JustPrompts: Plead
Jan. 19th, 2009 12:21 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fey_firePlead
Takes place a little more than a week after Pippa (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sand_andwater) leaves, shortly after this phone conversation, and references events of the night Rory and his brothers rescued her.
Rory dropped into bed, weary more from the workout his emotions had gotten than from his day's riding. His phone conversation with Pippa had been awkward ... all right, painful. But they had talked, and no doors had been slammed shut between them. That had to count for something.
Having spoken with her that morning, it was natural enough for him to slip into a dream of his redheaded once-lover as he drifted off to sleep. Pippa, warm in his arms, soft to his lips and sweet to his tongue as he teased and tasted her in that very bed. She moaned her pleasure, begging him to keep going, just like that, don't ever stop. He knew it was a dream and let his senses submerge in it as he sank into her, so beautiful, so yielding. His for this moment, at least.
But in the next moment, everything changed.
The bed was no longer his, the room no longer in his apartment. Instead he lay on green brocade, in a dim room surrounded by speakers that poured out a strangely dissonant music, on top of a woman who was most definitely not Pippa. Hair bleach-blonde instead of red, skin tan instead of fair, and green eyes filled with stark horror and tears, surrounded by bruises.
And her voice, forced out through puffed and split lips, pleading with him to stop, please stop, let me go ...
One of his hands gripped her by the throat while the other backhanded her across the face – no. Not his hands. Not Rory's. A voice snarled Shut up, you stupid whore. Not Rory's voice.
His. Larch's.
Roiling nausea filled him, Rory, as the voice went on. I'm just giving you what you wanted when you came home with me. That's why bitches like you go to clubs, isn't it? That's why you do the fake hair dye, the fake tan and the fake colored contacts. All of you, so fucking fake, and all out to get fucked. You disgust me.
Another blow, harder this time. A sob. Rory reeled as full understanding struck its own blow. He was trapped in a memory, one out of all the horror he'd accidentally absorbed from John Larch that night at Last Call. He was looking at one of Larch's victims through the bastard's eyes, listening to her beg through his ears, inhaling the fear-stench through his nostrils. No, God no please, let me out, get him out, I have to wake up, let me wake up--
And of course that's why you get the fake tits, Larch continued, grabbing one of the woman's full breasts and squeezing savagely, laughing at the resultant shriek. At least these sure as hell look fake. But hey, I can always find out, can't I?
All sound from the woman abruptly choked off as her terrorized eyes followed the hand that reached to one side. An animal whine escaped her when that hand returned brandishing a knife.
Rory's pleas echoed the woman's, no, please God, stop, don't hurt-- He kept begging as the wickedly sharp blade descended to carve a bloody gash in one round breast. She screamed, a noise to tear her own throat.
Rory screamed – and woke.
He lay there, chest heaving, mouth washed with the metallic taste of adrenalin. For long moments he fought to shake off the traces of nightmare, no sound but the pounding of his heart in his ears. He felt the sweat-drenched sheets tangled around him and something else ... something warm on his chest.
When he looked down he saw faint shimmering lines tracing the contours of his ward, the protective medallion Tadhg made for him. Had it woken him, or was it simply keeping his screams from drawing the neighbors' attention?
He didn't know. He couldn't care. Curling on one side, he let the tears trickle from the corners of his eyes and made no attempt to wipe them away. “God,” he whimpered, “Merciful God, please, please help me ...”
Only silence answered.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 675
Takes place a little more than a week after Pippa (
sand_andwater) leaves, shortly after this phone conversation, and references events of the night Rory and his brothers rescued her.Rory dropped into bed, weary more from the workout his emotions had gotten than from his day's riding. His phone conversation with Pippa had been awkward ... all right, painful. But they had talked, and no doors had been slammed shut between them. That had to count for something.
Having spoken with her that morning, it was natural enough for him to slip into a dream of his redheaded once-lover as he drifted off to sleep. Pippa, warm in his arms, soft to his lips and sweet to his tongue as he teased and tasted her in that very bed. She moaned her pleasure, begging him to keep going, just like that, don't ever stop. He knew it was a dream and let his senses submerge in it as he sank into her, so beautiful, so yielding. His for this moment, at least.
But in the next moment, everything changed.
The bed was no longer his, the room no longer in his apartment. Instead he lay on green brocade, in a dim room surrounded by speakers that poured out a strangely dissonant music, on top of a woman who was most definitely not Pippa. Hair bleach-blonde instead of red, skin tan instead of fair, and green eyes filled with stark horror and tears, surrounded by bruises.
And her voice, forced out through puffed and split lips, pleading with him to stop, please stop, let me go ...
One of his hands gripped her by the throat while the other backhanded her across the face – no. Not his hands. Not Rory's. A voice snarled Shut up, you stupid whore. Not Rory's voice.
His. Larch's.
Roiling nausea filled him, Rory, as the voice went on. I'm just giving you what you wanted when you came home with me. That's why bitches like you go to clubs, isn't it? That's why you do the fake hair dye, the fake tan and the fake colored contacts. All of you, so fucking fake, and all out to get fucked. You disgust me.
Another blow, harder this time. A sob. Rory reeled as full understanding struck its own blow. He was trapped in a memory, one out of all the horror he'd accidentally absorbed from John Larch that night at Last Call. He was looking at one of Larch's victims through the bastard's eyes, listening to her beg through his ears, inhaling the fear-stench through his nostrils. No, God no please, let me out, get him out, I have to wake up, let me wake up--
And of course that's why you get the fake tits, Larch continued, grabbing one of the woman's full breasts and squeezing savagely, laughing at the resultant shriek. At least these sure as hell look fake. But hey, I can always find out, can't I?
All sound from the woman abruptly choked off as her terrorized eyes followed the hand that reached to one side. An animal whine escaped her when that hand returned brandishing a knife.
Rory's pleas echoed the woman's, no, please God, stop, don't hurt-- He kept begging as the wickedly sharp blade descended to carve a bloody gash in one round breast. She screamed, a noise to tear her own throat.
Rory screamed – and woke.
He lay there, chest heaving, mouth washed with the metallic taste of adrenalin. For long moments he fought to shake off the traces of nightmare, no sound but the pounding of his heart in his ears. He felt the sweat-drenched sheets tangled around him and something else ... something warm on his chest.
When he looked down he saw faint shimmering lines tracing the contours of his ward, the protective medallion Tadhg made for him. Had it woken him, or was it simply keeping his screams from drawing the neighbors' attention?
He didn't know. He couldn't care. Curling on one side, he let the tears trickle from the corners of his eyes and made no attempt to wipe them away. “God,” he whimpered, “Merciful God, please, please help me ...”
Only silence answered.
Muse: Rory MacEibhir / Rory Stone
Fandom: The Grey Horse by R.A. MacAvoy
Word count: 675
