First: A beginning of a story which obnoxiously cuts off just before the description,
Previous: In Which Amrit is Amazingly Eloquent.
Fae Apoc, approx. now.

This particular story contains kidnapping and slavery, bondage, and will eventually contain violence & Stockholm Syndrome.

The man in Mieve’s back seat – who she had nicknamed Fuck You, since that seemed to be the only words he knew – seemed to be having trouble with the hood. He was squirming, clearly trying to get out of the shackles and chains, and rubbing his head against the car seat like a cat, trying to dislodge the hood. It was buckled on; it wasn’t going to go anywhere.

“You might as well relax.” She pitched her voice louder than normal; the hood was very thick, designed to muffle sounds as well as light. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Uh oo.”

“I begin to see why they gagged you. Do you know any other words?”

“Uh oo eye-ay.“

“You certainly are eloquent.” The auction house hadn’t specifically said he’d been Kept already, Mieve knew – but the gall of them selling a fae slave they didn’t Own was pretty appalling. Then again, she’d just technically bought a fae slave she didn’t, by fae law at least, Own, so she couldn’t exactly throw stones.

“What am I going to do with you?”

“Uh aw.”

“Yes, it was a rather rhetorical question.” She glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “I don’t suppose you’d promise to behave within a set of agreed-on limits?”

“Uh aw.”

“So glad to see you’ve come up with a new phrase. Well, I guess it’s the gag and chains, then.” Without the gag, he could just Work himself free – or he could attack her. Without the chains, well, there was nothing to stop him from walking off.

And he was new, he had to be – he was all fight. Most of the slaves she’d bought before had been Kept for a while already, long enough that they needed compassion, gentle handling, and a place to calm down for a while.

This one – well, if she survived a year with him, it would be interesting to see what he turned out like.

He was still struggling back there. That if was beginning to look like a very, very big one.

“Here we are.”

It was, considering the current state of the roads and the need for some level of stealth in route choice, a three-hour drive to Mieve’s cabin. It had passed in silence; it wasn’t so much that Mieve didn’t like talking to herself – she did that enough, when she was alone in her cabin for too long – as that she didn’t like doing it with an audience, and she certainly didn’t like doing it with a peanut gallery whose only comments were (as far as she could tell) “Fuck you” and “fuck off.”

Now they were “home,” though, the wards safely reset, and she could unwrap her new present, see if he was willing to learn any words other than his favorite sets.

First she had to get him out of the car. He’d cooperated enough getting in, but now that they were away from Fineus the Whoremonger and the rest, he had planted his feet and ass and was refusing to get out of the car.

“There’s cold water and beer in the house,” Mieve coaxed. “You just have to get out of the car.”

He muttered something less comprehensible than normal and levered himself out, nearly kicking Mieve in the process. Once standing, he turned his hooded head left and right, as if trying to catch a scent or some sight through the thick cloth.

“This way.” He was likely to be nominally more docile still blinded, and Mieve had a feeling she would need every edge she could get. She steered him through the back door and got it shut and locked behind them, a weight coming off her shoulders as she threw the bolt. Her clearing was safe. Her cabin was a fortress.

And, of course, she’d just invited a tiger into her fort. Well, she’d done less wise things before, and lived to tell the tale.

Next: http://aldersprig.dreamwidth.org/887320.html

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