. Quinn knows it from the moment that the door opens. It isn’t being pushed open by a guard or an interrogator – it swings slowly, pushed by Oscar’s own hand, and he is alone. No one is leading him. He steps into the room and closes the door behind himself.
Blinking once with shock, their eyes scour him from head to toe, heart lodged in their throat, wrists bearing down in their restraints to vent tension instead of balling up fists. They recognize the set of his shoes against the floor, the angle of his shoulders, his serious quiet. This isn’t how Oscar behaves – or he hasn’t acted like this in front of them, yet. This is how a fed moves.
He is approaching, slow and somber. Quinn chews on the inside of their cheek. Their brows furrow with upset that they are trying so hard to bury.
“It’s been a few days,” He says, voice low.
“I knew it,” Hisses the spy.
“...and I’ve decided how it’ll be done.” To his credit, he doesn’t pace around them or stand over their shoulder. He crouches, like he has a few times, before their chair to make eye contact.
“An interrogator.” Their lip twitches into a hint of a furl before they smile and shake their head, leaning back to shrug. “An interrogator. All this time. Used my assumption that everyone else is stupid. Oh… every time…”
Dark eyes watch them, unfaltering, so much more intelligent than they usually look. “This isn’t personal.”
“Every time,” Quinn laughs cruelly at themself. “I have a type. You got me talking, I… I told you…” The bitter smile fades as they recall everything they shared with him. Oscar watches as they lock it all back up, as they uproot and dispose of all the fondness, all the trust that was so tenuously built over months.
“Your interrogation will continue. We know how to break you, it’ll take about a month. You have just a few morals keeping you quiet, but once we get past those, it won’t be hard to get you to drop your mission. You don’t handle pain well. And I already know half of what I need.”
They nod absently. There is no reason to argue with the plain truth. “I told you… and you filed reports, all along, so… it’s all recorded, it’s been reviewed… who’s your supervisor? Who’s on your level in your department?”
As he considers his answer, Oscar lays a hand on top of theirs to gently lift it, inspecting the bandages around their palms. Quinn’s hand spasms weakly, tremors of adrenaline-spiked humiliation beginning to course through their body. “Bauer is my supervisor. You don’t know anyone on my level. Davian’s been asking about you.”
Bauer. Davian. The shudders worsen, choking a tiny sound from their throat. It is close to a whimper but not quite as pathetic. They brace their bare feet against the floor, reflexive panicky tears welling in their eyes. The spy’s jaw sets and flexes with determination to hold it together.
“I don’t plan to let either of them near you,” Oscar murmurs, setting down the fragile hand to move on to inspecting the other. This one has ruddy stains across some of the gauze. The fingers knock together with their fear; Oscar steadies this hand, squeezing it the gentlest he can and lending his warmth to the frigid digits. “Quinn, this is just a setback. It’s not the end. You won’t be a bedwarmer, or a prisoner forever. No cage. You can help in intelligence, I’ve made that case for you. After we get past this part, you can work.”
“Actively undoing years of my work,” They hiss, a tear finally slipping free of their defenses to race down their bruise-darkened cheek.
“You can be bitter.” He leaves their hand alone to cup their cheek, now, grim and sympathetic. “Hate me if you want. But I will make sure you end up okay. Not drugged out of your mind on your back, not in the furnace, not taken home. You have no reason to trust my word, so I will just make it happen. You feel however you need to, in the meantime.”
Furious tears make their cheeks glisten, but their expression is characteristically dead. Quinn trembles, and feels no shame about doing so, staring right back at the interrogator that they foolishly thought was their boyfriend. The way he’s spinning it, it makes them feel foolish to be angry. It feels stupid to even hold out through the coming torture, if he’s already got a whole plan for their breaking, their training, their integration into this system they were working to dismantle. Quinn stares almost blankly at Oscar, processing how pointless this all is, and how frustrating it is that he is in the perfect position to make his plan work.
“Did you love me?” They rasp flatly.
His hand is still at their cheek, thumb swiping to wipe the tears before they drip from Quinn’s jawline. “Joseph will be in here next, he’ll mock you about the betrayal. Your responses won’t matter. He won’t be in here longer than an hour, he’ll want to leave you to sit with the hurt feelings. If you act very upset, he might go easier on you.”
“I’m not upset. Did you love me?”
Oscar stands and brushes the dampness off on his pants. “Next time I see you, I won’t be so tender. It isn’t personal.”
“Did you love me?” Quinn’s whisper is harsh, demanding a response, with the ferocity they’d use to hit him if they could.
He turns, leaving the spy’s chest heaving with uneven breaths, and the heart monitor behind them beeping rapidly.
As always, Leo Luciano is @hackles-up s character.
Written for whumptober day 16, “I’ve had the rug pulled beneath my feet.” | Repressed Trauma | Permanent Marker | Disorientation
[Dany's Story] <- we're at the absolute beginnings, this is the new second chapter, and first from her pov
[prev]
Cw for threats of noncon, noncon touch, noncon kissing, kidnapping, branding, drugging.
I'm not easily scared. On the contrary - I have the reputation of being overly cool and controlled. My steps are measured, my smiles calculated and my tongue is sharp.
That's what you learn, being my father's daughter.
You also learn never to talk to the cops, shoot to kill, and trust your bodyguards.
I was so, so wrong.
I should've trusted my instinct, instead.
"I'm sorry, babe," Frankie whispers. I look at him, blinking. His face is blurry. I blink again. It doesn't feel right. It's so wrong. I try to reach out to the handle on the car door, but my muscles just won't obey.
Frankie smiles fondly and reaches out to stroke the side of my face.
I can't push him away. My arms are heavy, everything is, my body slumped in the passenger seat. It's a struggle keeping my eyes open.
The water, I realize. He's handed me a bottle of water, told me to drink and steady my breath and calm down. It tasted weird; but I drank anyway. Told myself, it must've been in his car for a while and gotten a little stale.
"Wha'" I groan. "Wha' t' fck, 'ankie?"
"They paid me well," he says softly, fingers pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "You were right, babe. Your Dad is not getting out of this. He's out of the picture for good. I need a new source of income. And you -" His hold of my face gets harder as he leans in to kiss me, as he has so often. Always on my terms though. Never like this. "You, Dany, are just a fucking bitch, sometimes."
I try to move my jaw, hoping to be able to bite down on his horribly soft lip, but all it leads to is a chuckle. "So eager, babe? And I'd have thought you'd be furious about it."
He leans over me, his hand roaming over my chest. "Fuck, this is kind of hot. I'd love to fuck you like this. Me in charge for once, you know?"
I can only groan in weak protest. My eyes are falling close. No. No, we've always agreed. No, this isn't supposed to happen. No, this can't be real. No, don't do this.
His fingers slip under my waistband, call up an involuntary shiver. Maybe that drug isn't that bad after all. I just want to give in to the hazy slumber, as the passenger door is pulled open and warm air from outside hits me.
"Mueller," a strange voice says, and there's another man, another set of hands, that roughly pushes him away. "Don't fuck with the merchandise."
Merchandise? I shake my head, an almost invisible motion, but the new guy seems to see it and lets out a chuckle. "Aw, girl. Don't like being called merchandise, huh? Or is your handsy, treacherous bodyguard making you cry? Don't worry. Your day is about to become much, much worse." He reaches over me to unfasten the seat belt and easily lifts me out of the car. "Welcome to your new life, Miss Hammond."
He throws me onto his shoulder, like a bag of flour, his hand on my ass.
His touch, his cheerful voice barely reach me, through layers of cotton.
"Ready to meet your new -"
I pass out.
*
Pain.
Consuming my entire self.
Pain pulls me out of my unconsciousness with burning claws. It's everywhere. I'm on fire, I'm under a truck, I'm everything at the same time.
A raw scream breaks from my chest, a strange horrifying sound disconnected from me and still myself.
I want to curl myself up, escape from the pain, but I can't move. My arms are tied. My legs, too. There's even something around my neck.
And then there's a hand in my hair, roughly pulling me up, slowly making me understand where there's up and down around my tormented body.
I'm on my stomach, tied down to a table in something like a small office, my wrists tired to the table legs on one side, my head dangling over the edge.
There's a burnt, sickening smell in the air, like roasted meat.
When my head is lifted up, new pain flares up on my back, threatens to swallow me again, calls up another scream.
"Mh. There you are, Signorina," a voice murmurs.
I can make out a man's shape in front of me, broad shoulders, light hair, and then nothing as the pain takes over my stomach rumors and I throw up on the rug.
The man chuckles. "Oh, yes. That happens sometimes."
There's something in my vision, something he's holding in his hand, casually turning in front of my eyes, and once I make out what it is, I'm sick again. A branding iron. Like for cattle. It's still sizzling hot.
He's branded me.
And I know his sigil. I know who he is.
"Luciano," I breathe.
Leonardo Luciano.
Head of the city's mob. My father's greatest rival.
He lifts my chin up with the metal handle of the branding iron. I stare into a pair of amused, blue eyes. "You know who I am. Good. Now, let me tell you, who you are."
"Not yours," I spit.
He casually leans forward, reaches out with his free hand, fingers on my back, and the pain explodes again. "This tells otherwise, Signorina Hammond, and so does everything else. You wear my brand. You are tied to my desk, naked, if I may remind you. Your Dad is in jail. And I have a group of my friends coming over tonight, who want to share the spoils of victory with me."
He lets go of my chin abruptly, tosses the iron back into the fireplace, before I hear him circle me. I try to follow him with my gaze, but every movement of my neck feels like he's putting the iron down again.
Another pain tears through me. Sudden, cold, invasive. Fingers, pushing up my pussy. I cry out in horror, tears in my eyes.
"Nice and tight," he says. "Good. That will do." His fingers pull out painfully and tap on my ass. "What about your rear, Signorina? Have you ever had it used? I want all your holes available."
He leans over, his weight resting on me, his voice close to my ear. "Because that is what you are, Signorina Hammond. Not just mine. But a mere tool in my service." His hand runs over my back, throbbing with pain, reignited by his every touch. I can't help but sob. "See, Signorina Hammond," Luciano purrs. "You are your father's pride and joy, and the best way to completely and ultimately ruin him, is to ruin you."
And then his hold of me gone. I can see his legs, with his expensive Italian leather shoes, circling around the vomit on the floor on his way to the door.
"Someone will get you presentable for tonight, Signorina. I do hope you have some stamina, because the list of men waiting for a chance to fuck Stuart Hammond's pretty little principessa is long." He chuckles. "And you will find out, I'm a generous man, to my friends."
Having someone hold them still as they drill/saw a chain off.
Untying them gently to reveal bad bruises and cuts from weeks of fighting.
Whumpee staying still until the second their restrains come off.
Restrains that are actively hurting them.
Rescuers know the restraints are the only thing keeping everyone safe, so they leave them on until sedation kicks in, or whumpee collapses from exhaustion.
Having to move them from chains right on in strapping them down on a gurney.
Whumpee pulling themselves to the end of their chain to keep distance from the strangers in uniform.
whumpee who has to be dragged out of a hiding spot by the chain.
Weak restrains that didn't do much, but it didn't matter because whumpee was kept in an exhausted/drug state to even try anything.
Content / warnings: None. This one is soft. But I promise it's worth it.
Marta was supposed to drive Bea over to Adrian's place the next day. He waited for them on the curb in front of the house, fists stuffed in his pockets, fighting a desperate urge to fidget. They were two minutes late. Beads of sweat rolled down his back.
Could be the stupid sequence of traffic lights recently set up to prevent speeding on the city's open boulevards. Could be something much worse. Marta was on WRU's interest list. Chances were that, after her stunt, Bea was as well. They'd been lucky they let her go. If any of them - Ray, Marta, Bea, Adrian - allowed themselves another slip, they wouldn't be lucky next time.
He pressed his jaw together, forbidding himself to look at the clock in the window of the pharmacy across the street another time. He looked suspicious enough already. With the oppressive summer heat coating the city, anyone not in a climatized car raised questions.
Sweat was beading in the nape of his neck, ran down his spine.
"Hi baby brother."
Adrian flinched.
Marta grinned at him from her behind the rolled down window of her small red Mazda. She pointed over her shoulder. "Came from the other side, had to take the long route. Stupid traffic lights. You look like shit."
He had already tuned out, his gaze focusing on the small figure on the passenger seat. Bea waved at him with a neatly bandaged hand. "Hi, Sir." She smiled, and Adrian felt his whole body flooded with relief.
"Bea."
"You look like shit," she echoed Marta's words and grinned, equally guarded and wistful, as she tilted her head to one side. "Wasn't that supposed to be my job, Adrian Delgado?"
Marta snorted.
Adrian swallowed, cleared his throat. "We'll discuss that later." Her job. Her 'job' had once been to be beautiful and pliable and seductive, and he despised that so deeply, that he hadn't even thought about how much he'd despise her claiming the job of being a self sacrificial punching bag.
"Let's get you inside, Bea, baby," said Marta, as she leaned over to help her with the seating belt. "You two sure have a lot to discuss."
Adrian stepped around the car and opened the passenger door to lift her outside. There was a cane leaning between the seats. No way she'd make it up the stairs with that one. And he'd sworn never to make her use the elevator. "I'll carry her."
"Of course you will." Marta smirked. "I'll come with and help. I bet your toned stomach muscles haven't yet recovered. Ray packs quite the punch."
"Doctor Ray punched Master Adrian?" Bea flinched in Adrian's arms. "Why?"
Marta and Adrian exchanged a short glance. They were in agreement. It was unlikely that somebody had put a bug on either of them; they were simply not that important; but they were still in public right now, and Adrian's discussion with Kelly had probably not sufficed to smother WRU's concerns about his loyalty. They had to stay in character.
"Your owner and your doctor have certain disagreements about the pet industry," Marta said stiffly. "Ray thinks it should be illegal. Adrian obviously doesn't. He even thinks it's fair to make money from it."
Bea bit her lip and nodded somberly. "I'm sorry to be the source of such disagreement," she said, her voice somehow both a whisper and clearly audible at the same time. "The pet system is legal and an important pillar of society. There's much misinformation. I have never been mistreated by WRU or my owner."
Adrian's hold of her tensed. He could feel the bandages on her torso through her clothes.
"Discipline is necessary for the wellbeing of a healthy pet," she recited. "I am lucky."
She lied so easily, naturally. Was it an act, atop of an act? What was true? What wasn't?
'I love you.'
She'd said it to him. She'd said it to Jack, too. To the anonymous owner before him, as well. Surely, to her handlers. Were it lies? Truths? Could she even distinguish? How could he know? How could anyone?
"Good girl," he replied hoarsely. "You are a lucky pet indeed."
She twisted her head enough to be able to look at him with her healthy eye. Its gray was like the sky during a storm. Unpredictable, he thought. Relentless. Dangerous. Beautiful.
Marta clicked her tongue. "Can't listen to that bullshit, sorry, bro. You gotta do the heavy lifting on your own after all. Call me about Mom's birthday."
She had to play a role. Just as they all had. But fuck, he'd have loved for her to stay. For all forms of the heavy lifting. The emotional, as well as the physical.
Six floors. Great.
*
It was a team effort. Of course, Bea insisted she could do it herself, and she hobbled up two flights of stairs with an unreal grace, before she needed a break. Then Adrian carried her for another three floors. Then both of them sat on the steps at the landing leading to floor five, her head leaned to his shoulder, both of them exhausted, listening to each others' quick breaths, feeling their hearts beat.
"Adrian," she whispered. Just his first name. Soft, tentative, pronounced distinctly Spanish.
Adrian shivered. She'd never called him that.
"Bea," he replied hoarsely.
There was a moment of silence, a warm, careful pause, before he felt her head settle down on his chest again.
"Blanca," she said.
The name filled the narrow space between them, wrapped around them, tied them to each other.
'I have a name. I remember that name and I keep it safe.'
Blanca.
Adrian's chest was stuffed and heavy. He tilted his head to rest it on top of hers. His cheek was wet against her auburn hair.
He repeated the name, careful, honored it like the delicate, precious gift it was.
"Yes." She hummed to herself, and it took some moments for him to recognize the rhythm of one of the salsa songs they'd been dancing to. "Te quiero, Adrian."
He felt like he couldn't breathe. Bea was shivering in his arm, one hand to her forehead, massaging her temple, trembling.
"Yo también," he whispered into her hair. "Bea. Blanca. Te quiero tan mucho." I love you too. I love you so much.
She pressed her face into his side, half sobbing, half laughing. "Okay," she mumbled, back in English. "Enough, enough for now, Adrian Delgado, there's just one floor ahead of us. Let's go, okay." She pushed herself to a wobbly stand, and Adrian followed.
They took the stairs together, his arm around her, as she hopped on her healthy foot, and they both pretended their tears were from exhaustion.
--
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Pet Safety Tag list (let me know if you want to be added or removed):
Today I lost the two most important people in my life.
The fault is mine, I know. But I don’t know what I would have done differently.
My crime is that I love too much. Too passionately. Without control.
I have loved Zoe ever since we were teenagers together. I fell for her laugh, the sparkle of her eyes, her solemn intelligence, her wicked humour. I fell for her attention, her knowledge, the way she’d take my hand in hers – forcefully –, to drag me outside to see the sky, or the flowers, or some bird she’d seen.
The problem is that she’s straight.
I even told her once that I loved her. I confessed, under the tail end of a sunset that had been too gorgeous to interrupt, rushing to get the words out before our parents called us in – again – from the garden. For me the memory is still crystal-edged and bittersweet. I think she’s forgotten altogether.
To her it must have seemed like puppy love, the confused fumbling of a teenage girl just discovering her sexuality. Like her three consecutive crushes on three different members of the basketball team.
My heart knew, even then, that it wasn’t a passing thing. But as teens, we don’t know our own hearts. I thought maybe she was right. Maybe I’d grow out of it. I valued her friendship, her presence, her warmth in my life, far too much to press the matter.
After university, I moved halfway across the country to be nearer to her.
And then, Brandon. I never expected to fall for him. As far as I knew I didn’t even like boys. But I was drawn in by his easy, constant kindness. His patience. The clear, incisive opinions he’d deliver with soft, compassionate certainty. His steady, clever hands.
All the same things that Zoe loved in him.
I know I should have held my tongue. I should have said nothing. But he knew even before I admitted my feelings. He knew from the jokes we shared, the way our eyes would meet across the table, the electricity if our knees or shoulders ever brushed.
If I could not hold my tongue, I should at least have never touched him. But I am not strong. Certainly not strong enough to love, and yearn, and never act.
Perhaps I could have loved him from a distance, but the three of us were almost never apart. We ate together, laughed together, played cards together, went to the movies together, went on holiday together – everything short of living together. I’d grown used to the ache of knowing that Zoe would only ever love me as a friend. But Brandon felt the same for me as he did for her. And knowing that his touch was only ever an invitation away…
I am not that strong. I love too fiercely.
He is not strong either. His crime was the same as mine, and I still cannot judge him for it. Even if perhaps he judges me.
I don’t blame you, he said. It’s just… too painful. I don’t know if I believe him. I don’t know if he knows, himself.
I can’t do this, he said as well. We should never have done this.
We should not. But if I could go back, could I do any differently? I love him. I love Zoe. But I have hurt her terribly. We have hurt each other. Everything is broken now, and I have nothing left.
I begged her to stay. I shouldn’t have called it a mistake – it was not. I made my choices wittingly, in full knowledge of the betrayal I committed. But I begged her not to throw out a lifetime of friendship over a mistake.
Her answer is seared into my heart, and most likely always will be.
I’m not throwing anything away. There isn’t anything to throw away. If you were my friend – if you really cared like I thought you cared – like I cared – you could never have done this to me. Friends don’t hurt friends. They don’t lie to each other. They don’t –
I’m not throwing anything away, because clearly what I thought we had was never real.
I don’t know what you think friendship is, but I don’t want any part of it.
I shouldn’t have argued. I knew I’d done an awful thing. We’d done an awful thing, me and Brandon. But I argued.
You’re wrong, Zoe. I love you. I have always loved you. I still do.
I doubt I’ll ever see her again.
Brandon hasn’t cut me off yet, but I think he will. He can’t forgive me, any more than he can forgive himself. He hasn’t said it yet, but he wants a clean start. I know him.
He’ll ask my permission. Is it okay if we stop talking? He’ll make me complicit in losing him. Although I suppose I have been complicit from the start. He doesn’t want to hurt me. It would be easier, I think if he just left.
But I’ll say, of course it’s okay. Whatever you need.
Maybe he’ll pretend that it’s only temporary. That he just needs some space to think things through. Not lying to me, but to himself. He hates us for what we did. I don’t think he’ll forgive me. I hope he’ll forgive himself.
And me? We hurt Zoe. I hate that. But I can’t hate Brandon. Or Zoe. Or myself.
‘Verse: Box Boy Universe
Story: A Girl Called Spider
Timeline: After Spider runs away from Avon
The handlers drag Rayce by the arms, and something takes over inside his head. His lungs seize up, and his legs give way without anything like a conscious decision, so that his feet drag uselessly behind him.
Bad trainees get dragged, when they can’t be trusted to walk where they’re told.
He doesn’t look back at his owner. He doesn’t attempt one last plea for mercy. The world is as small as this corridor. The only thing that matters is staying floppy, but not so floppy that it makes the Handlers’ job harder.
He doesn’t see the room they take him into. The white walls are background noise. They manhandle him onto a chair, and he almost falls straight off the other side he’s so unprepared. Trainees kneel on the floor. One of the Handlers grabs the back of his shirt, and firmly sets him upright. He stays exactly where he is put, muscles locked tight.
There is a woman on the other side of the table. He doesn’t take in her features, just a vague impression of dark skin and disapproval. She’s not wearing a Handler’s uniform. But she could still be a Handler, out of uniform. He doesn’t know how to address her, if he’s asked to talk. Panic is swallowing the edges of his vision. The soft hiss-click of the door sounds very far away.
Then there is silence, except the rushing in his ears that pulsates in time with his heart. He feels the woman’s gaze crawl like hands over his body.
“Do you know why you’re here?”.
He needs to answer a direct question, but his jaw refuses to unlock. He needs to answer. He needs to answer he needs to say something but he doesn’t know if she is ma’am or Handler or –
“Your owner doesn’t want you anymore. You won’t be going home with him. You won’t see him ever again. Do you understand?”
The weight of her expectation is crushing. The white walls are pressing in, a pressure that he feels from every side. The noise in his ears is louder. He needs to answer he needs to answer he needs to –
“Are you listening to me?”
Her tone is suddenly sharp, sharp enough to cut through the paralysis.
“Yes, ma’am,” he squeaks. “I’m sorry, ma’am.”
“Do you understand your situation?” she repeats.
“Yes, ma’am.” She hasn’t corrected him. Hasn’t told him that he’s wrong.
“Look at me.”
He thought he was, but when she says it he realises his eyes are fixed somewhere around the middle of the table. He lifts them with effort. The woman’s face is narrow and severe, irregularly freckled and scored with the early lines of age.
“I’m going to give you something I doubt you’ve had in a while, Pet,” she says. “A choice.”
It’s not a question or a command. He is mute.
“I’ve been asked to dispose of you,” she continues. “As you may be aware, I have two options. We can refurb you, or we can bury you with the other failures.”
It’s not a question or a command. But she’s looking at him like she wants a response. As the silence grates painfully across his nerves, he replays her words, trying to claw out some hint of her expectations from under the deafening imminence of his own death.
“I want to know which you’d prefer,” she prompts at length.
“Ma’am?” His voice wavers.
“It’s not a trick question. Either you get refurbed, or you die. I want your opinion.”
My opinion. It’s such an incongruous demand that some fragment of the old Rayce stirs, just a little, to consciousness.
“Why…” he falters, “Why would my opinion matter, ma’am?”
He flinches immediately, expecting pain. He can’t ask questions here. Doesn’t he know that?
“I don’t know if you ever worked with refurbs,” the woman is saying calmly. “They’re often difficult. Turning a profit is far from guaranteed. If you’re going to fight it every step of the way and turn out barely saleable at the end, it isn’t worth the time investment.”
“But, I’ll be Wiped. Won’t I? I won’t … be me, ma’am. I don’t –”
She waves a hand dismissively, and his jaw clacks shut.
“Yes, you’ll be wiped. But the starting attitude post-wipe is usually a lot like the attitude pre-wipe. So if you tell me now that you’d rather die than submit to another round of training, I can predict that you’ll be trouble.”
Another round of training. Would he rather die? Training was hell it was hell, he thinks he will die if he has to do it again.
He will die if they kill him.
The pressure from the walls is crushing him, collapsing his lungs, compacting him into something infinitely small and beneath notice. The woman on the other side of the desk is very far away. His own body is very far away. He can almost taste the rubber between his teeth.
“Well?” prompts the woman’s distant, water-logged voice. “I don’t have all day.”
I can’t – he thinks – but those are forbidden words like don’t and no. The blood in his ears is very loud. He needs to answer, he needs to answer, he needs – does it even matter? Both are a kind of death, aren’t they?
“Whatever you want, ma’am,” he hears his own voice say quietly.
For a second, her demanding, damning scrutiny lingers on his skin. Then she shrugs her shoulders, and writes something down.
“Good enough, I suppose. Perhaps you will polish up acceptably.”
tw: institutionalized slavery, referenced human experimentation, light med whump, whumper pov
✥ ✥ ✥
“Please don’t take it–” Felix starts, fumbling over his words as he yanks his hand away from Jake’s. “Please don’t take it away from me.” He casts his eyes low, and Jake is suddenly torn. Felix shakes his head, backing himself into the corner, but he won’t look at Jake. His eyes are glued to his fist, and to the item inside of it, which moments earlier, Jake found under his pillow.
The item in question? A crumpled up dandelion. Jake cocks his head to the side as he regards Felix.
“It’s trash,” Jake starts, holding out his palm like he’s requesting a forbidden item from a defiant child. “And not only that,” he continues, “but it’s contraband, too.”
Felix peeks up at him through his eyelashes, a practiced move that is no doubt meant to activate the softer side of Jake, and hell, maybe it does. “Felix,” he says, keeping the firmness in his voice that Felix responds well to. He kneels down to Felix’s level, nudging his fisted hand with his own. “What the fuck.”
Felix is shaking from how tightly he grips the thing, but they both know the battle is lost, and it’s only a matter of time now.
“Hand it over,” he says. “I will let you pick a new one after you finish up this afternoon.” That, he thinks, is kind of him. He smiles warmly, as tears flood Felix’s eyes, threatening to spill over.
His fingers open slowly, one by one, until the crumpled, dying weed is exposed, lying in his palm. They both stare at it.
“Please don’t kill it,” Felix whispers, meeting his eyes. “Please,” he says again, as Jake takes it from him.
He sets it on the counter, holding out a hand to help Felix off the floor. He gets Felix showered and changed into a gown, and deposits him into the prepped exam room for his procedure. There’s a kind of melancholy in every one of the kid’s movements, but there are no more mentions of the dandelion, and no more acts of defiance along with it.
As Jake goes about his day, though, he can’t completely shake this thing that nags at him. Whatever the feeling is, he doesn’t enjoy it, and by the time his shift ends, he’s wound up tighter than he can ever remember being. He doesn’t know why he does it, but after he clocks out for the day, he finds the unit nurse, and then, surprising even himself, he asks her if Felix did okay, and if he's back in his room.
The nurse tells him Felix did do okay, and that he is back in his room, but he’s sleeping, and that they should let him sleep. She says it with a specific type of tone and a look, and Jake smiles and says ‘thanks’, even though that just gets him even more wound up, because he wasn’t planning to wake him up, and the implication pisses him off.
“Ward,” the nurse says as Jake turns away, and he turns back a moment later. There’s a pause, while they square up, and then she says, “Go easy on him.”
Instead of acknowledging that, he turns and heads toward Felix’s room. All is quiet in Belleview at this hour. Everyone is tucked in for the night, and apart from one handler, one nurse, and a floor supervisor, the unit will be locked down once he leaves.
He taps his key card on Felix’s lock, and pushes the door open. The hallway light illuminates the sleeping boy well enough. He’s soft, with short, white-blonde hair, and an innocence about him, especially as he sleeps. He has an IV running into his arm, bruises forming around his wrists and around his neck, one hand fisted into his sheets, and the other into his t-shirt.
This is the boy that makes River go wild, he thinks, running his eyes down his sleeping frame. This is the boy that has River picking fucking weeds when he thinks no one is looking. But Jake is always looking. He smiles at the thought of River doing this thing, and he takes a breath. He'll unpack what to do with this information another day. Tonight, though, he has unfinished business.
As he approaches Felix, he pauses. He’s never given Felix much thought, outside of how he can be leveraged against River. Here, now, under the soft glow of the hallway lights, he sees the appeal.
He takes a breath, and then he covers Felix’s hand with his own and pries open his fingers. Felix stirs, every muscle tensing momentarily, and Jake whispers, “easy,” as he flips his hand over. Jake reaches into his back pocket for the flower, presses it into Felix’s palm, and closes his fingers back over it.
“Don’t say I never did anything for you,” he says then. He isn’t sure if it’s Felix making him soft, or River, and he isn’t sure if he likes it or not, and he isn’t sure if any of those things matter, but it’s done.
On June 2, 1991, passenger flight 283 from LA to Newark lost all contact with air traffic control somewhere above Kansas. The aircraft never landed, and no remains were located after an extensive search.
Ever since, rumors of a "ghost plane" have surfaced among aviation enthusiasts, who claim to have seen flight 283 attempting landings at various airports around the world. Over the years, descriptions of the plane present it as gradually more decayed. These sightings have sometimes preceded aviation accidents in the area.
Retired air traffic controllers claim to have heard radio interference in the 121.50 MHz band, reserved for emergency communications, around the time of "ghost plane" reports. Despite that, no communication has ever been firmly established with the craft.
