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whumpfessional · 2 years

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Dinner Party

As promised, the pain.

CW: Slavery, minor whump, just really awful people doing some shitty things, female whumper in additional to Balak, getting carved up with a knife, humiliation, lack of personal agency, alcohol, blood, flashbacks to being tattooed, branding reference

“Hey kid, Balak wants you in his quarters," Ghorek looked up from his omni-tool that had been playing last night’s big fight. The girl peeked out from where she was tucked in behind the pipes, hovering over a magazine that Ghorek had left around for her to read.

The work wasn’t constant in the engine room and Ghorek got fed up with the clanging after she had organized the supply room for the third time in one day. The next day she found a pile of Batarian engineering magazines, back dated three years ago but talking all about the latest models of ships.

It was pretty cool, lots of pictures, and she got up slower than she should have, tucking the magazine safely into her hiding spot. Some unknown anxiety tugged at her gut, wondering why he wanted her up there.

It was his right. It didn’t matter why. She shook the crazy questioning thoughts out of her head and headed out of the engine room door.

The girl shrunk into herself as she slipped around corridors, tightly tucking herself away from any eyes of others that might catch her. She knew the crew wasn’t happy she was here, though she had overheard Icarek saying that it was just jealousy. It was best to stay unseen.

Thankfully, she was in front of Balak’s door’s in no time and she knocked twice lightly before slipping inside, looking around for him.

The captain’s quarters were divided into two sections, a receiving area where a large table with two chairs had recently been set up and a separate small living quarters. The girl slipped towards the living quarters, where she spotted Balak rummaging through his closet. She coughed gently to alert him of her presence.

He didn’t turn to look, just started talking as he flipped through his small collection of clothes. “Alright. I have a guest coming for dinner in 2 hours. This is an important person, an associate of Aria T’Loak, and she’s interested in our work with arms smuggling.” The girl was pretty sure he was mostly talking to himself as he pulled out a top, holding it up to himself.

“Catering will be brought up and stored in the room next door. I need you to get this space clean and presentable before you serve the meal. Understand?” Balak finally looked up at her and she gave a quick nod. He turned back to his preening, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

The girl turned heel out of the room, concerned look on her face. Dinners were never fun. Balak always had to make a big impression. The guests always loved it, loved him. Long nights for her.

She left the quarters to grab some cleaning supplies from the storeroom down the hall. Her brain stormed over the idea of the mystery guest as she grabbed out some rags and cleaning sprays. It was a good thing they had cleaning bots because she was pretty sure she was the only one who used these.

Turning back to the room, she smacked face first into an incoming figure, cleaning products scattering to the floor. The girl thudded backwards, landing hard on her tailbone against the wall. Panicking, she crouched over, grabbing the bottles up from the ground.

Smack, her face collided with the floor as a heavy boot pressed down on her back. Her head is twisted to the side, facing the other booted foot.

“Hey kid,” Segar’s voice rumbled from above. “You got crap on my boot.” The girl twisted against her cheekbone being jammed into the metal floor to see the top of the other boot. A little cleaning product had spilled on it during the collision. Of course.

From her forced kneeling position, the girl reached around, feeling for one of the dropped rags. She scrambled for one with the tips of her fingers, catching its rough fabric and dragging her arm back up to twist around. The rag flopped over the top of the boot and she pulled it back and forth, revealing a clean surface.

The pressure on her head didn’t alleviate and panic began to grow in her throat, choking her as he pressed harder down.

“That’s not good enough, varren shit.” The pressure increases momentarially to an impossible amount before disappearing, leaving her feeling as if she was floating upwards. The allegedly filthy boot was stuck in her face. She hardened herself upon hearing the words: “lick it.”

The boot tasted of dirt and cleaner. It was rough against her tongue. She noticed these sensations passively, no longer an actor in the moment. Laughter sounded as three of the crew walked by. After that, the taste of salt tinged her mouth.

The boot was clean. She moved backwards slightly to look and rocketed back in pain, crying out as the boot tip impacted with her mouth.

The girl curled over, clutching at her mouth. Iron overwhelmed her senses, sharpness stabbing outwards from her lips. Delicately, she tested each of her teeth with her tongue, overly relieved that none had been knocked out or wiggled. The pain radiates outwards, spreading up her face and around the jaw, pulsing with her heartbeat. Her hand pulls back red.

A rag drops on her face as boot steps stomp away, though not before stopping to give her ribs a sharp jab. “Come polish them properly tonight!” He calls out as he walks away. “I want them done for tomorrow.”

The girl holds in a sob. Holds in her breath, holds in the pain. Takes it all in and pushes it down. Down through her body out the tips of her toes until she can’t feel it anymore.

And once it's pushed away, she pulls herself up. One hand holds the rag to her mouth. The other gathers the supplies, looping her fingers around the bottles in order to hold so many of them.

Somehow, she finds herself later, standing in the quarters. The table is set and beautiful. Any clutter has been stored away. The air smells very gently of some rare flower. Her hands won’t stop shaking. She holds onto rags so very tightly as she goes to get herself ready.

The girl has to represent the house well so she is allowed to use the room next door where the food is being set up to get ready. Sliding into the capsule bathroom, the girl hangs up the clothes she’d been given to wear, a simple short sleeved black button up and a loose pair of black pants. There are shoes as well, which she doesn’t usually wear, at least not back on planet.

The girl sees herself in the mirror. That can’t be her. Dried blood crusts at the corner of that girl’s mouth. She closes her eyes. It’s easier if that isn’t her. Let’s get someone else ready. Movements become mechanical as she works through the steps, finding herself tying back her hair neatly behind her nape. The girl in the mirror looked tired and the split lip wouldn’t stop weeping. The girl tucked a tissue in her pocket, dabbing at the blood on occasion.

She shook out the shirt, trying to get it on properly when something fell out of it to the floor. A black strip of leather, no wider than her thumb, with a buckle on the back. Her mind filled with a blinding static as she lifted it up to her neck, feeling it rest on her throat as she fastened the buckle.

The girl looked down at her body, unsure if it was her own. Her fingers wiggled when she told them too. As did her toes. But they didn’t feel like hers.

She went to standby for their arrival. Drinks were premade, chilling on ice. The girl stood still, tucked in her corner of the room. She counted ceiling panels. She already knew that there was 64 but she counted again anyways. Then she counted them backwards. Then every other tile. Every third tile. That one wasn’t divisible properly which annoyed her slightly.

The girl was about to move on to counting the connective joints on the chairs when the door slid open, Balak’s loud tones filling the room to capacity.

“-glad to have you with us this evening,” He continued, leading his companion into the room. The girl quickly prepared the drinks, delivering tall flutes filled with a sparkling golden pink liquid, first to Balak and then to the guest.

The Asari woman was one of the most beautiful people the girl had ever seen. She wore a stunning black dress that reflected back the light in a multitude of colours. The girl’s eyes only briefly glanced at her face as she served the beverages but it was enough for her cheeks to flush slightly as she slipped back into her position by the wall.

The night passed. Balak talked. The guest talked. They spoke of names and places that the girl had no sense of. They switched to an Asari liquor as the night proceeded, small glasses of a vicious purple liquid that accompanied the courses that had been brought into the ship.

The night was smooth for the girl. Serve from the right, remove from the left. Keep the glasses full. Watch for the twitch of Balak’s fingers for the next course.

The night dragged itself onwards. The girl’s feet ached from the slightly too tight shoes. It was hard keeping stock still and relief washed over her as she saw Balak signal for the final course. She cleared the plates delicately, ensuring that no noise or clatter interrupted their conversation.

When she came back in with the final dishes, the girl noticed that something had changed in the room. Balak was more rigid, the Asari leaned backwards from the table. She slipped through the tension, placing the plates delicately in front of them.

“Girl.” Balak spoke before she could slip backwards into nothingness. She froze, nerves on fire as she turned back to him slowly. “What is this?”

Every particle of her being screamed as she stepped closer to him, following his finger to where it pointed to his plate. There was a small drop of red on the dish. She lifted her hand up in horror to her lip, touching the split in her and pulling her finger away to reveal red. Her eyes flashed up in horror towards Balak’s face, who had come to the same conclusion.

A hand grappled her hair and slammed her face down into the table, clattering plates with the force of it. The girl’s legs crumpled out from underneath her as she slumped to the ground. Heat and pain filled her face as she froze on the floor, gathering herself for what was to come. Stupid, idiot, birajuu, varren shit. She sniffed, swallowing down blood that was starting to trickle out her nose, tasting familiar iron and salt.

“Apologize to my guest.” Balak ordered, resting back where he sat. The girl shifted herself to a prostrated position, head bent down to the floor. Her forehead throbbed as she pressed it against the cold floor, grateful to be able to hide her face.

“I’m very sorry for ruining your dinner,” the girl whispered into the anticipatory silence of the room. “What I did was inexcusable. I-“ she stuttered over the words, “I accept any consequences that may result from this.”

The silence stretched for a beat, two beats, before the asari let out the most beautiful tinkling laugh. “Oh my, Ka’hairal.” She could hear the asari shift in her seat, “that’s fantastic. Did you plan that?” The girl felt a soft hand stroke her hair before pulling her head up gently. The asari looked down on her from where she was sitting. “You must tell me where you got it.”

Balak’s chest puffed from where he sat, tension breaking as he got to talk about his creation, “You’ve got to get them young. That way they don’t know anything else.” The girl could feel the hungry eyes on her from both sides, the appraising gaze of the woman in front of her, the constant burning threat from behind.

“So, Tristana,” Balak broke the silence, getting up to move closer to the asari woman, “the girl offered consequences. What do you think?”

The asari broke away from her examination, turning to look up at Balak. “Seriously?” The girl shivered where she knelt at the glee that crept into the woman’s voice. “What are the limits?” The hand left her head as Tristana turned all her attention to Balak.

The shoes the woman wore were gorgeous, the girl thought to herself as she let the sounds of haggling pass over her head, eyes dragging downwards as the attention left her. A black material laced its way across and over, stretching up to secure the ankle.

Balak’s hand clamping tightly in her shoulder, pulling her back upwards. He pulled her slightly towards him. “Tristana, that’s a punishment for me, not her.” His voice had hardened. The fingers dug in tighter and she had to force herself to stay still, to not pull away. “She still belongs to me.”

Tristana looked at him with curiosity, a thought forming behind her eyes. “What if,” she stood up from the chair, rising to full height, “I help you out with the project you mentioned earlier?” She reached out and tapped his lapel with her pointer finger, “Get the right messages out to the right people.”

The girl involuntarily gasped as the fingers clenched inwards, bruising the muscle. Balak stared back at the woman. The room was still for a moment before the hand relaxed off of the girl’s shoulder, shaking out slightly as it landed casually at his side. Balak let out a bark of laughter, grinning slyly at the Asari.

“You are good at this.” The girl could tell the grin had too many teeth. It could cut. ��Where?”

“The face.” Tristana provided quickly, matching Balak’s sharpness. He simply rolled his eyes, all four of them gazing upwards.

The asari turned down to the girl, appraising glare scanning her form.

It was impossible to meet her gaze. The girl’s eyes blurred as she stared into the mid-distance. The words broke through nonetheless.

“Okay, what about the chest?”

“No. Legs.”

“No way, too hidden.” The asari walked around her, “what about the back?”

Balak tipped his head to the left, “Fine.” He chuckled slightly. “If you can find a spot.” The girl saw him reach for his belt out of the corner of her eye, yanking out a decorative dagger and offering it over.

The asari already held a thin blade in her hand l, it was unclear where it had come from, and waved away Balak’s offer breezily, spinning the dagger lightly. “Ka’hairal, get it to apologize again.” She slipped close in and the girl couldn’t stop herself from shivering, feeling the change in air brush the back of her neck.

Balak cleared his throat and the girl opened her mouth to speak before a hand pulled the leather around her neck tightly from behind.

Words died in her throat as panic overwhelmed her mind. Heartbeat raced, pounding against the throng cutting into her windpipe. She couldn’t fight. She couldn’t run. Her body shook where she knelt, limbs burning as adrenaline blazed through her veins.

A familiar hand landed on the top of her head, pulling back on the hair to tilt the head upwards. It twisted tightly, the pain pulling the girl back from the fuzziness of complete panic.

“I-I- -“ the girl stuttered, “I apol-pologize,” a shiver tore up her spine as she felt the tip of the dagger rest at the base of her neck, resting above the collar of her shirt. “f-for ruining y-your-ai!” The sentence was interrupted by a sharp intake of air as the dagger slid impossibly sharp down her back, slicing the shirt straight down the back, leaving it hanging off of her shoulders.

Tristana let out a low whistle upon seeing her back. “No wonder she’s so well behaved.” The girl felt the tip of the dagger lightly drag down the long scar slashing across her back. “You send your server into battle?” Tristana’s tone bordered on incredulous as the girl sensed her turn up to Balak.

The girl felt the shrug from the hand still resting on her head. “I never said she was my server-“ was all he provided before he leaned over to look for himself. “There isn’t a lot of room that will scar nicely. Maybe here?” His finger rested below her rib cage on the left side of her back.

The girl noticed how tightly her hands were clenched. It ached to stretch them out, revealing crescent indents pressed into her palms.

Tristana tisked, tilting her head over to the side. “I think I’ll go vertically here.” The dagger lightly dragged down her right shoulder blade, sensitive unscarred skin spasming from the unexpected sensation. The hand resting near her neck gave a tug. “Start again.”

The girl swallowed heavily, “I apologize for ru-“ She sharply inhaled as the dagger sliced into the skin of her back, slowly dragging through her back, “for ruining yo-your dinner.” She sucked in air as a second line bisected the first, curving downwards. Her hands balled back into fists on her lap as she tried to breathe through the sharpness. The burning radiated outwards from the cuts, limiting her ability to imagine their shape.

“What I did was-“ a keen broke out from between her lips as the blade plunged downwards once more. The hand tightened on her head and she bit down on her lip inside, keeping as still as possible as the asari woman dug the blade deeply into her back. She tried to arch away involuntarily but the hand looped under the collar around her neck prevented her from pulling away fully.

“What I did was-“ The girl struggled to form the words as the burning overtook the right side of her back. She could feel the warm blood began to trail down her back from the carvings. A sob built in her throat as the woman began another section, tearing out of her as the blade caught on a knot of sinew.

“I’m sorry!” The words tore out of her as her head dropped forward, tears rolling down her face. “Pl-please, please!” She begged, the words increasing in pitch as the knife continued down her back. Her body shook, from the adrenaline, the need to stay still, from the nauseating waves of pain rippling off of her back.

“-please,” she whimpered, “I’m sorry.” Her lip had opened up and the taste of blood mixed with the salt of her tears and sweat. The girl’s body spasmed as Tristana sliced in a final flourish, leaning backwards to inspect her work. The familiar hand lifted off of her head, as did the tightness release from around her throat.

The trickle of blood down her back triggered a shiver to ripple up her spine as she felt the gaze of the two of them on her. Her chest heaved as she struggled for breath.

“Not bad,” Balak commented as Tristana rose to her feet. She wiped the blade on the remains of the girl’s shirt, enjoying the flinch that accompanied the pressure. “Shall we?” He returned to his seat at the table, the asari moving away to rejoin him, slipping the dagger into whatever hidden place it had come from.

There was a snap, an indication that there were drinks to be filled, tasks to be done. One deep breath, that’s all she dares to take for herself before pushing one foot underneath her. Exhale, push upwards. Her vision went black for a moment but she kept moving, trusting her feet.

Her right arm screamed as she attempted to lift it to grab the bottle and she grabbed it instead with the left. Inhale, lift, exhale, walk to the table, inhale, lift, pour on the quiet between breaths, don’t let your hand shake, why do they make these glasses so small, exhale, lower. Repeat.

Her back throbbed as she moved, blood streaming down. The top of her pants absorbed most of it but as she walked back to her corner, a loud drip splattered on the floor. She froze but the conversation continued behind her, ignoring the mess.

She bent to lean in, biting down on her lip to silence the pain of the cuts on her back widening. Conversation continued. It didn’t matter.

Time stretched as she stood stock still against the wall. God, this dinner was never going to end. The shaking faded as the throbbing dulled, though every shift in weight sends spikes of pain across her back. They kept drinking, talking.

And she found herself hating them. She hated their smirks and their laughs and how fucking witty and clever they thought they were. The girl felt disgust, watching the two of them as blood dried against her skin, cracking and pulling when she emptied the last of the bottle into Tristana’s glass. It was hard not to recoil at the hungry grin that was flashed back at her.

She couldn’t hate them, she tried to reason. She couldn’t hate Balak. He had done everything for her. She could have ended up in any number of hellholes that enslaved humans could find themselves in. She was fed, clothed, even taught. The privilege was immeasurable.

They stood to leave and she bowed, tilting her gaze to the floor. Tristana said something, her tinkling laugh following it but the girl flinched at the sound. Her ears weren’t working, the blood pounded too loudly against her ear drums.

She prayed she hadn’t missed anything as the door closed behind the two of them. The girl maintained her position, counting down from sixty in her head. The count passed. Nothing moved. Slowly, she drew herself upwards.

Clean. She had to clean. Her body screamed at her to pause, to slump against the wall and curl onto the ground. Her stomach twisted with nausea as she began to clear their plates. The cuts pulled as she reached across the table.

A long exhale. Release the pain. The anger that she had felt before flashed through her and recklessly, she grabbed Balak’s still half full glass, draining the sweet, burning liquor. It tasted of flowers and iron and of consequences for breaking the rules but the girl couldn’t bring herself to care as she straightened the room, returning it to its pre-dinner state.

She was in the bathroom in the smaller room. She didn’t remember getting here but here she was.

The girl looked out through the mirror and recoiled at what she saw. The shirt hung off her and the mere act of slouching forward caused it to fall to the ground.

Eyes locked on each other. The girl in the mirror seems to know something that she doesn’t. So the girl, the flesh and bone and blood girl, turns slowly.

The slices are ringed in red and beginning to crust, though some of the larger ones still bear a wetness. The girls vision blurred for a moment as she fell forward, catching herself desperately against the sink.

Ragged breaths haul themselves out of her, her knuckles are white as they grip the counter.

It was Asari words. Lines and looping circles, satelliting dots.

I’ve been branded, was her only thought as the image of her destroyed back flooded her mind. Tears welled up, hot and overflowing spilling out onto her cheeks. The girl bit down on her fist, determined to not make a sound. I’ve been branded. He let her brand me.

She shook, hunched over in the tiny space. Her forehead fell forward to rest against the mirror. Sobs fogged the mirror, blurring the other girl.

Flashes flickered past her eyes, the first tattoo digging in, scraping across such a small hand. Kneeling by the fire. The smell of burning flesh and the iron grip, unable to run. The needle stabbing into the scarred skin, sending sharp jabs up damaged nerves to fire in her brain.

But that was for Balak. He had just let her… let her mark her. A louder sob hiccuped out of her and the girl knocked her head against the mirror.

This was not her breaking point. This was not going to break her. She dug her hands tightly into fists as she forced herself upwards, roughly wiping away tears and snot on the back of her fist. She had been through worse. There was worse to come but she would not break.

The girl forced herself into the shower, gritting her teeth against the sharpness from her back being cleaned.

Her actions grew automated. Step out, put on jumpsuit, pull back hair, put away nice clothes. Make sure catering supplies are organized to be removed. Return to engine room.

Survive.

#circe story #circe #balak #minor whump #slave whump #slavery #whump #segar #creepy whumpers #knife #blood #flashbacks to tattoos #branding reference #tristana #beating

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whumpfessional · 2 years

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Transitions

Pt 7 of Circe’s Story, other parts in Masterpost.

Very much a transition scene, I'm very excited to be taking this story to a new setting for the next while.

It's space time, babes!

CW: Slavery, minor whump, branding reference, illness/fever, slavery, space travel, hand whump reference

Sweat drenched her blankets as the girl was wrenched from sleep. Burning radiated up her arm from her hand and she bit down on her lip as it brushed against the rough blanket.

Someone was helping her upright and placing a cool cup into her palms. It was being lifted to her mouth. Voices began to come into focus:

“-got to get up. He’s calling for you.”

“We already packed everything.”

Clear water slipped between her lips and cleared the gunk from her mouth.

Her hand burned. How long had it been?

She was being pulled to her feet. Her eyes cracked open to see the steward directing the driver to lift her up. Okay

“-wanted to leave as soon as possible. The maids already packed all of his supplies but you’ll have to make sure they get unpacked and organized.” The steward instructed as they made their way to the garage. The compound was weirdly silent; the loud noises and shouts of the streets trickling over the high walls.

Focus. She was receiving instructions, she had to focus.

“While you were sleeping, the tracking chip was inserted. Keep an eye that it doesn’t get infected.” The odd group reached the door leading to the garage.

Her bare feet brushed the cold ground as she was lowered gently by the driver. The steward handed the bag over and they stood in silence, staring at each other.

The steward broke the pause by placing his hand on her shoulder. The girl flinched but it rested lightly, warm through her shirt. He went to speak, opening and closing his mouth a couple times but nothing came out. Instead, he nodded to the driver and stalked back down the hallway.

—

The air shuttle ride was short. Her entrance into the shuttle went unacknowledged, probably for the best, and she busied herself with quietly pulling on boots and a knit sweater from the bag.

There was also a set of overalls, extra socks, and a couple spare plain shirts. It was made of heavier materials than she was used to.

Dawning realization struck her watching the city slip away as they neared the port.

She was going to space. The fear and adrenaline swept over her, sending her trembling on the metal bench at the back.

It was just her. Alone on a ship. With all of them.

Balak barked on a call in the front seat, knocking back answers to organizational questions. Despite his tone, there was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

He had wanted this for so long. A ship, a crew. A fighting force. A shutter ran up her spine.

The driver left on Balak’s orders, leaving her alone on the noisy docks. Collared humans heaved cargo onto the ship as they approached, an ant like procession. The girl averted her eyes as they stepped on board the ship, making their way up the ramp.

It was a sizable vessel with multiple decks and large guns mounted on the exterior. Balak was familiar with the ship, she determined, as she followed him down a corridor with unmarked doors. They stopped in front of one with a keypad and he stepped slightly to the side so that she could see the code imputed.

8-2-7-3-1

The girl repeated it to herself over and over in her mind as she stepped in to look at the quarters. Her finger ached from where Balak had snapped it last time she had had to ask.

Packing cases were set all over the room. Trained eyes swept the room, clocking bed, table, storage area, terminal work space.

It was small. Functional. Balak looked around with a sniff before huffing and stalking out of the room. “Fix it up.” He called behind him, his first words spoken to her today.

The door hissed shut. The hollowness of the ship echoed around her. They might’ve been on the ground but she could have well been in a black hole.

But soon the clanging and shouting began to trickle in. And orders always helped against the doom. She had an order, she knew what to do.

It was easy to turn off her thinking when she got orders. Crates were opened. Things were organized.

Her hand burned. The liquid fire ache streaked up the veins in her arm until her shoulder pulsed and burned. The skin was hot and puckered and she avoided looking at it but she saw it with each crisply folded shirt she put away, every package she sliced open.

At least she was right handed. She worked hard on thinking how lucky she was as the engines burned and rumbled, pressure increasing momentarily before the gravity systems kicked online.

There was a window in the lounge area. The girl watched as the only world she had known pulled away. The desert region turned into a swath of yellow as they pulled away from the planet and soon the ship had turned so that all she could see was the inky void flecked with small pixels of light.

The engines thrummed. She released a breath. The ship hadn’t exploded. It hadn’t crumbled or torn to shred in the atmosphere.

She lived to die another day. She was lucky.

#circe story #circe #balak #minor whump #slave whump #slavery #whump #branding reference #hand whump reference

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