Chara(s): A Scion of a Noble Line (OC)
Fandom: Org Fic – Fae Apoc xover
Prompt: “Human” Shield
This continues a series of stories taking place in my universe, Fae Apoc, at the time just before the aforementioned apoc. Portals are opening up to one other world at that time, and in this story, well, they happen to open up into a whole BUNCH of worlds.
And from those worlds, a bunch of poor soon-to-be-victims-of-bad-things who bear some resemblances to fandom characters happen to slip through some portals. And then bad things happen to them, because that, after all, is the name of the Bingo.
Content warnings for the series: violence, death, bondage, capture, drugging, visions. For this story: violence, wounds, loss of choice, humiliation.
This is probably Falco from this story.
A. Author’s Note, repeated
Author’s note: In the universe in which this is set (My Fae Apoc ‘verse), for fae, saying “I belong to you” ties one into a binding Belonging of obedience and affection. Scion below isn’t QUITE a fae, so it doesn’t work quite the same for him, but he’s still dealing with the emotional parts of it as the universe tries to figure out what he is, and the obedience is pressing hard on our poor boy.
Nobody here knew who he was.
At first, he’d taken that as a plus. His family line, the thing he’d been so proud of, had fallen miserably in the war, chosen the wrong side and then, much to his horror and frustration, not even been all that good at being on that wrong side.
When the bright light had opened in the middle of their living room, he’d been half-certain that it was an assassin, here to finish the job that the Dark One hadn’t bothered to do.
Now he was collared in steel and naked and without any of the accoutrements of either his magic or his family line, and he was being dragged along by a leash. Dragged. He stumbled again, the ground unfamiliar under his feet and the pressure on his neck weird.
His owner – Owner! – but he’d watched her pay the purchase price for him and he’d watched the magic slide here and there as it took control of him – stopped and grabbed his shoulder. His hands were still bound, though what she thought he could do, he had no idea.
“If you cannot walk, you will crawl. And if you cannot crawl, you will be dragged. Do you understand?”
He cleared his throat, considered an arrogant answer, and found that it would not cross his lips. He raised his chin and looked her in the eyes. “I understand, Lady-?”
There. He had asked it very politely.
She squeezed his shoulder tighter, until he thought she meant to break the bones with her surprisingly strong little fingers. “Candelaria Tobias,” she hissed, “but you will call me mistress.”
So he was to be a house-servant. Well, considering how far everything else in the family had fallen, he supposed he could still take it as a small grace that his father didn’t seem to be in this world to see this humiliation. “Yes, mistress. I understand.”
She was nervous, he realized; he didn’t know why, but she was dragging him down this abandoned street – the abandoned was another small grace, because he was still wearing nothing but the bloody collar – as if there were les demens chasing them. So he walked, as proudly and as smoothly as he could when she would turn and jerk at his leash, tug at him and grab his wrist as if he wasn’t moving just as fast as she was. “I said move,” she would hiss, and he would move a little faster, biting his tongue on the urge to snap at her that he was barefoot and the pavement here was horrible, that there was broken glass he was trying to avoid, that she was being particularly ridiculous when she was moving slower than he was capable of moving if she would just stop tugging.
None of that was going to do any good, so the next time she released his arm, he tucked his hands behind his back like he was being good and submissive, like she seemed to want, and walked as fast as he could, picking around the broken bits of glass and metal that littered this nasty back street.
When she stopped dead, he was so busy picking his footing that he nearly ran into her. Since he’d been told – ordered – not to touch her, his body conveniently stopped itself before he hit her.
He was still trying to get his balance back when she grabbed him and, in a move that left him flinching from orders he couldn’t obey while his brain was trying to sort out why he cared, shoved him in front of her.
He was naked, he wanted to protest, but he also wanted to protest that he wasn’t supposed to be touching her and now his whole body was pressed against her, her arm was pressed against his throat –
– and, more importantly, there was a man, no, three men in front of them, and they all looked very angry. One of them was carrying – was that a mundane gun? Oh, no, it was pointed at him now. That bitch.
He tried to open his mouth, to say anything at all in complaint, but the woman’s bony arm was pressed very firmly against his windpipe and she was slowly backing him up like that.
“Let the boy go and come with us and there won’t be any trouble.” The one speaking was wearing some sort of uniform. Was she in trouble – well, of course she was in trouble; was she in legal trouble? Could he use that?
Would she stop touching him so he could think for a few minutes?
The policeman was looking at him. “Look, if you just run, we won’t go looking. St. Vincent’s on Church Street. They’ll have something for you to wear.” He gestured in the direction.
“Don’t you dare move. You’re mine, remember that. You’re mine, and you will be mine until the day you die.” The woman kept hissing, but the words were no longer in English, nor were they in any spell-casting language he recognized.
It seemed like the policemen, however, did recognize the language. He heard one of them mutter sorry before all three of them opened fire on him.
One of the bullets ripped through his shoulder with a pain like being lit on fire. The second one nicked his ear as it went into his owner’s face. The third one didn’t hit him at all.
She went down to the ground, still holding him, pulling him over her. He stumbled and landed hard, struggling to stop touching her, to get off of her, but her arm was still pressed against his throat.
The policeman pushed him aside with a booted foot that still seemed not all that unkind. “Sorry for this,” he murmured, and put five more bullets into the woman beneath him.
His ears were ringing and his body was twitching, trying to protect the woman, trying to –
he was bleeding. He was bleeding like he hadn’t bled – like he hadn’t bled since he’d been cursed, leaking red all over –
her orders were gone. He grabbed the collar with both hands and yanked at it, pulling, trying to get the damn thing off of him, but for some reason every bit of magic he knew was gone and the damn thing was locked.
He was still trying to pull the damn thing off of himself when he passed out.