(Content: female whumpee, lab whump, implied military whump, solitary confinement, drugging, invasion of privacy, captivity)
But the next time she woke up, she was already inside of it. She’d woken up beneath the fluorescence a handful of times, but never on purpose. The mirror was new. And the injury, at the time, felt novel.
The dull pain at her shoulder only came to life as she dug her fingers into it — even then, it struggled to wake. The more immediate sensation was a stickiness, the feeling of being held down. Electrodes clung to her scalp and chest. The floor was a mess of wires. She rose carefully so as not to disturb them.
Four white walls and one observation windows that presented itself as a plain mirror. Soft blue bedding in the dead center of the room, haloed by the host of information detectors wired up to her body. A small curtain in the corner for four square feet of privacy.
The gown that covered her was the same color of the bed, too easy to tear, and tied in the back. She moved to adjust the straps of it, but found her hands mostly unwilling, slightly numbed, and ceased her efforts.
She crossed the room to the mirror, staring into her own reflection, knowing someone on the other side of it would be unnerved by the sudden eye contact. She leaned forward into the small microphone they positioned at the edge of the mirror. There were no controls for it. It was already on and always would be.
“I’m awake,” she spoke into the microphone, in case there was any ambiguity.
Three long seconds without reply before the intercom crackled to life, loud enough to be painful. Less than an inch of glass separated the two of them, but it sounded like the other was calling in from Antartica.
“Good morning, agent.”
“Have we been compromised?” she asked. Softer, she added: “Have I?”
The question was a formality. She knew what this room was for. Still, the silence that followed compounded the dread. For a moment it seemed like they would not answer at all.
“Hard to say.”
Yes.
Her breath caught in her throat for a second, but she knew the microphone had not caught it, and nothing in her expression changed. She enunciated the next words very carefully.
“I notice there is a large section of my shoulder missing.”
It was not an accusation necessarily, but for a moment she worried it was too direct a confrontation. The silence that followed from the other end felt weighted and guilty.
“That is correct. You’ve been placed under quarantine to monitor its development.”
“Clarity: Is this a permanent arrangement?”
“Hard to say.”
They could probably read her heartbeat from where they were and would not have missed the way it quickened. The muscles of her jaw tightened uncomfortably even as she willed her heart to slow.
“May I speak to Kennedy?”
“He isn’t here right now.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“He isn’t available.”
“Tell him I asked for him by name.”
An enduring silence. She did not move from her position. It was a soundproof room, but she listened intently, as though she might be able to hear the sound of a chair scraping on the other side or an argument from one room over.
There was a different voice when the intercom returned. Silken and sympathetic, like the harsh analog was not made to receive it.
“Oh, my darling. We weren’t expecting you up so quickly. Are you feeling better?”
In spite of the circumstances, to hear him on the other end was immediately reassuring to her. It was enough to know that she had not been completely abandoned.
A soft blush still rose to her cheeks to hear him say darling. She knew how unlikely it was that they were the only two people on the call, could guess how many people were surrounding him now.
“I would appreciate some clarity about my situation, if that is agreeable to you.”
“Shoot.”
“Why am I being treated as if I came from over the border?”
“Because you did. You got cut within the Violet Country and there’s a significant risk of infection. We agreed it would be best to quarantine you until we can verify there’s been no contagion.”
“I don’t think I would have consented to this.”
“You did, though. You don’t remember because we gave you a very potent amnesiac, plus a mix of other sedatives to help with the process.”
“I feel perfectly lucid.”
“You are not. It is unlikely you will even remember this conversation.”
“It seems pointless to continue then, as I’ll likely have all the same questions the next time I wake up, but as I recall it infiltration is not in my job description.”
This was the angriest she ever allowed herself to be. Even then, it could just as easily be mistaken for confusion. She tried to keep her tone neutral, but the way he groveled in response told her the message had gotten across.
“It was my order. I am so, so sorry. If I had any idea there was going to be activity at this point in the cycle, I never would have sent you.”
“I forgive you,” she responded immediately. She could not imagine withholding it from him. “May I know the details of the incident which landed me here?”
“The memories are going to come back to you as soon as the drugs wear off and you will understand them better than I can relay to you.”
“I ask again: Is this meant to be a permanent arrangement?”
“Quarantine, angel. Sound it out.”
“Forty days?”
“Approximately.”
That was bad, but it was better than forever. She didn’t ask just how approximate that estimate was. She wondered if the lights would turn out each night or whether she would be left to guess each passing second. There was no clock in the room by design.
“Would it be possible for you to get my belongings from my apartment?”
“Possible, yes. But we would need to destroy them upon release.”
“I see.”
“Do you want me to go?”
“I would like real clothes if I am going to be under continuous observation.”
“Understood. I’ll take care of it. Is there anything else?”
Are you really going to leave me alone in here for a month? What happened to me? What will happen to me? What are you looking for? Am I going to die?
I was lucky enough to be able to commission some art of Artemis, and the main character Fera, from my friend @corbytheking! Want to read Artemis? Start here!
This is not going to be what you expected. More action than whump, and of course really high on the angst. (If you ask me, it's really good)
And Dany surprised me in more ways than one.
Content / warnings: Lady whump, failed escape (?), some red flags of abusive relationships in the beginning, gun violence, strangling; references to dubcon, conditioning and pet whump; strong language (Dany gets emotional)
Ridley Lordin, B and referenced Leo Luciano are @what-a-whump 's wonderful characters and used with permission.
Thank you so much for asking this, @distinctlywhumpthing , because wow, character development.
[Dany Masterpost]
[Prompt list (still taking them for all my characters)]
Scene (1,500 words) under the cut
-
I look fabulous. I don't even need to look at myself in any of the dozens of mirrors decorating the ballroom. He wanted all eyes on me. And he gets what he wants.
Ridley's hand is resting on the back of my neck, fiddling with the thin white leather strap that he has me wear instead of the usual collar. It's somewhat reassuring. It means it's not that kind of a party.
My dress is tasteful, short but not revealing, tailored to fit so perfectly it doesn't matter that it's too white for my pale skin. It's summer. I should be tanned from days spent in the park, on the tennis court, by the sea. That's not what my days are, though. I spend them inside, nowadays, locked up in the bedroom of Ridley's penthouse, and I can earn the privilege of open curtains.
Sometimes, to my own shame, I do.
He presses a kiss against my neck. "Smile, princess", he breathes into my ear, his fingers lingering on my throat for a moment too long. "You know how Daddy likes you."
Pleasant. Pretty. Pliant. Have I ever been anything else, I wonder? Or have I only ever played roles others wanted from me, anyways?
I force my lips to curve into a smile. Of course I do. I'm tired of fighting. Ridley hums contently, before his gaze is caught by something - someone - else, a middle-aged woman in a red pant suit. Governor Hawkins. I know her, I know them all, the rich and powerful, from the events I've attended by my father's side, and I hate how they don't seem to spend a second thought on how I'm suddenly with this man they all must despise.
"I'll be right back, baby girl", Ridley purrs. "Don't move. Bee Bee?" He snaps his fingers. "Come."
B casts me a short glance, as if unwilling to leave me, before his eyes turn flat again and he trots past Ridley, scanning the crowd for potential threats.
I feel oddly uncomfortable around them, alone among hundreds of people. How many of them know? And how many just refuse to see?
A hand on my back makes me flinch. "Danielle", someone says into my hair. "Let's get you out of here."
Instinctively, I pull away and look over the crowd for Ridley. He doesn't like others touching me. Fuck, I don't like anyone touching me.
"Shhh", the man hushes and grabs my arm again, and only now do I turn to look at him. Matthew Carlson. My father's finance guy. There's a deep frown on his face and a pressed urgency in his voice. "We'll get you away from him."
"I-" I am cut off by a hand over my mouth from behind.
"Hurry", Carlson hisses.
An arm closes around me, drags me back through a door to the kitchen. White tiles and metal surfaces, some employees that seem to have been paid to look away. I struggle against the person holding me, try to bite the hand in front of my face, but they seem to know what they're doing, and I don't.
I want to get away from Ridley, I don't want him to see this. I want to be good, and I want to be free.
"Don't fight, Danielle, this is all for your father's best interest", Carlson says behind me. "You're his legacy."
Ridley will kill me for leaving my spot. Somehow Carlson and his man don't make me feel safe at all.
A cool draft brushes past my naked legs, as someone pushes open a door and they guide me outside into some back yard, stumbling down the flight of steps in my high heels. There's another man waiting near some dumpsters, under a flickering lamp. He's dressed entirely in black and looks me down with a cold frown.
Somehow, nobody hurries any more. There's no car waiting to get me away, no explanation, just silence and the damp darkness of a muggy summer night.
I step back towards the back door, but the man behind me doesn't move.
I turn to Carlson and lift my chin. "Please, leave me alone", I say firmly. "I don't know what this is, but I don't want it."
"Hmmm", Carlson hums, and there's a coldness to his tone that lets me shiver. "I bet you won't, but it's too late for that. You're a liability, Danielle. Your... involvement with Lordin, with Luciano, these... videos, they don't make you look good. You weaken your father's position. Or rather, ours, trying to save what is left of it."
"I'm a fucking prisoner", I hiss. "You fucking know what happened to me, because you let this shit happen to my father, and now I'm the one being sold and tortured and paraded around and hurt, while you fuckers think about your business? This is my life, you-"
"It won't be any longer", he cuts me off harshly, and nods to the man behind me. "Sorry, Danielle, it's not personal."
Something wraps around my neck from behind. Thin and soft and raw at the same time. I scream, but all that comes from my lips is a garbled whine.
The man pulls the rope tight and yanks me back. I thrash, my limps flailing uselessly. Desperately, I fight for air, but there's nothing. Nothing but pain and dread and a dawning understanding. I will die. These fuckers are killing me. My fingers cramp around my neck, fingertips brushing over rough rope, unable to grasp it, buried too deep into my skin.
A shadow moves in the corner of my eyes, a blur within a larger blur. I hear a sharp snarl, a muffled impact, a scream, as I tumble back, fall, landing on something soft. Air floods my lungs, and I inhale greedily, my breath coming out in ragged huffs.
"Do not touch her", B growls at my side, and lunges at the other men.
B.
He came for me.
Under me, the black-dressed man is struggling, whining as he grips his hurt arm and struggles against my weight on top of him. Fucking asshole. I clench my teeth and steady my hand with my other arm, as I ram my elbow into his throat. He stills once more.
Something solid is pressed into my back. His gun, tucked under his jacket. Still coughing, I roll over to my side to grab it. Should've just shot me, I think grimly. Stupid gangsters, trying to make a show of everything.
I struggle to get to all fours and cast a glance over to B. Carlson's guard is laying on the ground, unmoving. Carlson himself is down as well, B sitting on his back, wrestling back his arm, growling something low and inaudible, until the arm snaps.
He doesn't see the guard move beside him. A knife flashes in the guard's hand.
I shoot. Once, twice, three times, all aimed steadily at his chest, from a close distance.
Never stop after one shot, Dad has taught me, years ago. You shoot to kill. Make sure they stay dead.
This one is.
The silence after the shots is deafening.
"Oh, princess!", Ridley exclaims behind me, from the kitchen door, his voice perplexed, almost delighted.
Another fit of coughing shakes me, before I turn around, weakly. Ridley is standing in the doorway, upright, his too familiar silhouette framed by light, arms folded, as he is taking in the scene, smug and confident as always.
My eyes are trained on his chest. Carefully, almost tenderly, I lift the gun once more.
A shadow falls over me, blocking Ridley from my view. B. I haven't even heard him move. But he's standing there now, right between my and my target, wordlessly looking down on me from unreadable eyes.
"Please", I breathe. "Please, B." B knows, knows what Ridley does to me, asks of me, of him. He knows he deserves to die.
He doesn't step aside. Instead, he extends an open hand. I hate him. I hate myself. My stomach drops, as I secure the gun and rest it into his hand.
Wordlessly, B steps back and hands the gun to Ridley. "Nice try, baby girl", Ridley mumbles, as he checks the gun. "Wouldn't hurt Daddy now, would you?"
Casually, he steps down the stairs and considers the two men, groaning on the ground, me, kneeling next to them in my now stained white dress.
With his free hand, Ridley gently brushes over the fresh marks on my neck. "Which one did this?", he asks calmly.
I look aside, at the man in the black clothes, and Ridley steps over, lifts the gun, points it right between his eyes.
Another shot rings through the yard.
A strangled sob escapes me.
"B, tie that other guy up", Ridley says, but his eyes are on me. "Leo will deal with him, later."
He gets to his knees in front of me, pulls me into an embrace, the gun still in his hand. I sink against his chest, trembling with silent sobs, each breath hurting in my throat.
I had almost been free. One way or another.
"Shhh, now, baby girl", he whispers, as he gently cradles me against his body. "You're safe with me. I've got you."
TWs: Gore, brief mention of emeto, creepy and unstable whumper
Morning didn’t come for a long time. Elora’s body clung to sleep as it fought desperately to even begin to heal the severe wounds that had been inflicted the day prior. Merely surviving was beginning to become much harder of a task then she’d ever hoped it would be; waiting around for someone to save her wasn’t quite working out, and neither was saving herself. She was having to fight tooth and nail just to live, which was both exhausting and incredibly depressing.
She finally opened her eyes as she felt a hand roughly shaking her shoulder, jerking her body around until she begrudgingly awoke. She pushed stray hairs away from her face and tried to roll over, but the man’s voice was booming with its volume and closeness to her ear.
“Elora. Get up. It’s almost two o’clock.”
She wanted to tell him to fuck off, that if he was going to torture her, she had every right to sleep however much she wanted to, but she knew it was irresponsible to be causing any trouble in the state she was in. Her body had withstood so much abuse in the days she’d been there already, she feared that without time to heal, anything else major could easily tip her over the edge of life and death, make her pass out and not wake back up.
And hell if she was ready to die.
“I’m awake,” she said in a dull, monotone voice, her eyes still adjusting to the light streaming into the room through the opened blinds. She sat herself up, slowly, cringing at the pain of her ankle dragging along the sheets.
“Good,” she heard him mutter, and she resisted the urge to scowl at him. The last thing she cared about was his approval, and yet here she was, walking on eggshells to avoid setting him off. What a mess she’d gotten herself into.
“I’m not going to do anything today,” he told her. For some odd reason, it wasn’t very reassuring. “I’m not stupid. I’m not trying to kill you.”
Her lips moved much faster than her mind. “Gee, thanks.”
He shot her a glare. It made her skin crawl, just the pure intensity in his eyes.
“Watch it.”
She did. She didn’t want to, but something about his tone and expression made her deeply uncomfortable to the point that she feared doing anything but precisely what he wanted.
“You wanna take a shower? You need it,” he said plainly. God, he couldn’t even extend a kind gesture without being a douche about it. Elora wanted to spit back that she wondered why she needed a shower. Maybe it was the layers of dried blood coating her skin, or the dirt from being mercilessly dragged along the ground the night of her kidnapping. She kept her words to herself, though, responding only with a nod.
She could already imagine it, the warm water running down her body, washing away the blood and the sweat and the dirt and the fear she was certain he could smell. How she craved it, the simple pleasure of being clean-something she’d already lost.
“Okay. Up we go, then.” The man lifted her up from the bed, an arm tucked beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She hated every minute of being so close to him. His breath smelled like cigarettes and his shirt was scratchy. Every bit of her body screamed at her to get out of his grip, but she was stuck, without another choice in the matter. A bitter horror fell upon her at the realization that this was her new reality whenever she had to move around the apartment. It wasn’t like she could get up and walk around. The persistent throbbing in her ankle was a painful reminder of that.
At the very least, the walk was short. He just carried her into the master bathroom and set her down in the tub. It was slightly roomier than the one she was usually kept in, but clearly much more used. A couple bottles of mens’ 3-and-1 wash lined the ledges and the floor was damp.
“Might be weird not standing up, but you’re smart. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
Elora nodded, but the man just stood there, leaving the air stale with the silence in the room. She looked up at him for a moment, trying to gauge what he was doing, what he was thinking. She hoped he’d leave. While she knew he probably had a difficult time trusting her alone after the mishap yesterday, privacy was still a much-appreciated commodity. He stared at the wall for a second, not looking her in the eyes, before muttering about grabbing something and walking out. Elora froze, fearing he was going to bring back some awful instrument of torture, but instead, he merely returned with a pile of items in his arms. An old, worn towel and washcloth made the base, with a haphazardly-folded set of clothes atop it, and faded, half-used bottles of drugstore shampoo, conditioner, and body wash over that.
He set the stack down next to her, on the floor by the tub. “Yell when you’re done,” he told her. And that was it. He left.
There was no catch, no earning her prize or cruel tricks. He just left her alone to shower. It was like he felt bad. He should feel bad. But she shook the thought of vengeance from her mind, deciding to just focus on the mercy she’d been shown. She knew she should savor it while she had it, as she doubted it would last long.
Awkwardly twisting her body to avoid using her broken hand, she grabbed the bottles and set them on the ledge of the bathtub, then carefully removed her clothes, grimacing as she had to stretch the cuts lining her arms and drag fabric along her broken ankle. Once she finished, she finally turned on the shower, tensing as cold water rained upon her, but practically melting once it ran warm. It was soothing, though it did slightly sting the wounds it hit. Still, the benefits far outweighed the harm and she shut her eyes to fully take in the comfort, wishing she could stay right in this moment until she was found. Enveloped by the warmth, the man only a passing thought in her mind.
She began with the shampoo, taking her time to work it into her scalp, washing away the dirt, blood, and oil that had built up over the last few days. It felt so nice to be clean, to be free of the filth coating her body. She savored every moment as she washed and conditioned her hair, then took painstaking attention and care as she scrubbed her body with the washcloth, carefully avoiding or only gently dabbing at the wounds littering her body. And even when she had long been done, she remained on the floor of the tub, letting the hot water soothe her aching body as she stared ahead at the wall. She feared that taking too long, though, would make the man suspicious-or worse, angry. So, despite not wanting to and not having a clue when she’d be given this privilege again, she turned off the water and began to dry off with the towel. She didn’t want to get the clothes she’d been given all wet, so she awkwardly and rather maneuvered herself up to sit on the side of the tub. She quickly found that getting dressed was just as much of a struggle as getting undressed-especially as her skin was still damp. Pulling on the plain undershirt and blue sweatpants earned quite a few hisses of pain, and she was more than relieved when the task was over.
There was a sort of longing ache in her heart at the fact that the clothes weren’t hers. It was just another thing that had been stripped from her, another bit taken away. At the very least, though, they were clean. It didn’t seem like they’d been washed, just taken straight from a cheap bulk package. That was probably what they were. Elora didn’t mind, though. At the very least, they were comfortable, and clean. Both fit her relatively well, too, though the legs of the pants were short on her.
She was about to mournfully call for the man as she’d been instructed to do when she looked over herself, just one last time, and found her staring down at the massive bruises covering her fingers and ankle. She’d been preoccupied with getting clean earlier, so her eyes had just skimmed over them, but now that she took the time to really look, she was horrified. They were so much clearer now that the blood was washed away, looking almost cartoonish as she stared in disbelief. Deep shades of blue and purple wrapped her entire ankle joint as it stuck painfully out to the right. She knew that she should set it, but she didn’t have the slightest clue how, and it was far too severe to heal magically. All she could do was look on in shock at how misshapen it looked, how it almost seemed like a watercolor painting, colors coating and speckling the skin. Her fingers, too, were a horrific sight, curled in on themselves, swollen and multicolored. She couldn’t look away from her mangled hand and foot, feeling sick at how mortifyingly intense they were. She wanted to vomit at the mere sight of them, at the thought of the logistics. How many surgeries would it take to fix this when she got out?
If she got out.
Tears slipped down her cheeks and she abandoned the thought of calling for the man at all, just gawking at her injuries, letting the severity seep in, and bawling. Time slipped by quickly and soon she’d been in the bathroom for almost an hour, which prompted the man to come in and check on her. He knocked on the door and called her name, and she startled, her shoulders trembling. She didn’t respond, just sat there until he burst in, swung the door open himself. Their eyes locked and he saw the redness around her eyes, the puffiness of her cheeks. His brow furrowed for a moment. He hadn’t done anything wrong to her, what was her deal? But his gaze followed hers back to her broken limbs, and he gave a knowing sigh.
An awful guilt crept up in him and his expression was stone cold.
“I’m not a bad person, Elora.” His voice was firm, but thick, with a sense of sadness to it. Elora looked up at him from her spot perched on the side of the tub, shocked by his sudden entrance. Her eyes were still teary, threatening to spill more at any moment.
“I’m not.”
The girl still didn’t say a word and Clyde felt his guilt start to turn to anger. “Stop looking at me like that. Like a-like a sad fucking puppy.”
Elora’s bottom lip shook. She sensed it, his rage. She knew that, no matter what she did now, things weren’t going to end well for her. They never did, when he got mad like this.
“I’m not t-trying to-”
“Shut up,” he shouted, and her mouth suddenly closed, her eyes still wide as they stared up at him.
“I’m not a bad person,” he affirmed. “I did what I had to. You-you never fucking listen.”
Elora had no clue what to say, what to do, so she merely nodded in agreement. Sure. Whatever he wanted to believe. Whatever he needed to hear to not hurt her even more when she was already-when she couldn’t handle any more.
The man advanced towards her and she nearly screamed in pure terror. She wanted to back away but there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run. He bent over and gripped her chin and she inhaled sharply, eyes watery.
“Say it,” he seethed. “Say it. I’m not a bad person.”
She was forced to look in his eyes, their faces just inches apart as he jerked her chin up. Her voice shook as she spoke. “You’re-you’re not a b-b-bad person.” A sharp inhale ended her sentence, petrified that it wasn’t right. That it wouldn’t be enough.”
He released her chin and she felt relief flood her for all but a second before he shoved her off of the ledge of the tub. She landed flat on her back on the tile floor, the air knocked out of her lungs by the force of the fall. She wheezed and tried to sit up, but he was upon her in a second, kneeling on her chest with his hands around her throat to restrict her breathing even further.
“Say it like you mean it,” he insisted. There was nothing but anger in his eyes.
Gasping and sputtering, Elora wheezed, “You’re not a bad person!” Her tone was desperate. She felt like she was dying. But that was all the man needed to hear. He eased off of her and stood, brushed himself off, then simply picked her up from the ground and slung her over a shoulder, a far cry from the gentle way he’d carried her to the bathroom in the first place.
He was grinning. Relief washed over him. A cool, calm feeling.
“You’re right, Elora. I’m not. I’m not a bad person.”
