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melodyofthevoid · 1 year

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Bodies are Business and Business is Good

Tw: blood, torture, amputation, etc. (It’s Heather)

Word Count: 3,326

There were fewer things more satisfying, Heather thought, than the slight hiss of the gas lamp in her work office.

A frankly wonderful modern invention, much more controlled than simple wax candles and less likely to blow out at a moment’s notice when she had her back turned or was in the middle of delicate work. Natural light wasn’t exactly an option, not here. And her clients tended to demand their money’s worth.

Plus, it was so nice to listen to the small intake of breath when her victims realized she was there. And the narrowing of their eyes as she became fully visible.

She turned the key and struck a match, blinking as her own eyes adjusted to the light, bouncing off of the thick carved stone and cast iron tools lining the walls. The vials and jars just waiting to be filled. And, shining off of the few exposed scales of the exhausted mer panting and strapped to her operation table.

As expected, they flinched when she descended the stairs, pulling at the restraints with all of their might. Clearly not enough, but a valiant effort.

“Apologies for the delay, but since you so stubbornly held onto your disguise, it put a damper on my evening plans the other day. I’m sure you must be thirsty.”

The angel fish snarled, flaring their bright yellow tail and thrashing harder, their scales– iridescent– bright blues, yellows and greens that would make for excellent amulets or accessories.

She made a note to get more leather and wire for the necklaces. Accessories sold well. Not as well as her other products, but well enough. A status symbol to those who were in the know.

“Fuck off- you- you-”

“Bitch? Monster? I’m sure I’ve heard it before. Believe me, I have.”

A well in the back, hidden by a few boxes, caught her victim’s eye as she walked over to it, grabbing a nearby bucket and pumping it full. Saltwater smell filled the air, overpowering the metallic tang of Heather’s tools.

The mer eyed the bucket, thrashing less as she approached. Ah, good. Maybe this one would be cooperative. Or somewhat more cooperative.

“Actually… Before we get started, and I let you have this, I have a simple question for you. Do you happen to know the location of any other mermaid colonies? You don’t have to tell me all of them, just one or two.”

Any relief that the mer–oh what was their name again? It didn’t really matter, the mer’s relief vanished, eyes narrowing to slits and their fins flaring out.

“Tell you- no. Fuck you. You and your dog won’t get your hands on any more mer- not if I can help it.”

“Well, you’re right about one thing, he is something of a dog, look at you.”

She ran a hand along their tail, ghosting over the gashes that lined it. Wounds that’d barely scabbed over during transport. Other bruises and scratches marred their skin and fins. Heather scowled. Charles was new, but that didn’t excuse abject incompetence.

This would put something of a dent in what she could sell. Charles would be compensated accordingly.

“I told him minimal damage, and yet here you are. Can’t even follow basic directions right. But I digress. If you won’t offer what I need, there’s no sense in dragging this out.”

Heather mulled over where to start, eyeing her knives and branding rods. Carving took longer, but risked too much thrashing for a clean cut. Fins, for all of their use, tore rather easily if not handled properly.

Morro —ah, right that was their name— looked to be healthy enough that draining them first wouldn’t end in them bleeding out entirely.

The needle it was then.

“Now where did I put it… ah, here it is.”

She hummed under her breath, pulling out three glass jars, and her needle, cleaning off the point of it and eyeing Morro’s exposed forearms. A good thing that they were tense already. That certainly made things easier.

A particularly exposed vein on their right arm made for the perfect target and Heather couldn’t help the shiver that went down her spine as the metal slid into the skin, flesh giving way to the needle’s piercing point. So satisfying.

Immediately crimson blood filled the glass tank of the gun, flowing down to the tube and filling up the first jar. The lifeblood of her operation, so to speak. So many customers, all vying for that most viscous and vital of her products. And who was she to deny them when she was living testimony of its efficacy?

Of course she’d never give away all her trade secrets for her longevity. She wasn’t born yesterday.

Or even within the last half century.

In any case, the blood flowed easily, and already one jar gleamed with it. Full to the brim. Switching one out for the other, Heather placed it off on a table, taking a moment to admire the flicker of the gas lamp light against the glass and crimson. Perhaps one day she’d find some other substance, a gemstone, a resin, something that could capture the beauty of her craft.

She doubted it though.

With a second jar nearly filled, Morro’s skin showed the effects. Ashy, almost clammy in places. Their gaze unfocused and any attempts at thrashing much weaker than before. Reaching the limits of what they could give today.

Heather switched out the jars one last time, watching the stream slowly taper off as their breathing slowed down and body relaxed against their will. For their trouble, she poured some of the sea water in the bucket over them, giving them a pat on the shoulder as she extracted the needle from their vein and bandaged the wound. Some blood sluggishly seeping through the gauze.

“You,” Morro slurred, “you’ll pay for this. Indra will hunt you for the rest of your days.”

“Mmm, is that so? Tell me, how long do you think I’ve done this work?”

Her captive didn’t respond. Only glaring with bared fangs.

“Believe me, if your goddess really gave a damn, I’d think she’d have taken notice by now. I’m not going anywhere, and for the time being? Neither are you.”

“The debt will be paid- MHMPH!”

Heather tied the gag tighter, rolling her eyes.

“That’s enough out of you. I’ll spare myself the usual theatrics. Feel free to still scream though, I don’t mind. You’ll give me what I want either way.”

Finally, Heather could get to the real work.

Choosing the right knife to start with always proved to be the most taxing part of the work. She’d tried typical fish scalers in the past, but those were better suited for the fishmongers and fresh markets. The scales she worked with required more work than that. But on the other hand, using the back of the wrong knife chipped and damaged the scales, and no one wanted to buy half a scale.

Heather’s fingers danced along the different blades, intermittently picking one up, twirling it, feeling the heft and then setting it back down, moving on to the next one. Eventually she settled on her favorite, a long curving blade, sturdy and sharp. Tempered steel reflecting her own dark gaze back at her.

Starting from the base of the tail, as she’d done a thousand times before, she wedged the back end of it underneath the first line of scales, and pushed upwards.

The previously limp mermaid jerked up, a muffled yelp coming from beneath the gag. Of course, Morro barely possessed the strength to so much as twitch. Too tired to fully put up a fight, but Heather tightened the straps on their tail anyway. With that secure, she continued pushing up, the shining iridescent angelfish scales now tinted red at the base as they fell to the floor below. They’d be cleaned and polished later.

Despite the gag, Heather winced as the mer tried to shriek, to throw her off through the only means they had left. Admirable if it weren’t so annoying. She took a step back and stood back up, towering over her prey. Cooing with a voice as sickly sweet as she could make it.

“Oh relax, this isn’t even the worst part. But we can get to that if you want. It might make this seem pleasant in comparison. How does that sound?”

Morro shook their head, but she’d already flipped her blade around and dug it into the membrane of the main tail fin, slicing through with no resistance. The bright yellow would make for a lovely trophy for the right buyer.

It was a little too bright for her tastes though. It clashed with the decor.

Hitching breaths came from above, strained and hissing through clenched teeth. The poor thing was trying to keep themself calm even with the gag. She laughed, cutting through the dorsal and pectoral fins next, setting them aside to dry.

Muffled moans and cries left Morro and Heather checked their cheeks to see if there were tears. A frustratingly rare commodity. Not that they did anything but clients always wanted them. By all means she could just sell some sea water, but she had standards.

She clicked her tongue to see that there were no tears. A shame.

With the last of the fins removed, Heather spun her knife back around and continued peeling away the scales, with far less reaction this time, which was also in and of itself a shame. She liked the fight so long as she could still do her job. Heather’d done Morro a mercy if anything. After an amputation, pulling a few scales probably felt like nothing. Like pulling nails off of a hand freshly devoid of a few fingers.

Sometimes though, the sudden lack of fight signaled an end to that night’s session. Ignoring her subjects too much could be costly. Brushing the last few whole scales into a second bucket, Heather stood back up, examining her work.

Morro was slumped over, exhausted from the strain and blood loss. Wiping any excess off of her knife on her apron, Heather did her usual checks, pulse, reflex, breathing, etc. They were still alive, which meant that she’d get at least a few more pints out of them by the time they eventually kicked the bucket. It’d be such a waste if she only got one day’s worth.

They’d hold out longer than that, she’d make sure of it.

With a sigh, she got out her needle and thread, stitching up the gashes Charles left and cleaning out the wounds. Bandaging up the stump near the tail. No infections, and no potential loss. The blood was no good from a dead mer.

As much as she liked the final processing steps, she still had other orders to fulfill, and going out of her way to catch another prospect? A waste of her time and resources. Nothing wasted, not if she could help it.

Her hairnet came off, as did the gloves and apron, all placed in their proper places far enough away that any nearby officers couldn’t smell the fresh blood on her. She needed to replace the shirt though. Again. The price she paid for wearing white.

Ah well, no skin off her back. She disposed of any evidence once or twice a year. Fireplaces served a variety of uses.

A quick shower and a change of clothes left Heather feeling far more accomplished and relaxed now that the euphoria of her work had passed. There was a certain… thrill to it, to the slice of flesh under her knife. But getting lost in that feeling led to less than precise work. In less vials of blood and damage to the organs she needed to sell later. So, for the sake of her own work, she had to take breaks. Balance was key, and experience taught her well.

Maybe for the evening she could fully unwind with some luxury time. She’d just have to find that bottle of wine and those chocolates she’d been saving.

The glasses were in the cabinet of her office, so here was hoping that there weren’t any last minute visitors. She’d had enough business for the day.

Though as she entered the room from the back, she sighed. No such luck.

A certain red-haired captain stood in the main lobby, smoking a cigar. Blowing rings of smoke into the air with his usual air of disinterest. Odd, he’d delivered her fresh supply not even a year and a half ago. Confusion outweighed her irritation at the intrusion. For now.

“To what do I owe this visit, Captain?”

Fachnan exhaled, tapping the stray ash onto the floor. Sullying it.

Asshole.

“Ah, Heather. I was hoping you’d stay in that dungeon for a little while longer. I find it’s easier to take in your trophies without you drooling all over them. We were stopping here for a short time and well, I figured I’d drop by.”

“Mhm…sure.”

The twitch in Fachnan’s hand and dart of his eyes didn’t exactly scream “casual chat”.

“Why’re you really here, and make it quick. You’re getting ash all over my perfectly good carpet. I do try to keep an air of respectability here.”

“My apologies, your majesty, I’ll be sure to clean your lair to a shine.”

Heather’s jaw tensed, teeth close to grinding. Unnecessary stress meant unnecessary aging, deep breaths in, deep breaths out. She forced herself to relax, schooling her expression into neutral disdain.

“False deference doesn’t suit you, Captain. I’d get your nose off of the floor before I lose my patience.”

“Fine, fine. Since you’re in a hurry I’ll make it quick.”

Fachnan gestured wide, splaying himself across the couch in her office with all the grace and respect she’d come to expect. Letting out a sigh, Heather grabbed the first open bottle of wine she could find and poured some out. Counting down the minutes until he left.

“The reason for my visit is simple, I want to do you a favor.”

She arched her brow, sipping at her glass.

“You’ve just been a source of income for me, Lady of the Sea. Owe at least some of my success to you. I’ve got a tip you might be interested in, for a small price, of course. Can’t just give this sort of thing to any ametuer.”

Actively sending Charles out on another hunt before she could properly chastise him for damaging this merchandise? She’d pass.

Besides, she paid Fachnan for tangible work. If she threw her fortune any idiot who walked in promising a lead, she’d have exhausted her coiffers long ago. Her decades of experience were worth far more than what one measly captain thought he knew.

“Charming, but I’m not looking to take on another project or search for one at the moment. Frankly, I don't like drawing more attention to myself than necessary. You know how these new officers get, all bright eyed and full of belief in ‘law and order’. The guard’s changed in the past few years, and I’m not exactly looking to make any waves at present. The fewer bodies, the better.”

She sipped at her wine once more, mulling over the best way to politely but firmly tell Fachnan to fuck off. Alone time was calling her name like the sirens she cut to ribbons.

“Well that’s a shame. Here I thought you were interested in a shark mer. Guess not then.”

With an inhale, the wine went down her throat and Heather choked and coughed. It burned all the way up to her sinuses, but nothing compared to the spark of interest. Still catching her breath, she unlatched a compartment in the desk behind her, pulling out a sharpened knife and setting it on the wood beside her.

He could lie or take out his sword if he wanted, but her reputation spoke for itself. There’d be one winner here.

“I see I have your attention then,” he smirked, “I’ll admit, the gold was a bluff. This one’s on the house.”

“Bullshit. What do you want?”

“Fine, this mer in question is something of… a thorn in my side. You taking care of her would be doing me a service, Madame Butcher. She appears to be a hybrid, if that sweetens the deal.”

It did. Quite a bit in fact.

“And you’re sure about this?”

“Dead certain. Last saw her face off the coast of Paign. Goes by the name of Delta. About seven feet tall, blue fins, blue coat, she’s fairly hard to miss. Has a whole crew of mer from what I could tell.”

A whole crew… she let out a breath.

“No shit. Typically I don’t get in the middle of feuds, or do bounty work for that matter, but just this once? I think I can agree with that. In fact…”

Heather stood up, walking over to a mahogany cabinet, carved with intricate flowers and vines. An inherited piece, and not even a forced one. They’d handed it over after the funeral, which was well and good. Natural causes were less messy to deal with generally speaking. She pressed the central-most flower’s petals and the compartment toward the bottom opened up, shining vials revealed within it.

“A gift, to a valuable partner. For your health.”

She held out a crimson vial. Heart blood.

“I’d like to keep my more reliable freelancer at sea for a few more years.”

Seconds ticked by, and Fachnan shook his head, “No, like I said. This one’s free. I just want her gone.”

Pirates and their honor codes. She rolled her eyes and set the vial back into its case.

Although speaking of…

“By the way, how’s that associate of yours doing? Changed his tune yet? I know he’s got quite the reputation for finding what he’s looking for. I’d like to use his expertise.”

Deep lines set into Fachnan’s face as he glanced away. Shoulders lowered. His bravado evaporated leaving behind only bitter salt.

“He and I won’t be seeing each other any time soon, gods willing. My only hope is it was quick.”

Ah. So it was like that then.

“I see, I apologize. I’ve been rather busy as of late, haven’t kept up with the times. My condolences for your loss.”

He grit his teeth, expression darkening further.

“It was his decision. We parted ways some time ago. He knew the risks of going soft, and look where it got him.”

“Well, that is how it is sometimes. Connections come and connections go. Time stops for a lucky few.”

The dots weren’t hard to connect, as hard as Fachnan fought to keep his aloof persona intact. Whatever drama or series of events led to this, frankly she didn’t care. What mattered was her prize. He could mourn his lost flame all he wanted on his own time.

With the last of his cigar fully gone, Fachnan stared at the embers before standing up from the couch, lifting his chin to look down at her. She met his gaze with a smile every bit as sharp as her tools.

“I’ll be heading off then. Send word when you need my services again.”

“Oh I will, don’t you worry. Thank you for stopping by, your help is much appreciated.”

He didn’t respond, only turning for the door and leaving Heather alone with her wine and her thoughts. Her smile stretched wider across her face and she let out a laugh, growing in intensity as euphoria set in.

A shark. A shark hybrid.

Looked like she’d have to clear her schedule to ensure that this… Delta could get all the attention that Heather could offer. Get the care and quality work that she deserved as the future crown jewel of her collection.

Morro could be rest assured that their suffering would be brief. She had preparations to make.

#my writing #ocean idiots #please enjoy!#I've had this one banked for a bit and I'm still super proud of it #gotta do some more writing now that college is almost done #yippee #oh I'll put the tags down here too #blood tw #torture tw #amputation tw #heather is sadistic and though that's not a surprise she is actively butchering live people #so #ya know #also fachnan is a funny guy #wonder why he's got it out for delta #or one of delta's... associates #hehe #anyways

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set-phasers-to-whump · 6 months

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breathe

prompt: "let me see"

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

hi here's the part 2 to this fic from day 18. i hope you like it, i had a really good time writing both of these :)

Peter steps off the plane at Dulles in the early evening. He feels slightly better than he had on the first flight, having now gotten a good deal of sleep, and having bought some extra-strength painkillers and a ridiculously overpriced meal at JFK. At the very least, he’s not so exhausted and the pain is more manageable and he no longer feels nauseous with hunger.

He gets a cab home, not caring about the price. Halfway there he realizes that he doesn’t have his key - it’d been in his bag, which is now gone. The cab driver mercifully has a paperclip that he gives to Peter, though he looks at him a little skeptically in the rearview mirror.

Peter knows he doesn’t exactly look like an upstanding citizen at the moment. The bruises on his face have become more pronounced over the last several hours, and he’s still dirty and sweaty and generally gross. He makes sure to tip the driver well when they at last reach his apartment building.

He picks the lock on his door with little trouble and heads immediately to his bedroom.

He hadn’t bothered to buy and change into new clothes at JFK, though he certainly could have. But he hadn’t been able to stand the thought of changing without showering, and in any case he hadn’t really had the strength.

He isn’t entirely sure if he has the strength to change and shower now, but he’s damn well going to anyway. The thought of a nice hot shower, of clean and comfortable clothes, is nearly enough to make him weep.

He gathers clothes at random - an old t-shirt, his favorite sweats, the hoodie he’d stolen from Cisco all those years ago. Then he steps into the bathroom and turns the shower on, almost as hot as it will go.

He strips down while the bathroom slowly steams up. First to go are his boots. His fingers shake when he unties the laces, and he has to sit on the floor to get enough leverage to tug them off.

His socks follow suit, full of sand that scatters across the floor. He’ll deal with that later. He’s relieved to see that his feet aren’t blistered - he really hadn’t walked that far - but his left ankle is swollen and tender to the touch in a way that suggests a sprain at the very least.

He wriggles out of his pants and boxers without standing back up. His knees are both bruised and so are his shins. One of them sports a large break in the skin, blood matted into the hair around it.

He unzips his jacket and pulls off his shirt. The cuffs of both are bloody from his wrists, despite his earlier efforts to clean them. His entire torso is like one massive bruise. He’ll have a few broken ribs, for sure.

He can’t see the bruise around his neck, but he knows it’s there. He cannot stop feeling it, a phantom arm still wrapped around his throat. Stop thinking about it, he tells himself. You’re safe now.

He only half believes it.

He forces himself up off of the floor with a groan of pain and then steps into the shower. The hot water stings his skin and the pressure of it makes the bruises across his body hurt like he’s being beaten all over again. He grabs the soap and shampoo and then sinks to the floor, too tired to remain on his feet.

He covers himself in a thick layer of soap. It stings his open wounds, but he grits his teeth against the pain and keeps going. He cannot risk infection. He cannot be anything less than clean.

After this, he scrubs shampoo into his hair. The water runs faintly pink when he washes it out, and he wonders where the blood had come from.

At long last, he’s certain that every inch of his body has been scrubbed clean. He no longer feels sand prickling at his skin and he is no longer stained with blood. He sits beneath the water and breathes in the steam until it starts to run cold.

Out of the shower, Peter dries himself off as gently as possible. He’s also quick about it, not wanting to stand on his ankle any longer than he has to, and so when he gets dressed he’s still a bit damp and the clothes stick to his skin.

He doesn’t mind. The feeling of the familiar fabric is comforting regardless, and it reminds him of where he is. At home, far away from the people who had hurt him.

He rubs neosporin into the raw skin of his wrists and the cuts on his face, then swallows a couple more painkillers. Finally, he brushes his teeth until he’s spitting blood into the sink.

He leaves the bathroom something of a wreck and heads for the kitchen. He’s hungry again. There are a few packages of ramen in the pantry, for times when he doesn’t feel like cooking. He’s extremely grateful for them in this moment, and within five minutes he’s sitting in front of a steaming bowl and breathing in the very familiar scent. It’s one he associates with his days at Quantico, and he is hit with the realization that he needs to contact his bosses.

He hadn’t been given any instructions for communication before he’d left, so they won’t necessarily know anything has gone wrong. He needs to tell them. He doesn’t want to.

He can put it off for a little while. It’s not like he currently has a phone, anyway.

He finishes eating, has a large glass of water - he thinks he is always going to be just a bit thirsty, now - and then just sits there.

His body aches and he knows he should probably get checked out by a doctor. But the thought of some stranger poking and prodding at him, after everything, is incredibly unpleasant. It can wait until tomorrow, at least.

It is dark outside, nearing eight o’clock, and Peter does not want to be alone. He wants to see Rose.

She lives across the city from him, in a cute little house that she’d moved into only a couple months ago. He wants nothing more than to go there, to simply be in her presence.

He’d normally call and ask whether she’s free. But he can’t. He’ll just have to hope she’s there, that she won’t mind him coming by unannounced.

He puts on a pair of boots - thankfully not the ones he’d been wearing before, which are full of sand - and a jacket with a high collar. Lacking his phone and keys, he feels distinctly like he is forgetting something as he steps into the hallway, but he knows he isn’t. He leaves the door unlocked behind him and tries not to think about it.

He takes the bus and then the metro across town. He feels anxious, memories of the bombing overlaying themselves atop memories of the past twenty-four hours. He focuses on looking out of the window and trying to control his breathing.

He arrives at Rose’s house a little after 8:45. He experiences a moment of doubt before he rings the bell - what if she doesn’t want to see him, what if she isn’t home - but she opens the door with a smile on her face.

“Back so soon?” she asks. He’s supposed to have been away all week.

Seeing her, hearing her voice - he hasn’t cried, not since it happened. He’d been too exhausted, too focused on making it to the next step. But she is his final destination.

He starts to cry and he can’t stop. Rose pulls him inside and wraps her arms around him and it hurts but he doesn’t pull away.

His ankle is throbbing. He sinks to the floor and she goes with him. Her fingers are in his hair and he clings to her shirt like a lifeline.

At some point, after a long while, he does stop crying. His eyes are dry and itchy and his throat feels raw. He leans heavily against Rose and breathes raggedly.

“Sorry,” he whispers. The word feels like sandpaper.

“Shh,” Rose replies. “Come with me.”

She gets up and he follows her to the couch.

“Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

Peter takes off his shoes but leaves his jacket on. He does not want her to see the mark on his neck. It is enough to feel it, all the time.

Rose comes back with a container of ice cream and two spoons, and Peter feels himself nearly smile. She sits cross-legged beside him, pries open the carton, and passes him a spoon.

The cold dairy feels wonderful on his throat, and Rose’s steady presence makes him feel safe and comfortable. He relaxes quite a bit.

And then his jacket sleeve rides up as he’s trying to dig out a chunk of chocolate, and Rose freezes, grabbing his wrist.

“What happened?”

He gently pulls away. “It’s nothing.”

She abandons the ice cream, turning her body to face him. “Peter, that doesn’t look like nothing.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Rose nods. “Okay. Let me see, at least? You don’t have to say anything. I just…”

He knows.

He can hardly refuse. He’d want the same thing, in her place. To know that she’s alright. To see how bad it really is.

He carefully removes his jacket and pushes up his sleeves. He looks down at the floor as Rose touches his arms with cold fingers.

“Look up for a second?”

He complies. Looking down, he knows, had hidden the worst of the bruise on his neck, but hadn’t hidden it all. He swallows hard as her fingers ghost over the bruise, trying to pretend that they don’t make him think of what had happened.

“Is there more?”

He could lie. Except that he can’t, really. Not when it’s her.

He nods. He doesn’t know why it feels like admitting something shameful.

“Can I see?”

In response, he lifts up the hem of his shirt to reveal the bruising on his torso. He hears Rose suck in a breath.

“What happened?” she asks, lightly touching his chest. There are tears in her eyes and part of Peter wants to tell her, to reveal every single detail that he remembers. But another, larger part of him cannot face it. It’s too much and too soon, and he feels like one raw, exposed nerve. He can’t. Not yet.

He shakes his head. “I’ll tell you later. Promise.”

“Okay,” she whispers. “Have you been to the hospital?”

“I’ll go tomorrow.”

“Peter -”

He meets her eyes, really meets them, for the first time. “Please. I swear, I’ll go tomorrow. But right now - I can’t.”

Rose nods, although it’s clear she doesn’t love this plan. “Will you stay here tonight? So I can keep an eye on you?”

He hadn’t been sure of how to ask this very question without seeming like a child afraid of a monster lurking in the dark. He nods.

Rose smiles, sad and happy at once. “Are you tired?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

“Come on, then.”

They go to her room. The bed is large and warm and smells like her and it kind of makes him want to cry all over again, for reasons he doesn’t really understand.

“Just a minute,” Rose says. She disappears to lock up, to get ready for bed, and Peter buries himself beneath the blankets.

She returns to the bedroom a few minutes later, switching off the light. The complete darkness makes him feel panicked for a moment, but then the bed dips and her hands find his.

He feels her move around a bit, and then one of her hands is on his cheek. Her nose bumps into his, which hurts a bit, and then she kisses him, light and a little clumsy and perfect.

Peter rests his head against her shoulder and lets his eyes fall closed. He falls asleep quickly and completely, breathing deep and even for the first time in quite a while.

thanks for reading!!! hope you liked it <3

#whumptober2023 #no.27 #let me see #the night agent #fic #peter sutherland #aftermath of torture #comfort #crying #my writing #i say things #i originally imagined a whole interlude in nyc but it didn't go w the prompt and was long as hell so i skipped that lmao #anyway. in a week i am going to be on a train on my trip yippee!!!!#yah my title yesterday was basically the same thing sorryyy #i hate titles so so so much grrrrrr

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comfy-whumpee · 6 months

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Jane 2

Whumptober 18 - tortured for information.

Avis ordered her clothes, toiletries and treats. Tenten cooked her meals. Paris, now called Florence, sat next to her and snuck glances from the corner of their eye. Kamala went where Florence went, for the most part, but at other times paid her devotion to the cartoons and comics she adored. Roman hid from her. And then there was Boo.

What a ludicrous name. They were clearly living some kind of delusional fantasy, to be acting like one of the real rescues here, accepting a cutesy nickname and allowing the others to treat them like an equal. It was shamefully obvious what had happened to Mistress Tara’s first hunter. They had been tempted by freedom.

‘Jane’ was the living proof that Mistress Tara’s hunters could never be free. She wasn’t as experienced as ‘Boo’, but she could do enough to find them, and find simultaneously their target. Now she was here, as they were, to be taken on as a rescue. But she would not swallow their lies.

At the end of her first day, Avis showed her to a small room, equipped with the barest minimum furniture, and apologised. “It’s a guest room,” she explained inanely. “The bathroom is right across the hall. My room is at the other side, there’s a sign on the door with a bird on it. Come and knock if you need anything at all.”

Jane nodded. The room was warm and had carpet, so it was already a far cry from what she was used to.

Avis withdrew. Jane closed the door, sat down underneath the window with the curtain drawn back, and waited.

Boo didn’t sleep.

It was impossible. The nightmare had come true. There was, in this house right now, someone who meant to do them all harm. Florence being returned to their Sir was bad enough, but losing them would destroy Kamala. She needed to devote herself to someone, and after the presumed death of her old owner, losing Florence would reopen that emotional wound. Tenten and Roman, with their trained invective to be perfect, would naturally assume guilt for something they had nothing to do with. And Avis… Avis was doing this all because she had lost her son. If she lost someone else…

There was nothing for it. Boo stayed awake and listened. They listened to the footsteps settle into silence as each of them went to their own rooms. They listened to the light switch turn off in Florence’s room next to theirs. They listened to the pines creak and settle. They listened to the faint shift of wind across the roof. They listened, waiting, for a door to open.

They listened without moving. They could do this for hours, and they did. It was the dead of night when the traitor made her move.

They heard the door open. The footsteps were almost silent, but she didn’t know where the floorboards were solid and where they creaked. Even as she did her best to creep along the landing, she set her foot on the board between the third and fourth railings around the stairs, which let out a short groan.

Boo listened, tense for the sound of Florence’s door opening. Would she try to abduct them straight away? Would she threaten them? Try to win their trust? Think. What would a hunter do? What would Mistress Tara expect?

They darted back from the door a moment before the handle started turning. She was coming in here. She was coming in here and they hadn’t locked the door because they were complacent and used to being safe here and now she was in the doorway, closing the door behind her, locking the door behind her as they’d neglected to do and now they were face to face.

They stared at her. She stared back.

“Hunter,” she said.

“Hunter,” they returned. The word came out instinctively. The first time they had spoken since arriving here.

That was what Boo had to do, they realised. They had to act normal and tell their practised lies. If she realised that they had betrayed their Mistress, she would make them pay.

“Why are you here?” they asked, forcing their voice to emerge smoothly without the rasp of disuse. They couldn’t let her see how true their presented self had become.

“Mistress grows impatient,” she replied, still staring them down. “You have made no progress in three months.” “I have made progress,” they return. Their voice is level, not defensive. They are colleagues exchanging information. “I have earned the trust of the target and the others here. They view me as damaged and pitiful. Working here takes subtlety, because our work is illegal. The dynamics here are delicate.”

Could she tell, they wondered, that this was another act? Could she see the terror beneath their confidence? They breathed normally. They did not tense, blink, wince, or give any tell. Control yourself.

Her face was impassive. “The client demands action. We play this role because we can do the illegal and suffer no consequence. I will call for transport tomorrow. You will get the target out of this house.”

“Impossible,” they say flatly. “Have you not noticed the structure? Outings are dictated by Avis. Kamala and Paris will not be separated. Kamala acts as their caretaker and chaperone at all times.”

“She is weak and can be overpowered.”

Boo did not flinch. But the factual statement made them pause nonetheless. Mistress Tara’s methods had changed, from one hunter to the next. Had she trained Jane alongside them? Or afterwards, when she noticed their failure? What threats and promises had she instilled in her second pet?

“I was discouraged from harming other pets,” they tell her, to explain their surprise. She would no doubt have noticed.

“We do what is necessary,” she replied.

Boo considered her again. This was what they had been. This was how they had looked from the outside: dead-eyed and driven, seeing no way out but forward, imagining no other path, no other life. Avis had given them one without asking for permission, and Boo was glad, because they would have said no.

Could Jane be offered the same? They doubted it. She had been sent with a strict time limit. She had no time.

Even if she did, and she was sent on to another shelter, what then? Mistress Tara would not stand for it. She would sent more hunters. She might even come herself. Even Boo wasn’t sure that they could stand up to her in person. But still…

Avis – and Florence – would want there to be a way.

“We do,” they agreed. “When is the deadline?”

The knife appeared without warning and was against their neck a moment later, their back shoved into the closed door, hand around their arm, pushing it back from interfering. Boo froze, instincts drowned in the need to stay in control. Their pulse raced but the rest of them would not move.

Jane’s expression was unchanged as she pressed the stolen kitchen knife to their throat. She looked down at them without emotion. They looked back the same.

“You hesitated,” she told them. That was that. “Tell me what would make Paris leave the house.”

Boo exhaled. Their heartbeat was pounding all the way through them, down to their fingertips and toes. She was loyal as they had been. She was determined to succeed. She had no mercy, no sympathy, or none that she could ever act on. They felt their back sting with the slash of the whip. She was fresh and bold and implacable. They had more experience, but they had grown weak. Despite every workout, every sweep of the house, every night spent awake planning and plotting in case of danger – they had grown weak.

“Five,” she said. Mistress Tara did the same thing. Their strategies were learned from her. Their tactics were taught. Even their accents were the same as hers.

“Four,” she said.

“You are too rash, sister,” they tried, hoping to at least shock her with the offer of family.

She showed no reaction, but the knife jabbed down into their shoulder, breaking through cloth and skin, but only just.

Boo did not tense.

“Mistress Tara explained your weaknesses,” she warned them. The tip of the knife grazed the edge of their bullet wound scar. “What would cause Paris to leave the house?”

Control yourself! Their back burned. They could feel the blood welling up. “Paris leaves for their music lesson,” they answer. They do not stammer or tremble. “Every Tuesday. That is the best time. They travel with Avis, no Kamala.”

Tuesday was almost a whole week away. Jane did not consider it for a second. The knife pressed more deeply. “They leave tomorrow. What causes Kamala to separate from them?”

“Florence sleeps late,” they offer, knowing it is useless. “Nobody expects to see them before mid-morning.”

Whoever was collecting them wouldn’t have time to arrive. Jane still stared with her tranquil gaze as the knife pierced through the scar entirely and broke the tender muscle underneath.

The pain meant very little, but they would have trouble using that arm if she continued. Dr Davies would notice. Kamala would notice. Avis might. They would ask. The truth would have to come out. All of it.

“What tension is there between Paris and Kamala?”

Boo realised their mistake with a cold breath. Paris. They hadn’t said Paris.

“I see of none,” they lied again, as steadily as they can. “Kamala is a Platonic. She bends herself to their every whim, and they know no different.”

“You are useless.”

Their eyes slam closed as she removes the knife. Their expression could be carved from marble. They had been called useless countless times by Mistress Tara, and clearly… So had she.

“I will kill Kamala,” she told them, “or you can leave the house now. If you are missing in the morning, I will have my opening, and nobody will be harmed.”

Would they sacrifice Kamala for Florence? Yes. Florence was the one they owed. But Kamala would not be the only death. Even if Jane escaped with Florence alone, it would be the end of that bright, curious person that Boo had come to know. Florence would bleed out. Only Paris would be allowed to remain.

“I’ll leave,” they agreed. In the vain hope of bringing her back to their side, they added, “You would be suspected of the murder instantly. It would hinder your escape.”

She did not react. She reached past them and unlocked the door.

“You have sixty seconds,” she whispered.

They did not react. They turned away, and walked down the stairs, stepped into their shoes, and after a moment’s consideration, left through the glass patio door at the back of the house.

She remained upstairs, ready to kill Kamala if they faltered. Perhaps to kill Kamala anyway.

The night was bitingly cold. The blood trickling down their shoulder was the only warm thing about them. Their ears were ringing for no reason and their heart still beat like they were moving at a dead sprint.

The lane was dark. They walked down its centre, knowing there would be no cars. Hardly anyone lived this far out. The seclusion had been perfect for a shelter. Perfect for a murder spree, too.

The wind whispered between the leaves of trees. The road, barely more than flattened earth, was damp beneath their soles. Boo avoided leaving the Birdhouse, and had never walked down this long road. They didn’t know where it would lead them.

Kamala was probably already dead. The others would be next. Might as well kill them all.

But then, why let them escape? No, she was trying to do this without bloodshed. She simply knew they wanted that too. She had seen and bargained on their stupid attachment to those people.

Those pets. Pets like Boo, who would never escape what they were trained for.

Their feet came to a stop.

They weren’t trained as a hunter. Not originally. No, that had come later, with Mistress Tara. There had been an owner before Mistress Tara. A rich, powerful man, one with enemies, one deep in the volatile world of crime. A man who had needed a bodyguard to take his bullets, and that, Boo had done.

They were trained to protect.

#whumptober2023 #bbu #tortured for information #my fic #pet whumpee #boo #knife whump #not proofread because we are falling behind yippee

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