Post by bombalurina on Dec 25, 2010 22:32:08 GMT -5
I AM NOT A WRITER. THIS IS A FICLET THAT WAS BOUNCING AROUND IN MY HEAD,.
BLAME ABT, THANKS.
---
The last thing she remembers is the pain. Indescribable pain. It seared across the back of her head for only a moment, in the midst of the screaming, and the fear, and the running and she has fallen into the dirt and into blessed unconsciousness.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been out, but the moment she opens her eyes, the pain returns. Not as sharp anymore, instead it is a long, slow, hot and steady throb. She becomes aware of a few things in rapid succession. One, that the room she is in is dark, save for a few slats of pale golden light creeping in around what appears to be a doorframe opposite her. Two, that she is bound to a recliner chair with rough leather straps that do not budge despite her weak protesting. And three, that someone else is in the room.
She struggles against her bonds, but she is weak and in pain. Her entire body feels tight and achey, covered in dried sweat. She can feel blood caked in her tangled hair, and at least one laceration across her right hip. Her mouth opens, but her throat is so dry that she can only muster a quiet rasp. The figure leaning against the wall seems to notice that she has awoken and slinks forward, in the darkness. The tied up queen can not tell much about the stranger, save for the fact it is a queen. The roll of her hips and the curve of her body betrays that much. Her head is so muddled she can not smell the other until it is far too late. She recognizes those golden eyes, and the joyless and pointed smile.
“Cooooooalieeee-“ Banshee sing-songs, stepping into place beside the chair. She is dressed, strangely, in an outfit reminiscent of a nurses. Short, tight, and accessorized with dagger-sharp heels and a white hat perched atop her pixie cut.
“-Looks like you need some fixing up.”
The funny thing about unadulterated terror is that it numbs pain. Adrenaline will do that to you. Her blood turns cold and she struggles harder against her bonds, feeling a pit of dread yawn wide in her stomach.
“No,” she manages to choke out, as the other queen crosses to the front of the chair.
Banshee arranges her cruel features into a look of mock sadness. “Ye’re not happy to see me? You break my heart, love.” She places one clawed hand on the arm of the chair and in one fluid movement, hoists herself up so she is straddling the bound queen. “It’s been a long time, Coalie. You were always such a fragile thing-“ Her eyes mist over, as if recalling some of her fondest memories. She draggs a hand off the arm of the chair and places it, fingers splayed, on Kitrina’s stomach “-you look so much better now,” agonizingly slowly, she walks her fingers up the grey queen’s chest, to the valley between her breasts, and finally to her neck. She stills, claws against the others throat and utters a throaty chuckle, leaning in low, speaking in a rough whisper “-and you know how I like to play rough.”
She digs a claw into the fabric of Kitrina’s already shredded shirt and rips it with one, long, screeching tear. The black fabric flutters away, decimated beneath the tabby’s claws. Banshee sits back on her haunches, staring appraisingly at the queen before her, as if eyeing a meal. “He always did say you has nice tits,” she hisses, and Kitrina knows who he is. Just that simple pronoun brings with it a flood of anguish. Hate boils in her veins now, counteracting the cold numbness of the terror. She wriggles again, harder, regaining some of her voice.
“You fucking cunt!-“ she spits, but Banshee claps a paw over her mouth, eyes suddenly wild, her smile widening horribly.
“Shhhh, Coalie. You’re hurt.” She leans back again, examining her nails in a businesslike way. “And sayin’ things you don’t mean ain’t gonna make me go away.”
Mind wildly racing, Kitrina begins to realize Banshee has changed since last she saw the tabby queen. Back when she had been in the gang, Kitrina had known Banshee to be a viper, all lean muscle and angry eyes. Easily irritated and enraged, every little thing causing her to snap, violently. Now, she is lush and lithe, those hard planes gone, leaving something far more frightening. She has a level head now, the hair-trigger temper replaced with cold and calculating precision. Trapped and terrified the grey queen summons every last ounce of will she has left to meet Banshee’s stare. “Get the fuck off of me.”
The tabby cocks her head to one side quizzically, smile still firmly in place. “Aw, now why would I do that?” She purrs, trailing her hand back down to rest just above the waistline of Kitrina’s jeans. “You used to scream so pretty for me,” she muses, before, without warning, digging all five claws into the soft, sensitive skin of Kitrina’s lower belly.
Her shriek echoes around the warehouse, loud and piercing and ending in a choked sob.
Banshee looks pleased, slides herself backwards along the chair, and lowers her head. From Kitrina’s perspective, the gesture looks almost intimate. Sexual. The tabby queen’s face, mouth, are so close to the juncture of Kit’s thighs. She begins to lap at the open wounds. The grey queen screws up her face, fighting off the piercing drags of pain she receives every time Banshee’s rough tongue runs over the punctures.
“Stop, please, please, stop.” The words are spoken in a tangled rush. All she knows is she will do anything to make the pain go away. Banshee eventually loses interests, or perhaps the flow of blood has been suitably staunched, because she raises her head and smiles a crimson-stained smile.
“You know,” She says pleasantly, “you haven’t changed a bit. You ain’t so skinny anymore, and you’ve grown up, but you’re exactly the same.”
Tears of helplessness prick at Kitrina’s eyes. She stares at the ceiling, wishing the horrible voice to go away.
“You’re still pathetic. You were running away, Coalie, when I found you. Like you always do. Ran away from us, and now running away from a tribe that took you in, even though…” She trails off, fingers finding the long scarred-over ‘M’ on Kit’s inner thigh.“-you’re branded. You still smell like fear and sweat and desperation. You’re still worthless.” She traces the mark with her claws, lowering her body again so she is hovering over Kitrina. “You’ll never be able to escape it, love. You’ll never be able to change.”
She rears back, looking self-satisfied. She runs a hand, almost tenderly up Kit’s side, eyes almost soft for a moment. She moves her hand to the center of the grey queens chest, claws slicing through the front of her bra as if it is paper. Kit balks, turning her head to the side, coloring in humiliation. The sudden exposure makes her feel even more vulnerable, as if she has been sliced open, her insides laid out for inspection.
The brown tabby leans down once more, running a claw up and down Kit’s sternum, a maddening smile in her yellow eyes. Her fingers finds a nipple and she tweaks it, violently, digging a claw into the soft flesh. Kit’s mouth opens in a soundless cry, her throat so ragged that the scream is silent. Fast as a cobra, Banshee grasps Kitrina by the throat, watching the grey queen ride out the stab of agony.
“I should rip your throat out with my teeth,” Her voice is ragged against Kitrina’s pulsing throat. Banshee pulled back to study Kitrina’s face for a moment, staring eyes so wide with fear that the whites showed all the way around. Her face is a mess of tears and snot and dried blood, her eyes are swollen, and there is a leaden weight on her chest. “But that’s not really for me to do, is it?”
Kitrina’s mind races. There’s more? Who will have the pleasure of torturing her next? Brad? Fangor? Macavity? The options leave her breathless with dread. The Scottish queen pushes herself off of the chair, giving Kitrina a long, odd stare. She turns and walks to the darkest corner of the warehouse, and suddenly Kit realizes someone has been watching them the whole time. She is too addled to recognize a scent, and her nose is too stuffed, her nervous system too over-stimulated to do anything besides shake and sob.
“Have fun, love.” Banshee growls, accent thick to the figure in the corner. She stalks, hips swaying, brow furrowed to the door, pushing it open to allow in enough bright sunshine so that Kitrina can recognize who was standing in the corner.
Banshee halts just outside the door, drinking in the sound of the horrified scream, finally looking satisfied. She briefly wonders if Chris will kill her.
Pascal waits by the door, doctors bag in tow. He stares hard at her.
“What the fuck do you want?” Banshee asks conversationally, good mood still firmly in place.
The doctor grimaces. “I still think ze nurse dress looked better on me”.
“Oh, fuck off.”
---
SORRY FOR MOLESTING YOUR CHARACTERS, Y'ALL.
BLAME ABT, THANKS.
---
The last thing she remembers is the pain. Indescribable pain. It seared across the back of her head for only a moment, in the midst of the screaming, and the fear, and the running and she has fallen into the dirt and into blessed unconsciousness.
She doesn’t know how long she’s been out, but the moment she opens her eyes, the pain returns. Not as sharp anymore, instead it is a long, slow, hot and steady throb. She becomes aware of a few things in rapid succession. One, that the room she is in is dark, save for a few slats of pale golden light creeping in around what appears to be a doorframe opposite her. Two, that she is bound to a recliner chair with rough leather straps that do not budge despite her weak protesting. And three, that someone else is in the room.
She struggles against her bonds, but she is weak and in pain. Her entire body feels tight and achey, covered in dried sweat. She can feel blood caked in her tangled hair, and at least one laceration across her right hip. Her mouth opens, but her throat is so dry that she can only muster a quiet rasp. The figure leaning against the wall seems to notice that she has awoken and slinks forward, in the darkness. The tied up queen can not tell much about the stranger, save for the fact it is a queen. The roll of her hips and the curve of her body betrays that much. Her head is so muddled she can not smell the other until it is far too late. She recognizes those golden eyes, and the joyless and pointed smile.
“Cooooooalieeee-“ Banshee sing-songs, stepping into place beside the chair. She is dressed, strangely, in an outfit reminiscent of a nurses. Short, tight, and accessorized with dagger-sharp heels and a white hat perched atop her pixie cut.
“-Looks like you need some fixing up.”
The funny thing about unadulterated terror is that it numbs pain. Adrenaline will do that to you. Her blood turns cold and she struggles harder against her bonds, feeling a pit of dread yawn wide in her stomach.
“No,” she manages to choke out, as the other queen crosses to the front of the chair.
Banshee arranges her cruel features into a look of mock sadness. “Ye’re not happy to see me? You break my heart, love.” She places one clawed hand on the arm of the chair and in one fluid movement, hoists herself up so she is straddling the bound queen. “It’s been a long time, Coalie. You were always such a fragile thing-“ Her eyes mist over, as if recalling some of her fondest memories. She draggs a hand off the arm of the chair and places it, fingers splayed, on Kitrina’s stomach “-you look so much better now,” agonizingly slowly, she walks her fingers up the grey queen’s chest, to the valley between her breasts, and finally to her neck. She stills, claws against the others throat and utters a throaty chuckle, leaning in low, speaking in a rough whisper “-and you know how I like to play rough.”
She digs a claw into the fabric of Kitrina’s already shredded shirt and rips it with one, long, screeching tear. The black fabric flutters away, decimated beneath the tabby’s claws. Banshee sits back on her haunches, staring appraisingly at the queen before her, as if eyeing a meal. “He always did say you has nice tits,” she hisses, and Kitrina knows who he is. Just that simple pronoun brings with it a flood of anguish. Hate boils in her veins now, counteracting the cold numbness of the terror. She wriggles again, harder, regaining some of her voice.
“You fucking cunt!-“ she spits, but Banshee claps a paw over her mouth, eyes suddenly wild, her smile widening horribly.
“Shhhh, Coalie. You’re hurt.” She leans back again, examining her nails in a businesslike way. “And sayin’ things you don’t mean ain’t gonna make me go away.”
Mind wildly racing, Kitrina begins to realize Banshee has changed since last she saw the tabby queen. Back when she had been in the gang, Kitrina had known Banshee to be a viper, all lean muscle and angry eyes. Easily irritated and enraged, every little thing causing her to snap, violently. Now, she is lush and lithe, those hard planes gone, leaving something far more frightening. She has a level head now, the hair-trigger temper replaced with cold and calculating precision. Trapped and terrified the grey queen summons every last ounce of will she has left to meet Banshee’s stare. “Get the fuck off of me.”
The tabby cocks her head to one side quizzically, smile still firmly in place. “Aw, now why would I do that?” She purrs, trailing her hand back down to rest just above the waistline of Kitrina’s jeans. “You used to scream so pretty for me,” she muses, before, without warning, digging all five claws into the soft, sensitive skin of Kitrina’s lower belly.
Her shriek echoes around the warehouse, loud and piercing and ending in a choked sob.
Banshee looks pleased, slides herself backwards along the chair, and lowers her head. From Kitrina’s perspective, the gesture looks almost intimate. Sexual. The tabby queen’s face, mouth, are so close to the juncture of Kit’s thighs. She begins to lap at the open wounds. The grey queen screws up her face, fighting off the piercing drags of pain she receives every time Banshee’s rough tongue runs over the punctures.
“Stop, please, please, stop.” The words are spoken in a tangled rush. All she knows is she will do anything to make the pain go away. Banshee eventually loses interests, or perhaps the flow of blood has been suitably staunched, because she raises her head and smiles a crimson-stained smile.
“You know,” She says pleasantly, “you haven’t changed a bit. You ain’t so skinny anymore, and you’ve grown up, but you’re exactly the same.”
Tears of helplessness prick at Kitrina’s eyes. She stares at the ceiling, wishing the horrible voice to go away.
“You’re still pathetic. You were running away, Coalie, when I found you. Like you always do. Ran away from us, and now running away from a tribe that took you in, even though…” She trails off, fingers finding the long scarred-over ‘M’ on Kit’s inner thigh.“-you’re branded. You still smell like fear and sweat and desperation. You’re still worthless.” She traces the mark with her claws, lowering her body again so she is hovering over Kitrina. “You’ll never be able to escape it, love. You’ll never be able to change.”
She rears back, looking self-satisfied. She runs a hand, almost tenderly up Kit’s side, eyes almost soft for a moment. She moves her hand to the center of the grey queens chest, claws slicing through the front of her bra as if it is paper. Kit balks, turning her head to the side, coloring in humiliation. The sudden exposure makes her feel even more vulnerable, as if she has been sliced open, her insides laid out for inspection.
The brown tabby leans down once more, running a claw up and down Kit’s sternum, a maddening smile in her yellow eyes. Her fingers finds a nipple and she tweaks it, violently, digging a claw into the soft flesh. Kit’s mouth opens in a soundless cry, her throat so ragged that the scream is silent. Fast as a cobra, Banshee grasps Kitrina by the throat, watching the grey queen ride out the stab of agony.
“I should rip your throat out with my teeth,” Her voice is ragged against Kitrina’s pulsing throat. Banshee pulled back to study Kitrina’s face for a moment, staring eyes so wide with fear that the whites showed all the way around. Her face is a mess of tears and snot and dried blood, her eyes are swollen, and there is a leaden weight on her chest. “But that’s not really for me to do, is it?”
Kitrina’s mind races. There’s more? Who will have the pleasure of torturing her next? Brad? Fangor? Macavity? The options leave her breathless with dread. The Scottish queen pushes herself off of the chair, giving Kitrina a long, odd stare. She turns and walks to the darkest corner of the warehouse, and suddenly Kit realizes someone has been watching them the whole time. She is too addled to recognize a scent, and her nose is too stuffed, her nervous system too over-stimulated to do anything besides shake and sob.
“Have fun, love.” Banshee growls, accent thick to the figure in the corner. She stalks, hips swaying, brow furrowed to the door, pushing it open to allow in enough bright sunshine so that Kitrina can recognize who was standing in the corner.
Banshee halts just outside the door, drinking in the sound of the horrified scream, finally looking satisfied. She briefly wonders if Chris will kill her.
Pascal waits by the door, doctors bag in tow. He stares hard at her.
“What the fuck do you want?” Banshee asks conversationally, good mood still firmly in place.
The doctor grimaces. “I still think ze nurse dress looked better on me”.
“Oh, fuck off.”
---
SORRY FOR MOLESTING YOUR CHARACTERS, Y'ALL.