#marlow lancaster: wildcat

[ocean-blue-whump]

Tired Eyes and Broken Bones

Marlow Lancaster: Wildcat Masterlist

Tagging @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: lady whump, exhaustion, broken bones

***

Marlow glances up at the woman behind the coffee shop counter, hiding her bruised face underneath the hood of her sweatshirt. “Um, drip coffee with five shots of espresso please.”

The barista seems a little taken aback, but she nods and puts it into her register. “Anything else I can get for you?”

“Yeah, uh…” Marlow rubs her face, blinking rapidly. She’s tired. She’s so fucking tired. “Can I get two of those?”

“Two drip coffees with five shots of espresso each. Your total is twelve dollars and seventy eight cents.”

Marlow fishes in her pocket and pulls out a handful of cash and coins, passing it over to the barista. “Do you know what day of the week it is?”

The woman doesn’t glance up from counting out the bills and change. “Today’s Saturday. It’s about…five in the afternoon.”

“Thanks.” When the barista holds out the change, she shakes her head. “Keep it.” 

She smiles and nods. “Thanks. Drinks will be at the end of the counter.” 

Marlow starts walking that way, her head racing. Saturday afternoon…the last time she slept was Wednesday night. Been up since Thursday, four in the morning. She’s not even capable of doing the math of how long that is. But she has to keep going. Rico let her out of training to go grab coffee before her fight. If you can call it training. 

He held her head underwater and then yanked her out and had someone attack her. She was barely on her guard, the man caught her right in the ribs. She learned not to make any mistakes after six or seven times. She knows better now. 

Rico hasn’t gone easy on her. It’s hours and hours of training, hours and hours of getting beat up in all sorts of ways. And still, he thinks she’s not ready for a big fight. She has a small one tonight, and she’s grateful for it. She doesn’t think she’d last a big fight. 

Rico had given her a break from training, and she tried to go to the library and study, but she felt herself drifting off at her desk. He’d kill her if she slept. It’s just one more night. She can make it one more night. She has to. 

The barista passes Marlow her two cups of coffee, and Marlow heads down the street towards the arena. She finishes both cups of coffee before she gets there. 

Marlow takes five in the alleyway by the building, leaning against the brick wall and catching her breath. The caffeine is kicking in, hopefully it’ll last her until tomorrow morning. She just needs to breathe. She just needs to get herself under control before Rico sees. There’s a reason he’s making her do this, right? There has to be a reason. It’ll make her a better fighter. She’ll be strong. She’ll show the world who she is and what she’s capable of. 

No one’s going to hurt her again. 

Back inside the arena, she heads right to the locker room and stores her jacket. Rico is probably waiting for her in his training room, and she really doesn’t want to piss him off. Marlow makes her way to the room. 

“How’d your break go?” Rico asks as she walks in, setting down his book. “You’re three minutes late.” 

“Sorry. Had trouble getting back.” Marlow cracks her knuckles and bounces on her toes, trying to hide how jacked up on caffeine she is. She’s still tired. She’s so fucking tired. “So what’s next? Or can I just warm up before I’m on?”

“I’m having a friend look after you tonight. Kovacevic. If you do well with me, you’ll be working for him soon too.” Rico stands up and pats the balance beam. “Up on this.”

Marlow gracefully jumps up in one smooth movement, landing on her toes. He’s been having her practice a lot of gymnastics skills, more than she ever thought necessary. None of the other coaches do this, but Rico does. Or at least, he does it to her. Marlow doesn’t normally mind, but she’s so tired. She can barely keep her balance on the thin beam with all the caffeine and the exhaustion. 

“Just…walk around, do some cartwheels. You know the drill. Listen, Marlow. Just a little bit, and then I’ll get the mitts and go through some punching drills with you. I’m doing this to test your agility. I know you’re tired. I know today was hard and I wasn’t the nicest, but everything I do is because I believe in you. Everything I do is because I think you’ve got a good shot at success here.” Rico smiles at her and pats her leg. “So suck it up, Wildcat. Make me proud.”

Marlow takes a deep breath and nods. He’s right. She has to get better even if it hurts, even if she struggles. She carefully does a lap on the balance beam before she thinks she’s stable enough to try a cartwheel. 

Her foot barely lands on the beam. She’s shaking from how tired is, the caffeine isn’t even helping. But still, she stands up and straightens her back. Okay. A few more steps to the end of the beam and she turns around. A few quick steps and she flips forward, trying to land her front flip. 

Her foot slips. Her foot slips and her heart skips but she lands it at the last minute, hunched over and terrified but still, upright. Fuck. “R-Rico, I don’t think this is a good idea,” she stammers out. “I don’t feel well…I…”

“Shut up, Wildcat.” His voice is light but his eyes tell a different story. “Stop being a bitch and just do what I fucking told you to.”

Marlow looks away. She has to do this. He can’t think she’s weak. She takes a moment for herself, visualizing the beam, and then turns around so she can perform a backflip. She can do this. She has to show Rico that he made the right choice with her. 

She throws herself into it and knows her balance is off right away. Her foot slips on the balance beam, and while the rolled ankle hurts, it’s nothing compared to the pain that shoots through her hand when she lands on it. 

Marlow screams and jolts up, clutching her wrist. Her fingers are twisted and throbbing and already bruising, she can prod around and feel her broken bones. Tears form in the corners of her eyes, she looks at Rico pitifully. “M-my hand…hurts…fuck, why can’t I just go to sleep?”

Rico leans down and grabs Marlow’s broken wrist, making her cry out in pain when he squeezes her broken hand. “You’re fine, Wildcat. Get up. We can move onto mitt work now.” 

“I need to go to a hospital!” Marlow snaps back. “Look at my fucking hand!”

“Less talking, Marlow. More fighting. Get up and tough it out. So what, you broke a few bones. You’ll be fine. I thought you wanted this. I thought you wanted to be the best fighter here.”

She stands up. She looks at Rico, then her broken hand, then Rico. He’s right and she hates it. So she doesn’t protest. She doesn’t ask to see a doctor, doesn’t ask to sleep. She just smiles and says, “Ready when you are.”

[ocean-blue-whump]

A Coach and a Canvas

For other Marlow posts: #marlow lancaster: wildcat

Taglist: ask to be added!

CW: gang setting, mentions of prior kidnapping, post fistfight

***

Marlow can still feel the blood pounding in her ears. She sits down on the bench in the locker room, holding a towel to the cut above her eye. Fuck, that was…something out there. Her heart is still racing from the fight. She doesn’t remember exactly how she got here, how this ended up happening, but a few nights ago, she met a guy who put her down on a schedule and told her to show up at this address. 

Not even an hour ago, she was standing in front of a metal door with no idea what she got herself into. She was the first fight of the night, facing off against a big, muscular woman. It was…Marlow doesn’t know what happened. She had kept light on her toes and bounced around, and eventually, the woman tired out. A few well placed punches to the jaw and chest had her on the ground with the crowd roaring. 

It was still a hard fight. The woman was strong enough that every single hit she landed hurt like hell, leaving bruises and splitting Marlow’s skin open. 

Marlow bends over and spits a mouthful of blood into the towel, then puts it back to her head. The adrenaline is still coursing through her body. Listening to the spectators…she doesn’t think she’ll forget it any time soon. It was fucking addicting, the power that surged through her when she stood up from the sawdust-covered ring, blood dripping from her face, bruises forming on her bare torso. She wants to bottle that feeling and breathe it in over and over. 

She’s so lost in her own thoughts that she doesn’t notice the other person in the locker room until he clears his throat. Marlow jumps a little bit, wiping her face with the bloody rag. “Oh, sorry. Can I…help with something?”

The man isn’t too tall, his jet black hair slicked back and his goatee neatly groomed. He’s muscular, in a skin tight gray shirt and black joggers. He smiles warmly at her, his hands in his pocket. “Marlow, right? You fought Misty tonight?” 

“If that was her name, yeah.” Marlow sets the rag down, hoping she doesn’t look like a maniac with blood all over her face. “I did my best.”

“Have you been trained before?” the man asks, sitting down on the bench next to her. “I mean, you won, but it was…rough.” He laughs a little, smiling at her. “So did you have formal training or informal or nothing?”

Marlow stares at the ground, lacing her bruised hands together. “Umm, nothing. I just kind of waited until she got tired.”

“Smart move. The bigger someone is, the more likely you’ll be able to wear them off. You also took hits pretty well. Of course, you’re bleeding now, but you were good at keeping calm when she decked you. Got back up pretty quickly.” The man stands up and moves in front of Marlow, leaning against the lockers. “I have to be honest with you, Marlow. I don’t really care about making small talk. At this point, you probably realized we work outside of the law here, but there’s profit in it. Tonight, you fought on a small ticket independently. There wasn’t any money in what you did. You were like an appetizer for the bigger events. You came into this independently, but the fighters on the big tickets aren’t independent. Most of them work under a coach, and really, there are only four coaches that matter here. Four of us train, manage, and support the biggest fighters in the arena.” He smirks at her, holding her gaze confidently. “I’ve been looking for a new fighter. The problem is that there are two main groups of people. The first are good fighters, yeah, but they’ve been trained before. They’re damaged canvases. What I can teach won’t matter because they already have their habits. The other group is untrained, yet shows no potential and no skill and no will to learn. You’re in a third group. You’ve got a lot of skill, and you’re a very, very appeasing blank canvas. No one will see a girl like you coming, and with my help, I can make you a legend here. The crowd you had tonight? Don’t play dumb, Marlow. I know you loved it, and when I make you a big ticket fighter…there’s nothing quite like it. You’ll have all those people hanging on every little move you make. My name is Rico Lochan, and I’m the best of the four top coaches. I can take you to the top. I can make you lethal, and all you have to do is say yes.”

Marlow listens to Rico’s speech and tries to absorb as much of it as she can. Everything he’s saying sounds promising…too promising. “What’s the catch?” she asks, crossing her legs at the knee. 

Rico chuckles. “I’m glad you asked. I’d be worried if you didn’t. The catch, Marlow, is that…I’ve tried to train others to be my prodigy, and, well, let’s just say I’ve gotten mixed results. A lot of people can’t handle what it takes to be the best. They don’t want to give themselves to this life. Devotion is a difficult thing to come by these days. And, of course, I’m not an easy man to work with. You look about college age, I won’t interfere with your classes, but I will ask you to give me everything you have. I’ll push you to your breaking point, Marlow, and you’ll either sink or swim.” Rico shrugs, his voice still light. “To be honest, there’s something in your eyes, kid. I’m not going to make assumptions about who you are, but there is just something about you. I’ve tried fifteen other trainees to find a prodigy. Not one of them, after winning their first fight, had that smile on their face when they one. Not one of them would have kept getting up after taking the beating you did.”

“I’m eighteen,” Marlow says in a hoarse voice, looking up at him. When he doesn’t stop her, she keeps talking. “I’m eighteen years old. You don’t need to know where I’m from or anything else about me, but you do need to know that breaking me down isn’t possible. I don’t know what weak ass bitches you tried to train before me, but I’m nothing like them.” She stands up from the bench and all she can think about is what it felt like to stand over Misty with blood hands and hear people roar for her. There was so much peace in that violence. Marlow hasn’t felt calm…ever, especially not since the kidnapping incident. That is, until she caught the underside of Misty’s chin with an uppercut. There was calm in her muscles burning and her body begging her to stop. “You want a fighter, I can learn.”

“Good girl,” Rico says with a smile. “First thing’s first. I can call you Marlow, but your name to anyone else, coaches or other fighters, is a weakness. People do bad shit if they see someone threatening their winning streak. You need a name. Marlow Lancaster doesn’t belong here. She’s a weak little girl. Wildcat, on the other hand…that’s a name people could bet on.” His grin is slow and wicked and dark and Marlow’s heart is going to beat right out of her chest. “Say it, Wildcat. Tell me what you’re doing here. Give yourself to me and I’ll make you the most powerful woman in this whole fucking city.”

Marlow focuses her energy on Rico. There’s no room for fear, and yeah, she could beat Misty, but that’s not enough. She needs to protect herself because she never wants to be a scared girl kidnapped by a serial killer again. “I give myself to you,” she says, green eyes cold. “Body and soul, Rico. I want to fight. So push me. Teach me how to win here. Teach me how to fight.” 

Rico steps forward, holding Marlow's chin and tipping her head up. He examines her, tilting her face around, his eyes lingering over the streaks of blood and blossoming bruises. “We’ll make something out of you, Wildcat. Tomorrow, four in the morning. Meet me here and we’ll go over your schedule.” He lets go of her chin and starts walking towards the door, but stops with his hand on the handle. “Clean yourself up and hide those stupid fucking bruises. No trainee of mine walks around looking like that from such an amateur fight. Getting beat by fucking Misty. You might have won, but that performance is nothing to be proud of.” 

Marlow watches him slam the door, her head spinning. His mood changed so fast, but his voice still stayed light. In five seconds, he brought Marlow’s fantasy crashing back down to earth. She brings her hand to her face, suddenly aware of how she looks. “Fuck…” she mutters, staggering over to the sink. The girl who stares back at her is bloody and bruised and exhausted. Not a fighter. 

It’s been ages since she’s slept well. It’s been so long since she’s felt anything other than helpless. The girl in the mirror isn’t anywhere close to a wildcat, but Marlow has to try. She splashes some water on her face, puts on her jacket, grabs her bag, and steps out into the night, fishing in her pocket for a cigarette. 

[ocean-blue-whump]

The Paramedic

(Note: this story features Marlow Lancaster from Star and Sunny, but these are separate stories! This is the non-BBU version of the story.)

For other Marlow posts: #marlow lancaster: wildcat

Taglist (ask if you want to be added/removed): @painful-pooch

CW: head wound, thoughts of death, stab wound

*** 

Marlow catches herself against a brick wall, the world spinning out of focus. The soft glow of the street lamps blurs into one blob of light, and she groans, tipping her head back and trying not to fall over. One hand stays on her leg, putting pressure on the fresh wound pouring blood down her leg, the other finds her switchblade in her jacket pocket, pulling it out and opening it. 

Can’t be too careful, especially when she’s like this. 

Her ears are still fucking ringing from getting her head thrown into the ground, she can remember exactly how it felt when the knife slid into her thigh, the searing pain. 

She should have called the fight. Taken her loss and whatever came with it. 

But she got back up. 

She takes a deep breath and pushes herself off the wall, but just a few steps have her head splitting with pain, her breathing labored. 

The pavement’s looking like a great spot for a nap right now, but she knows she can’t. 

She reaches up to touch her temple, and her fingers come away sticky with blood. Damn. She saw her face in the locker room mirror and knew she looked fucked, but she didn’t catch how bad her head’s bleeding. 

Sweat–or maybe blood, she doesn’t know at this point–drips down the back of her neck, soaking into her sports bra. Her mouth is dry and all she can taste is copper weighing heavily on her tongue. 

This…not how she thought she was going to die. 

She takes a few more steps and crumples to her hands and knees, spitting blood onto the sidewalk. Fuck, my head.

Marlow lifts her gaze as much as she can, but even that sends another shockwave of pain through her body, and she drops onto her side, groaning weakly. 

Not how she thought she was going to die. 

Marlow closes her eyes, pushing back all the images that threaten to overwhelm her senses further. Well, it’s been one hell of a run. It was a matter of months, really, until she died. 

She deserves worse. The blood on her hands…

Yeah. She deserves worse. 

Marlow takes a deep breath, feeling herself grow colder. The knife must have nicked a vein or something, based on all the blood that soaked into the sawdust floor of the arena. 

She won’t miss the smell, the blood and alcohol and fear. She won’t miss much about this life. 

Something brushes against her shoulder, and Marlow’s eyes flutter open. She doesn’t have the strength to go for her knife, and instead she just stares into the honey eyes of the man standing above her. 

He immediately crouches down in front of her, and Marlow sees his paramedic uniform. Panic alarms rise in her head, and she tries to scramble away, green eyes wide with fear. 

The man gently raises his hands. He can’t be older than 26, 27, with a soft smile that probably puts most of his patients at ease. “Hey, kid, it’s okay. I’m just trying to help.” He starts reaching for his radio, clipped to his belt, but Marlow raises her knife in a shaky hand, pointing it at him. 

“N-no hospitals,” she stammers out, her mouth feeling disconnected from the rest of her body. “Can’t go to the hospital.”

“You’re bleeding out,” the man says softly. A few strands of hair fall loose from his bun, but he doesn’t move to fix it. “I’m just going to call an ambulance for you, okay?”

Marlow shakes her head and winces. “N-no. Can’t…” She cuts herself off as the pain worsens, squeezing her eyes shut. “Please.”

When she reopens her eyes, the man puts his backpack on the ground, pulling out a roll of gauze. “What if I promise no hospitals? Will you let me help you then?”

“Y-you’re lying.” Marlow balls her hands into fists, dropping the knife. “You’re g-gonna take me when I pass out.”

“No. I won’t.” He gingerly reaches forward, brushing Marlow’s hair back from her face, and she almost–embarrassingly– leans into the touch, but he pulls his hand back and frowns. “Your head is bleeding too.”

“Cause I hit it, dumbass,” she snarls out. “Get away from me. I’m not going to the hospital.”

“What can I do to make you believe me, huh?” He sighs. “Listen. My name is Ray Tehrani. I am a paramedic, which means that I can help you. I’m not on duty right now. If you pass out with no one helping you, you could die or get kidnapped. Let me help you.”

Marlow can feel the world slipping away, Ray getting blurrier and blurrier in front of her. Fear strikes her deep in her heart. The hospital. Getting tracked down and this whole thing ends. Everything. 

She was ready to die. She is ready to die. 

“No hospital,” she says, her words slurring together. “N-no…hospital.”

“No hospital. Alright.” He packs the wound on her leg with gauze, his eyes not once leaving her face. “Can you at least tell me your name?”

She hesitates, just for a second. She could give a fake name, keep her identity safe, but she doesn’t want to die nameless. “Marlow,” she finally whispers. “My name is Marlow.”

“Marlow,” Ray says, tying her upper leg off with a strip of rubber. “Alright, Marlow. My car’s just down the street. Let’s get you patched up.

She opens her mouth to answer, but she finds herself stuck, unable to speak as the world dims at the edges. She’s slipping, can’t stay awake much longer. Her heart is beating so loud that she can’t hear anything but the blood rushing to her head. It hurts. It all hurts and she doesn’t know if she can trust Ray, but she doesn’t have any other options.

Ray seems to notice her struggle, and he gives her a sympathetic look, but he doesn’t touch her other than binding her leg, doesn’t make any coddling gestures. “It’s okay,” he says loudly, enough to be heard over the pressure in Marlow’s head. “You’re going to be fine.”

Marlow rests her head onto the pavement, staring up at the scars. If this is her last view on this planet…she’ll be okay with that. 

She’s made her peace with violence, and this fight isn’t in her hands anymore. 

[ocean-blue-whump]

Marlow Lancaster: Wildcat

Marlow Lancaster. Wildcat. 

Escaping from the small rural community she grew up in, Marlow moves across the country and finds herself involved in an underground arena, taken under the wing of an aggressive and controlling coach. As she begins to lose herself in violence, she soon realises that the only way out is death--until someone takes a special interest in her. 

CWs for the series: fighting, violence, lots of injuries, trauma, captivity

***

Home Sweet Hell: 1 // 2

There Were More

A Coach and a Canvas

The First Killing

Not So Proud

Kyle

The Paramedic 

[ocean-blue-whump]

Blue’s Masterpost

Dax Del Mar - BBU

Heist Team - a group of thieves band together to pull off a dangerous and complicated heist (team whump)

Star and Sunny - BBU, bondeds, lady whump

Marlow Lancaster: Wildcat 

The McIntyre Crime Family - BBU

Collabs:

Across the Stars and Through the Meadows - BBU, love story with angst, chronically ill whumpee (collab with @painful-pooch)

[ocean-blue-whump]

Home Sweet Hell: 2

Continued from HERE

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Sunny and Star Crew: @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: lady whump, kidnapping, noncon kiss, beating, escape

***

The world is still spinning when she wakes up. Marlow lifts her head with a weak whimper, eyes latching onto the Home Sweet Home sign again. She can smell blood in the air, can feel where it’s stuck to her, especially the mess on her temple and in her hair, can taste blood on her lips. 

She looks down at her body, despite the nausea the small movement causes, and immediately looks back up. She doesn’t want to see that, see how she’s been reduced to a mess of bruises. 

Marlow can deal with the pain. Pain is better than waiting. Pain is better than what she left behind in Vermont. She grits her teeth and starts rocking back and forth with the bouncing of the van, trying to tip the chair over. 

“Morning, darlin’,” Paul says with a grin, looking over his shoulder. “We’re stopping for gas soon.”

“What, so you can pick up another victim?” she snaps at him, her voice raspy.

“You’re my focus right now. One at a time.” 

“How kind of you.”

He pulls into the gas station and stands up, walking towards her. “Day two, darlin’. How you holding in there?”

“My head hurts, actually. And I could use a little water.” She grins up at him, despite the throbbing pain radiating through her whole body. 

He slaps her across the face. “No one likes a smartass.”

“Sounds like…” She takes a deep breath. “Sounds like something my dad would say.”

“Well, he’s not here, is he?” Paul pulls out a switchblade, snapping it open. “What’s the phrase kids use? Ah, right. You look like you have daddy issues, darlin’.”

“Oh, fuck you. No wonder you live alone. Jackass.”

Paul presses the flat side of the blade against Marlow’s neck. “Did I hit a nerve?”

Marlow holds her breath, the cold steel against her bruised, bloody skin sending pure terror down her spine. “Fuck you,” she whispers. 

“How old are you, Casey-slash-Marlow? You don’t look nearly old enough to be out here all by your lonesome.”

“Twenty-two.” She glares at him. “I have a job. I have a family. I have a boyfriend. They’ll find me, dead or alive.”

“You really like lying, don’t you? I’ve killed twenty-two other people, and darlin’, you’re the loneliest I’ve met so far. I can tell that sort of thing.” Paul smiles down at her. “There’s no one in the world who gives a shit about you or what happens to you or where I’ll dump your body when you die.”

“Fuck you,” Marlow hisses, back to tugging at the restraints despite the knife at her throat. “Rot in hell, you bastard.” Her head is spinning, she’s on the verge of throwing up or passing out. 

Paul backhands her in the face. “Shut up.” He steps back, pulling out the duct tape again. 

Marlow rolls her eyes. “Fucking fantastic.”

“Well, I can’t have you screaming for help.” Paul tears off a piece of tape and slaps it over her mouth. 

Marlow glares at him as he leaves the van.

The Home Sweet Home sign is getting fuzzy. Marlow squints up at it, trying to steady herself. She doesn’t have nearly enough time. Paul steps back into the van, not paying her any attention as he sets off for the next rest stop, munching loudly on a bag of chips. 

That’s the only break she gets before Paul pulls off the road and comes back to her, brandishing a knife, some sewing needles, and brass knuckles. 

Day two ends in pain, just as it started. 

Marlow doesn’t sleep all night. She knows she can’t, with the throbbing in her head and all her injuries, the cuts and bruises and broken ribs.

She also knows that she won’t make it out of here alive if she doesn’t leave soon. 

You’re Marlow fucking Lancaster. You’ve survived so much shit already, you can’t just give up and die here.

The Home Sweet Home sign leers down at her, taunting her with its pink lettering. 

She glares back at it, wanting to tell it to fuck off. Paul left her gagged, saying he wanted some quiet time before they get to their destination. 

It’s dark outside, no other cars on the road. Sacramento is just a different memory. 

Pain is all Marlow’s known for the past two days. Pain and pain and more pain. But she can’t think about it. Survival is more important than the fear that’s threatening to eat away at her. 

Paul pulls the van into a fast food restaurant parking lot. “Well, darlin’, I could eat!” At Marlow’s angry look, he chuckles. “Not you.”

She recoils, breaking quickly, the tape moving with each inhale. Fucking creep.

He walks back, settling on her lap. “Just a little bit longer. Then you’ll be part of my collection.”

Fucking creep. Marlow stiffens as she feels him sitting on her, heavy and suffocating, aggravating all her wounds.

Paul rips the duct tape off, holding her chin in his sweaty hand. “There’s my darlin’.”

Marlow tries to pull away, thrashing in her restraints, no matter how much it hurts. 

He chuckles. “You’ve been a fun one. But this…it’s just a taste. And since you’ve been so fucking defiant, pardon my French, I’m going to have to treat you extra rough when we get back to my shed.”

“Your shed? Could you be any more of a cliche?” Marlow fires back. She’s tired but she won’t go down without a fight. She’s not dying here or in a shed. Marlow goes out on her own terms. 

Not like this. 

“Shut up,” Paul says affectionately, tightening his grip. “I told you I don’t much care for you talking.”

She snarls. “Get the fuck off me.”

“What makes you think that you still get a choice in that?”

Paul surges forward and kisses her. 

Marlow’s mind blacks out with panic. His lips are on her, his disgusting, slimy lips, stealing her air away. Marlow’s too shocked to fight back. Her muscles lock up. 

It’s her first kiss. She can’t help but laugh at that. Her first kiss is in the back of a motor home after she was kidnapped. 

Paul pulls away and steps off of her. “I’ll be back.”

She whimpers.

He steps out of the van, humming to himself. 

Marlow tilts her head back, pushing her tears down. This is not how she dies. 

And if he just kissed her…

He could do worse when he gets back. 

Marlow doesn’t know if she can take that. 

Despite the pain, she starts twisting her wrists around, yanking at the ropes. 

Blood spills from her wrists but she keeps going, she keeps pushing forward until, finally, the ropes loosen enough for her to slip her hands out. 

She bends over immediately, her head swimming, and undoes the ropes at her ankles. For the first time in three days, Marlow Lancaster stands up on shaky legs. She stumbles forward, her muscles stiff and sore from being out of use, and leans on the counter for support. 

She takes a shaky breath. “Alright, Marlow. It’s okay. Just…one foot in front of the other, right?” She’s working on a time crunch here. Paul could be back anytime, and if he sees her untied…

There’s no time to think about that. 

Marlow shuffles up to the front and unlocks the car manually, grabbing her backpack that’s still sitting in the passenger seat before sliding out the door. She doesn’t look behind her, doesn’t wait to see if Paul’s on his way out of the restaurant. She grabs her knife out of her backpack and runs.

She runs until her legs threaten to give out and she keeps going until she’s miles away. Only then does Marlow slip into an alleyway and finally allow herself to fall asleep.

It lasts for an hour, maybe even less, before she wakes up in a cold sweat, the feeling of Paul kissing her still trapped on her lips. 

Marlow pulls herself into a sitting position and takes a deep breath, staring at the concrete. Just keep breathing and surviving and doing whatever it takes. 

A tear slides from the girl’s face, but she doesn’t make a sound.

[ocean-blue-whump]

There Were More

For @whumpawoman Angstpril! Day 2 - Survivor’s Guilt

This piece takes place a few weeks after the events of Home Sweet Hell 

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Sunny and Star Crew: @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: lady whump, survivor’s guilt, talk of how a serial killer deals with his victims, trauma response, self-hatred, not really whump but very angsty Marlow

***

“Marlow? Earth to Marlow.” Bea leans forward, looking at her strange, strange roommate. “You good?”

The girl had shown up five days late for orientation, and in rough shape, too, only carrying a backpack. Bea has only known Marlow Lancaster for a week and she can tell that the girl is bad news. Marlow is staring at the TV in the common area, a bruise healing on her cheek, her fingers gripping the edge of the couch. 

“Paul Nowak has just been arrested on twenty-six counts of murder. Police allege that he lured victims, mostly homeless hitchhikers, into his mobile home and tortured them before killing them in what many people call his ‘murder shed’ before disposing of the bodies in large metal tubs,” the reporter on the TV says. 

“There were more…more after me,” Marlow mumbles, her eyes glued to the screen. “He…there were more after me, why were there more after me?”

Bea stares at her. “Marlow? You in there?” The words she’s saying don’t make sense.

Marlow brings her hands up to tap on her face, and the horrific rope burn around her wrists is lit up by the blue glow of the TV. “He took more people after me. I should have…I should have done something.”

“Nowak’s mobile home stored several weapons, and there were even more in his murder shed. It’s believed the victims endured a few days of torture in his van before enduring weeks of torture at his shed.”

“Turn it off,” Marlow says, her voice stiff. “Turn the fucking TV off.”

Bea grabs the remote and presses the off button, her eyes wide. “Marlow?”

“Fuck.” The girl drops her head into her arms. “He took more after me. I should have stopped him. I should have done something.”

Bea gingerly reaches out, putting her hand on Marlow’s back. “Hey, um, what…what’s going on?” Her mind is racing to come up with what Marlow’s talking about. “Did you know that guy?”

Does my crazy roommate know a serial killer? This is a great start to the year. 

“I should have done something,” she repeats, her voice breaking. “But I don’t know…I couldn’t go to the cops. They wouldn’t have believed me, and I…”

“Deep breath. Try to calm down. You can talk to me, right? You know I’d believe you.” Bea is already jumping to conclusions about what could have happened with Marlow and the serial killer. He took more after me. What that implies…Bea can barely breathe. 

Marlow laughs, a hollow sound that doesn’t sound like it should come out of the mouth of someone so young. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Marlow shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter. It’s…my life is kind of fucking ridiculous.”

“Please.” You have to give me something, Marlow. You show up five days late and bloody and bruised with nothing but a backpack and I know you don’t sleep at night and I want to help you but I can’t if you don’t talk to me!” Bea looks at Marlow, her face flushed. “Please. Just…talk to me. I want to help you. God dammit, Marlow, I just want to know something about you. Please.”

Marlow’s face stays perfectly neutral, but she turns to Bea, her eyes darting across the room. She licks her lips, clears her throat, and her voice comes out a little hoarse. “No. You don’t.”

“Bullshit,” Bea says firmly. 

Marlow snaps her head up, finally looking at Bea. “What?”

Bea straightens her back. “Yeah. I called bullshit. I do want to know. We have to live together for a year, and I don’t see this working out too well if you don’t talk to me.”

Marlow sighs. “I don’t know what you want from me. I don’t know what you want to hear from me.”

“The truth. Something, Marlow. Anything. Like why seeing that man on TV made you freak out.”

“It’s complicated.”

Bea throws her hands up. “Come on, Marlow!”

“What the fuck do you want from me?” Marlow yells. “Do you want me to tell you what happened to me? How I’ve been hurt?”

“Yes!!” Bea yells back. “I want something, Mar, dammit! I want to help you. I want to know who you are. I want to know why you were late to orientation. I want to know why you only had a backpack. Please. Just talk to me.”

Marlow’s green eyes flash with a mix of emotions—anger, fear, sadness, and something so desperately lonely that Bea’s heart aches. “I was five days late because I was with him. that’s what the bruises and the cuts are from. I have a backpack because that’s all I own in this world besides myself. And who I am?” She laughs. “Beatrice, I’m the world’s biggest fuck up. That’s who I am.”

“No,” Bea whispers, grabbing Marlow’s hands and making sure she doesn’t aggravate the rope burn. “You’re not. You’re here now. That means something.” She gives a small smile. “I’m glad you’re not dead, Lancaster.”

“Is it bad that I wish I was? That I wish I didn’t survive because I don’t deserve to?”

“A little bit.”

Marlow bites her lip. “So what do I do? Because I feel so…I don’t know. I think it’s guilt, but I don’t do the whole emotions thing.”

“I can tell.” Bea cracks a wry grin. “Maybe it’s guilt. I don’t know what you can do, though. Maybe talking will help? About what happened?”

Marlow shakes her head. “Nah, I’m good. Not the kind of shit I want to talk about.”

“But—“

Marlow stands up. “I’m going to hit the gym.”

Bea frowns. “It’s eleven at night.”

“And?” Marlow grins. “I’ll be back before one.”

Before Bea can say anything, Marlow jogs off, disappearing around the corner. Bea slumps back against the couch, reeling from what just happened. Marlow Lancaster. The mystery. She comes in like a storm and she leaves like a hurricane and Bea is left to pick up the debris scattered in her wake and try to piece together the puzzle. 

Who is Marlow Lancaster?

And at the end of the day...

What is she running from?

[ocean-blue-whump]

Home Sweet Hell: 1

More Marlow backstory that no one asked for!

Continued HERE 

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Sunny and Star Crew: @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: lady whump, kidnapping, beating, head injury, serial killer, drugging

***

Marlow Lancaster looks down the highway, holding out her cardboard sign. She’s almost there. She has two days to make it to freshman orientation and another fifty miles to cover. She won’t make it on her own. 

Every single bone in her body hurts from sleeping on the side of the road. There’s still a bruise on her cheek, her feet are blistered in her worn down shoes from running from the cops last night. 

She sees a car approaching from down the highway and shields her eyes to look at it as it slows to a stop next to her. It’s an old mobile home, the paint on the sides rusting. A man opens the door, smiling down at her. “Where are you heading, darlin’?”

Marlow bristles at the pet name, but pushes down her contempt and smiles at the man. “Sacramento.”

He smiles back at her, sickly sweet. “Well, you’re just in luck, darlin’. I’m heading that way too. Hop on in.”

Marlow keeps her fake smile on her face as she climbs into the van, sitting in the passenger seat and placing her bag between her feet. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“It’s no problem. I could use the company. Name’s Paul. How about you?”

“Casey.” She doesn’t use her real name and she doesn’t use the same fake name twice in a row. She tries to never reuse names if she can help it. 

He turns the key and the engine turns over, sputtering to life. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Casey. We should be to Sacramento in no time. I’m going to have to stop for gas eventually, though.”

“That’s fine,” Marlow responds quietly, her bruised hands folded in her lap and hidden by the sleeves of her baggy shirt she stole from a clothes donation bin. She carefully sizes up Paul. He’s under six feet tall with a beer belly and mottled skin, thin hair hidden by a baseball hat. Still, she knows he could overpower if he had a weapon. 

Her knife is tucked into her backpack and he’d notice if she got it out. Her fingers twitch without that added layer of protection. 

Paul starts driving off down the road, turning the radio onto some country music station. Not her favorite, but she’s not picky. She’s just happy she won’t have to walk the rest of the way to Sacramento and be late to orientation, happy she won’t have to run from the cops anymore. And this is by far the least sketchy ride she’s picked up in her journey. 

It’s okay. It’s almost over and she can leave behind all the shit that’s happened to her so far. She can be happy, or as close as something like her can get. 

“What’s in Sacramento, darlin’?” Paul asks, tapping his thick fingers on the steering wheel. “You got someone waiting for you?”

A deep feeling of unease washes over Marlow. “Yeah. My aunt and cousins are there. They’re probably anxiously awaiting me.” 

He shrugs. “Why don’t you give ‘em a call and tell ‘em you’ll be there soon? So they know to have food waiting for you.”

Marlow freezes. Shit. Shit. “It’s dead.” She had a burner phone for the first two weeks of her trip, but it got destroyed in a scuffle between her and a drunk guy. 

He holds up a cord. “I’ve got a charger.”

Marlow forces herself to keep smiling, but a brief silence passes as she struggles to come up with a good excuse. “It’s fine. My aunt works, I’m sure she wouldn’t pick up anyways.”

“You sure you don’t want to charge it for later?”

Something is very, very wrong here, Marlow can feel it deep in her bones. She was really hoping to fall asleep in Paul’s car, anywhere is better than the ground, but she doesn’t trust him. “It’s okay. Seriously.” She forces herself to give him a tiny giggle. “I don’t need it. I’ve got company.”

Paul chuckles. “That you do, darlin’. Why don’t you get some sleep? You look like you could use some shut eye.”

Marlow shakes her head. “I’m alright. I got plenty of sleep last night.” It’s a lie, she slept in an alleyway in a small, mostly abandoned town, using her backpack as a pillow and her only jacket as a blanket when the temperatures dropped in the night. But no matter how well she lies, the bags underneath her eyes speak for themselves. 

“Suit yourself.”

He’s quiet for the rest of the drive until he pulls into a gas station and turns the van off. “I’m going to run in and grab some snacks. Want anything, Casey?”

“No, I’m alright. Thank you for offering.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.” Marlow gives him a tight lipped smile. “But I appreciate the offer.”

“Alrighty. Be back in a flash, darlin’.”

Marlow watches him disappear into the gas station before looking behind her, examining the motor home. There’s a small kitchen and dining room area, a ratty sofa, a door leading to a bathroom, and all the way in the back, another door, cracked enough so she can see the unmade bed. 

She’s so distracted looking behind her that she doesn’t realize Paul has opened her door until he’s climbing up next to her, practically sitting in her lap. 

“What…what are you doing?” Her heart is hammering in her chest, panic bubbling up in her lungs. 

Paul smiles at her. “Don’t worry about it, darlin’.” He lunges forward, pinning her to the seat with his shoulder, and holds a chloroform rag to her mouth. 

Marlow screams and thrashes around, but he shoves more of his weight into her and keeps his grip tight. 

She struggles against the drug threatening to sweep her into unconsciousness, but the longer Paul houlds the cloth to her mouth, the more she can feel her mind slipping away, and eventually, her body loses all its fight. 

Paul keeps pressing the rag to her mouth. “There’s a good girl,” he says, smiling. “You just really looked like you needed sleep.”

Fuck. She’s so dead, she’s going to die here—

Marlow’s eyes flutter shut. 

***

“Wake up.” 

Marlow gasps as cold water splashes against her face, slowly taking in her surroundings. She’s tied to a chair in the center of the kitchenette, rough rope encircling her wrists and ankles. 

Paul is in the front seat driving, one hand on the wheel while he looks back at her, a waterbottle in his other hand. “Good.”

“What the fuck?” Marlow roars, pulling against the restraints and disguising her fear as anger. This can’t be happening, how the fuck was she this sloppy on the last leg of her journey? How is this going to be the way she dies?

“Calm down, Casey. Or whatever your real name is, little runaway.” He chuckles to himself. “Good one, Paul.” 

“Oh, you bastard,” she seethes, twisting her arms around until they start to burn. “My aunt isn’t going to stop until she finds me.”

“You don’t have an aunt,” he says, his voice light and cheery. “I went through your bag. You were lying about the cell phone, too. It’s just you and me.”

“Then why don’t you come back here and face me like a man?” she yells. She’s going to die here. He’s going to kill her and worse.

“I will, darlin’. Once I get to the rest stop.”

Marlow sighs and tilts her head up, looking at the cross stitch sign on the wall above the kitchen sink. Home Sweet Home. More like Home Sweet Hell, if this is what he chooses to do with his time. “You’ve done this before,” she says. It’s not a question.

His eyes narrow in the rearview mirror. “Yes.” 

“All people like me?”

“For the most part, darlin’.”

Marlow cracks her neck. “Well, I hate to break this to you, Paul, but you’ve never met anything like me before. I can guarantee that.”

“Then I’m sure you’ll be fun to break.”

“I don’t fucking break.”

“That’s what they all say.” 

Marlow glares at him. “Well, I guess you’ll have to come back here and find out.” He did a good job tying the ropes, she won’t be able to escape that way no matter how much she tugs. Her wrists have started to bleed, but the burning pain only makes her more focused. 

“I will.” He’s quiet as he drives.

Marlow groans, her body aching. “You were so talkative earlier.”

“Ah, shut the fuck up,” he snaps. “Why would I make small talk 

“I figured it was just an act.” Marlow sighs. “I also figure it’s useless begging you to let me go.”

“I like begging.”

“I won’t be giving you that satisfaction, asshole.” Her eyes are drawn to the Home Sweet Home sign again and she wonders how many people also saw that sign before they died. 

“Come on, darlin’. Men don’t like it when women play so hard to get.”

“I don’t want men to like me. Certainly not you.” Marlow keeps shifting around, trying to ignore her headache. “What are you going to do to me?”

“Men also don’t like women who run their mouth.” Paul pulls over to the side of the road, parks the van, and starts walking towards her. “You’re makin’ it real temptin’ to kill you.”

“Fucking do it,” Marlow says. “Go right ahead.” She presses her back against the chair as he approaches, so scared she might be sick. 

Paul pulls out a roll of duct tape, and before Marlow can even scream, he’s tearing off a piece and slapping it over her mouth. “Much better.”

Marlow stomps her foot against the ground the best she can, growling under the gag. 

Paul laughs. “Don’t be so ridiculous, darlin’. You’re not an animal.” He punches her hard in the face, and her head snaps back, nose throbbing. He gives a content hum, walking back to his seat. “Only fifty miles to the rest stop.”

Marlow makes a muffled noise of protest. She’s going to die here. 

She can’t fucking die here, she’s stronger than this.

There’s no getting out of this, and Paul keeps driving until they get to the rest stop. He’s chuckling as he blocks up the windows to the van with reflective panels. “Just you and me,” he says with a chuckle. 

Marlow tugs against her restraints, her eyes wide with fury. 

Paul turns to the closet, rummaging around. “You really should have been more careful. A young, pretty thing like you shouldn’t be all alone like that.”

I didn’t have a choice, you bastard. She snarls, the tape crinkling up. I did what I had to so I could survive. And I’ll survive this, too.

Paul pulls out a baseball bat and a pair of brass knuckles. “This should help break you in.”

She juts her chin up at him, pushes down all her fear. The look in her eyes speaks for itself. Try it. Go ahead. Fuck around and find out. You won’t like the results.

She’s a survivor. This is what she does.

“Darlin’, I have to admit, you’re going to be a fun one to kill.” He gives the bat an experimental swing. “I would have expected you to start crying.”

Marlow huffs around the gag. If he’s going to hit her, he might as well do it already. She’d rather get hit than wait around for it like she’s done for the first eighteen years of her life. 

“You said your name was Casey, right?” Paul shakes his head. “Those student registration papers in your bag said Marlow.”

She glares at him. 

“Oh, right.” Paul rips the tape off Marlow’s mouth.

She takes a minute to crack her jaw before spitting in his face. “Fuck you.”

He darkly chuckles, wiping the saliva away. “Oh, you’re in for it now.”

“Try me, bastard.” Marlow pulls at the ropes again and with the small bit of friction, her wrists tear open again, droplets of blood falling to the floor. She casts her eyes downwards, looking at where the skin around her ankles is irritated, but not bleeding. Not yet. 

Paul sighs. “No.” 

Marlow freezes as she feels the press of smooth wood on the underside of her jaw, tilting her head up so her unsteady, defiant green eyes meet the calm blue ones of Paul. 

“You look at me when I’m talking to you, understand, darlin’? Just keep your pretty eyes up here.”

Fine. He wants to see her look at him? She levels her gaze, eyes full of unholy fury, chin jutted up by the baseball bat yet still somehow proud. She’s Marlow fucking Lancaster. She has to survive this. “I take it we aren’t going to Sacramento anymore.”

“Smarter than you look.”

“What number am I? Of your victims?”

“Twenty-three. Not the only one to spit in my face either.”

“Good.”

Paul pulls the bat away from her face, only to slam it against her side. Marlow grunts, breathing heavily through her nose to absorb the blow. She won’t allow him the dignity of a scream, at least, not for a while. 

“What’s the end goal here?” Marlow asks, hoping the answer won’t make her more terrified than she already is. “What do you want from me?”

Paul doesn’t answer, slamming the bat into Marlow’s other side.

Absorb the blow. Take the pain. Rinse and repeat and take each hit he deals. The pain is better than the anticipation. She’d rather be hit than spend the next hours waiting for pain. 

It’s the psychological damage that gets to people in the end. 

Paul beats her ribs and stomach until she can barely breathe, until each ragged gulp of air feels like swallowing knives. 

“S…seriously?” Marlow coughs. “You’re just gonna…you’re just gonna beat the shit out of me ‘til you’re satisfied?”

“Maybe.” He rears the bat again, and Marlow sees the trajectory before he starts swinging. She has time to feel the fear before the bat cracks into her skull.

Her head slams to the side, the metallic tang of blood filling her mouth, her ears ringing, her vision spinning. She groans weakly, black spots filling the world around her. She tongues at her lip, finding that she bit a spot. At least she knows where the blood came from, but in her disoriented state, she doesn’t have time to prepare for the second blow, aimed at the exact same spot. 

Everything after that is a blur. She feels sticky warmth on her right temple, the world is painted in a sickly shade of gray as her head lolls around, her neck unable to support the weight. 

She was ready to run away from her parents’ home. She wasn’t ready for this. 

At least with her head feeling like it’s full of cotton, she doesn’t feel the fear. She barely feels the pain as he keeps swinging the bat at her, over and over again. The worst it gets is when she, through her ringing, foggy ears, hears a crunch from her ribs and a chuckle from Paul, a sharp flash of pain and nothing at all as her brain struggles to catch up with reality. 

Marlow can hold on. She has to hold on, she can’t let herself go. 

But when Paul slams the bat against her head for the third time, blood flies from Marlow’s mouth and she slumps into her restraints, finally blacking out. 

[ocean-blue-whump]

The First Killing

For @febuwhump Day 3: Blood Loss.

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch

CW: illegal fighting, stabbing, lots of blood, minor character death, dissociation, lady whump

*** 

The bell sounds through the arena, and Marlow steps off of the man at her feet. 

“And that’s round one!” the announcer calls out. “Fighters get two minutes. Spectators, place your second round bets.”

Marlow struts over to the corner of the ring, where Rico’s waiting with a stool and a bottle of water. She sits down, stretching her legs out in front of her. 

“You’re winning,” Rico says, passing her the water bottle. 

Across the ring, her opponent, a muscular body-builder type, nicknamed “The Matador,” is glaring at her as his helper wipes blood off his face. 

The only damage Marlow’s taken is a bruise on her jaw, and her boxing wraps are splattered with her opponent’s blood. “I’m going to end it here,” she says, taking a swallow of water and spitting it in a bucket. “I’ve got a paper due tomorrow.”

“They won't happy. You’re the headliner and you were supposed to go for at least five rounds.”

Wildcat vs. The Matador, one night only. Two of the arena’s greatest fighters, two of the most popular. It’s not hard to see why. They both look fucking pretty covered in blood. 

“Don’t give a shit,” she answers. “I’m fucking tired. And I have to finish writing a paper on the Silk Road. I’ll make the takedown interesting, at least.” She takes a sip of water. “You sure this guy is the Matador? I thought he was supposed to be…good.”

“No one looks good next to you.” Rico takes the water bottle back. “I trust your decision, kid. You’re better than him. There’s not a lot of point in dragging this out.”

Marlow stands up so Rico can take the stool away, watching the Matador rise as well. 

“Okay, all bets have been placed, referees are ready… Wildcat vs. The Matador, round two!” The announcer pauses for dramatic effect. 

This silence is what Marlow lives for, the calm before the storm, a quiet lull where energy can ramp up inside her limbs, where she can bounce around on her toes and close her eyes, listening to the nothingness. She catches her breath and holds it, releases it. The silence is where she’s free. Where she doesn’t feel like she needs to run. 

“Fight!”

Marlow darts forward, punching the Matador in his stomach. He grunts and drives his knee up, aiming for the underside of Marlow’s jaw, but she takes a quick step backward, well out of his reach. 

He’s getting angry. The left hook he swings at Marlow’s face is sloppy, she’s able to easily bob under his arm and kick him behind the knees, sending him tumbling to the ground. 

The Matador roars and, from his pants, pulls a small switchblade. 

Marlow freezes. That’s a knife, they don’t let fighters use weapons other than their own bodies. 

He charges at Marlow, bitter determination in his eyes. 

Shit. Marlow’s heart stutters in her chest as the Matador barrels towards her. He has a knife.

He could kill her. 

And she’s moving without thinking, her eyes targeting the arm the man’s holding the knife with. She moves faster than she’s moved before, so fast she’s not sure she can keep up with her own feet, and grabs onto his arm, pulling and twisting. She knocks him onto his knees while wrenching his arm painfully behind his back, twisting his wrist until he drops the knife and she catches it and— 

He would have killed her. She has to tell herself that. He would have killed her and she doesn’t want to die here. He would have killed her. She has to tell herself that or she won’t survive. 

Marlow stumbles back, blood spattered across her face. The knife slips from her grip as she unclenches her bloody fingers. When it hits the floor, it’s the only sound in the whole arena. 

The Matador rolls onto his side, groaning weakly. Blood gushes from the wound in his back, forming a glossy puddle on the floor next to him.

No one moves to help him. It’s too late. It was too lae when he stepped into the ring today. It was too late when he started fighting, however long ago that was. No one can save him. No one wants to save him. 

The fear and the terror finally leave Marlow, replaced by deep, overwhelming guilt and dread, something nasty that hollows out her stomach. She falls to her knees next to the dying man, cupping his face in her hands. Her fingers leave streaks of blood on his cheeks. “Hey, look at me,” she murmurs, her voice shaking. 

The man’s eyes are already starting to glaze over. 

Marlow wants to cry. She should be crying, right? She just stabbed someone, she just killed someone. Maybe it hasn’t hit her yet, or maybe Marlow’s just the cold hearted bitch everyone thinks she is.Either way, her eyes are dry as she stares down at the Matador. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…I’m so sorry.”

The puddle of blood is creeping towards the abandoned knife, red about to overtake the glinting silver steel.

The Matador’s breath is coming raspy, slowly. He doesn’t have long. 

Marlow’s never watched anyone die before. She’s never caused someone to die. 

“I’m sorry,” Marlow whispers again. “Why? Why would you try to kill me? Knowing—” Knowing I’m a monster, knowing I could kill you, and easily, too. She doesn’t dare say that out loud.

With the last of his strength, the man grabs onto Marlow’s wrist. “Because…because I can’t do this anymore. It was you…you or me and I was hoping—” He coughs. “Hoping that it would be me. Was hoping that…that all the rumors about vicious, vengeful Wildcat were true. So…thank you.” For a second, his brow creases in confusion. “You…you killed me.” His hand slips from Marlow’s wrist, falling to the floor. His eyes blink once before closing for the last time. 

The Matador couldn’t have been older than twenty-seven and Marlow realizes with a sinking pit in her stomach that she never knew his name before she stabbed him to death, he’s dead because of her. Marlow takes her hands off the corpse’s face and sits back on her heels. 

He’s dead. 

And his words…the final things he said, that spells out a future that Marlow isn’t ready to face. She can’t end up like that. The desperation…it won’t happen to her. 

Right?

Rico grabs onto Marlow’s shoulders and pulls her away. “Come on, kid. Let them handle this,” he murmurs. “We have to get you cleaned up.”

She can’t move on her own. She can’t do it. Rico sighs. “Alright.” He scoops her into his arms, carrying her out of the ring.

Marlow leans into his arms, feeling like a helpless child.

“They’ll hide the body,” Rico whispers. “This has happened before. No police are gonna come looking for you. You won’t be in trouble.”

That’s not what she’s worried about. She deserves to be arrested, she just stabbed and killed a man. She can’t wrap her head around it, the moment the life left the Matador’s eyes. The way his blood looked on the floor, knowing she put it there. She killed someone. Bea always said fighting would make her a monster. Looks like she was right. 

“I killed him” she whispers. 

“Hey, no, look at me.” Rico gently grabs her chin. “You had to kill him. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It wasn’t my fault,” she repeats numbly. She doesn’t believe it, she just needs to make Rico stop talking. 

“That’s right.” Rico carries her into the locker room and sets Marlow down on the bench. “Go ahead and take your clothes off. It’s all bloody and we’re going to have to burn it to destroy the evidence. I’m gonna turn the shower on, okay? I’ll be right back.”

He’s right. She has to get the blood off her, maybe then she can be clean and better and she won’t feel so disgusted with herself. 

Marlow strips her clothes off, leaving them in a heap on the floor. She didn’t bring spares, how is she going to get back to the dorm room, how is she…

Marlow curls her arms across her chest and wails. There are bigger problems than that. She killed someone.

Rico walks back over to her, his eyes averted to give her more privacy. “Come on, let’s go. I know you can clean yourself off, okay? I’m going to get you some of my clothes so I can drive you back to campus.”

Marlow steps into the shower. The water is cold, it doesn’t feel good but she has to get the blood off. Red may run down the drain but she can never get the stain off her soul. 

Rico comes back in ten minutes later, knocking on the wall. “Marlow? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” she answers, not recognizing the sound of her own voice. She’s never going to be okay again. Marlow shuts the water off, unable to get herself reconnected to reality. 

Rico sticks his arm around the curtain, offering her a towel. “There are clothes on the counter. I’ll be just outside the door, making sure no one comes in.”

Marlow doesn’t say anything. 

Rico sighs. “Okay. I know this is hard. I’m here, kid. Whatever you need. It shouldn’t have…it shouldn’t have happened like that. You’re too young for this shit. I’ll be waiting. But take your time.”

Marlow towels herself off. Rico’s left her a flannel shirt and a huge pair of men’s basketball shorts, no undergarments in sight. She’s too tired to care. Her hands might not be bloody but that doesn’t mean she can forget what happened.

Every time she closes her eyes, even when she’s just blinking, she sees the Matador’s dead body. 

She gets dressed, her fingers shaking so much she can barely do up the buttons on the flannel. The shorts barely stay up around her hips, she has to hold them up with one hand while she grabs her bag out of her locker. 

Rico puts his arm around her shoulders when she steps out of the locker room. “They’re keeping everyone in the arena so I can get you out safely, okay? My car’s just out back.”

Marlow can’t answer. She’s stuck underwater and she’s running out of air, she wants to lock herself in a dark hole and never come out. 

She’s losing time, too, she finds herself at Rico’s car with no knowledge of how she got there. Rico opens the car door and ushers her in. 

Marlow’s never seen Rico outside of work. He looks different, he looks a little meeker. “Can you tell me which dorm you live in?” he asks her in a soft voice. Marlow shakes her head. She can’t…can’t do it. Can’t bring herself to talk unless it’s lines fed to her.

“Okay. Is it on your phone? Is the address on your phone?”

With shaking hands, Marlow unlocks her cell phone and hands it to him. 

“Thank you. I know you’re struggling right now, Marlow, but I need to make sure you’re not going to do anything stupid.”

“I’m not going to do anything stupid,” she says. 

“Good.” Rico pulls the car out of the parking lot and drives down the street. 

Marlow stares out the window, watching buildings pass in a blur. She normally walks home, why is she in a car?

Because she’s a murderer. Because she’s a monster. 

Rico parks the car, but doesn’t unlock the doors. “It’ll get easier. You know that, right?”

Marlow nods. 

“And…you know have to show up tomorrow. You know they’ll come for you if you don’t.”

That’s the rules. You’re either in or you’re dead because they can’t risk knowledge of the arena getting out to the public. Marlow nods again. 

“Seriously. Don’t beat yourself up over this. You had no other choice.”

She didn’t have to stab him. She could have taken the knife away, could have knocked him out instead of killing him. 

Marlow climbs out of Rico’s car. She’s not even here anymore. She doesn’t feel real, she can’t connect her body to her surroundings. 

The blood may be off her hands but it’ll never be fully gone. 

And Marlow’s just turning into a living weapon. 

[ocean-blue-whump]

Kyle

Star had a life before WRU, and it was complicated. Meet Marlow Lancaster.

Tagging @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump ​

Sunny + Star Masterlist

CW: intimate partner violence, referenced lady whump, referenced illegal fighting, drunk boyfriend, defiant girl

***

Finn’s door is ajar, the lights are off. Marlow steps in, closing the door behind her. “Can I turn the lights on?” she asks quietly. 

“Y-yeah.”

Marlow moves forward, almost tripping over a textbook to get to the light switch. There’s a short lag before the room is illuminated in sickly yellow light. 

Finn is sitting on his bed holding a towel to his face. His dorm is a mess, he’s lucky he doesn’t share with anyone. Marlow makes her way around a pizza box and an overflowing trash can, wincing as her injured ankle threatens to give out on her. 

She hasn’t seen Finn for a week. Kyle, his boyfriend, hasn’t let them see him. It used to be Finn, Bea, and Marlow, ever since University Convocation. And now Finn has Kyle and Bea’s obsessed with her studies and Marlow’s fighting most nights of the week. 

She pushes aside a pile of worn notebooks so she can kneel in front of the boy. Finn is hiding his face in the towel, his body shaking with sobs. 

His text was one word. “Help.” Marlow had taken the ice off her ankles and bruised knuckles and hurried over, calling Bea for backup on her way. 

“What happened?” Marlow asks, resting her hand on his knee. “Show me.”

Finn sniffles. “H-he hurt me, Marlow.”

Her blood runs cold. “What do you mean, he hurt you?” she asks. She’s always expected that something is wrong with Kyle. He’s a junior in marketing, part of one of the most wild frats on campus. Finn is a skinny Indian freshman, Kyle’s his first boyfriend.  She should have been more watchful, should have got the hint when Kyle tried to keep Finn secluded for the past week. 

Finn slowly pulls the towel away from his face, revealing a nasty black eye. “He hit me,” he says, his voice choked with tears. “I asked him if I could go out to get coffee with you and Bea and he punched me.” He nervously checks his phone. “I have to, I have to go back, he’s expecting me in twenty minutes.”

“Nah, you’re not going anywhere. I’m not letting that fucker touch you. Understand?”

Finn shakes his head. “What, like you’re any different than me. You keep getting hurt and you keep going back for more.”

She tongues at her split lip without realizing. “You know it’s different.”

Finn looks out the window. “He said that if I wasn’t back in time, he’d tie me to the bed and never let me leave.”

“You’re not going back.”

He glares down at her. “Yeah, you first.”

“Just stop talking for a minute,” Marlow grumbles, getting off the floor and sitting on the bed next to him. She holds the side of Finn’s head, carefully examining the wound. 

Finn makes a face when she touches it. “Ow! Watch—watch it!” His voice is broken up by a sob. 

“It should heal fine,” Marlow says. “But I’m not too worried about the bruise. I’m worried about you.” She sighs. “You know you can’t go back, right? No matter how much you think he loves you. Because if he loved you, he wouldn’t hit you.”

Finn rubs his nose with the back of his hand. “But I love him.”

“I know.” Marlow’s not good at this, she doesn’t know how to make him feel better. Finn’s not shy about sharing his feeling. He cried on his nineteenth birthday in front of his entire dorm floor. 

Bea bursts through the door, her afro damp from the rain. “I came as quick as I could, what—” She freezes in her tracks when she sees Finn. “What happened?”

Marlow stands up and walks over to Bea, whispering in her ear, “Kyle happened. I’m going to go, um, yeah. Stay with him as long as you can.”

Bea grabs her arm, fingers pressing into old bruises. “What are you going to do?”

“Beat the shit out of Kyle,” Marlow mumbles. 

“You’ll do more for Finn by staying here. Please.”

“You know I can’t do this shit. I can’t make him feel better. But I can make the problem go away.” Marlow takes a step back. “I’ll see you guys tomorrow.”

One day she’s going to have to stop and sit and talk and feel things. She can’t stand to do that now. 

Her skin is crawling by the time she gets outside, but the rain on her skin is soothing as she makes her way across campus to Kyle’s dorm. Her sweatshirt is soaked through by the time she’s knocking on his door. 

Kyle opens the door with a can of beer in his hand. “Where the fuck is my boyfriend?” he growls, looking around the hallway. 

“I think it’s against the rules to have a fucking dagger on campus,” Marlow says, gesturing at the six-inch long hunting dagger at Kyle’s belt. “You threaten Finn with that?”

Kyle’s face drops, he pauses for a moment before saying, “The fuck are you on, Lancaster?”

“Unfortunately, nothing. Let’s go inside.” Without waiting for an answer, she pushes past Kyle and steps into his dorm. It’s bigger than Finn’s, having a small main room with a stove and a couch, leading to other bedrooms. “You wanna explain to me why you punched Finn in the fucking face?”

“No one will believe you,” Kyle snaps, slamming the door shut. “You’re part of pet lib enough that all the rich kids hate you, but you’re not enough a part of the ‘rainbows and sunshine’ side of pet lib that everyone else likes you. Finn told me you’re about to fail out. He told me that you go places at night and come back bloody. Does that sound like trustworthy behavior to you? No one’s going to believe Finn, either, not over me.”

“I know.” She has to get the knife away from him first. Then she can worry about everything else. “I wouldn’t walk all the way over here just to threaten you that I’m telling someone. There’s no one to tell.”

Kyle smirks. “Then what are you going to do?”

“I’m here to tell you that Finn’s not coming back to you. Ever. And if I find out you were even close to him…” Her eyes flick to the knife, then back up. “If I find out you get within a hundred yards of Finn, I’ll fucking castrate you.”

Kyle laughs, a horrible, barking noise, slurred at the edges by Kyle’s beer. “I’d like to see you try.” Kyle was a varsity wrestler in high school, he’s 6’5”, weighs about 200 pounds, and goes to the gym even more than Marlow. 

She needs to get the knife first. Hopefully he’s drunk enough to keep holding onto that beer. It’ll give her an advantage. He’s favoring his right leg slightly. He’ll be off balance once he starts moving. “You’re not going to touch Finn again.”

Kyle’s on her in a second, slamming her into the wall and pressing the knife against her throat. “You fucking bitch,” he spits in her face. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. Coming in here and threatening me, who the hell do you think you are?”

“I’m your worst fucking nightmare, Kyle. And you messed with the wrong fucking freshman.” In one swift movement, she forces him onto his knees and wrenches his arm behind him at a twisted angle. “Drop the fucking knife. I know your roommates are going to be home, do you really want them to walk in on a girl half your size beating the shit out of you?” She gives a hard yank on the joint and he yelps. “Drop the fucking knife.”

“Fine!” Kyle yells. It clatters to the wood floor. “Just let me go! Shit! You’re fucking crazy, anybody ever tell you that?”

“Once or twice.” She lets Kyle go and he collapses to the floor. When she’s in the ring, they say it in a good way. She’s fucking crazy, pulling off that turning hook kick. She’s fucking crazy when she takes hit after hit and keeps on standing. “You’ll leave him alone. It’s not a question.”

“Fine,” Kyle grumbles. 

Marlow squats down in front of him. “I’ll give you a parting gift, too. Since you so nicely gave Finn one.” His nose crunches under her fist, Kyle screams, blood pouring down his face. 

She stands up. “I’ll see myself out.”

The night is cold, but at least it’s stopped raining. Kyle’s blood is smeared all over her right hand. Hopefully Bea lets them into their shared dorm room tonight, hopefully she doesn’t ask how Marlow is feeling. 

Marlow takes one final glance up at the stars before heading back off across campus.

[ocean-blue-whump]

Wishes

For @febuwhump Day 27: Shower Breakdown.

Sunny + Star Masterlist

Sunny and Star Crew: @ashintheairlikesnow @whumpinggrounds @whumptakesthecake @justplainwhump @whumpfessional @winedark-whump @painful-pooch - let me know if you want to be added/removed!

CW: pet whump, BBU, lady whump, brief suicidal ideation, aftermath of illegal fighting, lots of crying, comparison between Marlow + Star that’s pretty grim

***

“Marlow. Marlow, talk to me.” Bea’s holding her shoulder, fingers digging into the bloody, bruised skin. “What’s going on?”

Marlow looks down, finally registering that someone’s touching her. She shakes Bea off, stepping back with her hands by her face. Bea’s short, not too strong, she can get her pinned in an instant. 

A wave of revulsion rolls over her. She’s treating Bea like a threat, like she’s just another opponent she has to take down. “I’m fine,” she says. 

She lost tonight. That’s why she’s soaked in blood and all bruised, why she can barely breathe from the tightness in her chest.

“No. You’re not. It looks like your fingers are broken, Marlow. If you won’t go to the clinic, at least let me take a look.”

Her opponent wasn’t too tall, but he was built like a boar. She wanted to wear him out, and then take him down, but he got her pinned and she took one hell off a beating before she could shake him. And then he took her down again and again and again until someone decided to call the match. 

“I’m fine. Fuck, Bea, I said I’m fine.” Marlow knows her fingers are broken, two of them on the right hand.

“You need to stop. Please. You’re killing yourself. You see that, don’t you?” 

Marlow looks like a monster, her body streaked with blood. She’s been destroyed again. Her mind flares with fear, remembering that man on top of her, pinning her down, and she takes an instinctual step back.

Bea sighs. “If you won’t let me help you, then just go. I can’t…I can’t look at you like this if you’re going to insist on killing yourself and you won’t talk to me. Just please. Go.”

Marlow takes a shaky breath. “Yeah. Okay.” She gathers a change of clothes and her shower caddy before practically sprinting out of their dorm room. 

Taking her clothes off is a process. They’re practically stuck to her skin with dried blood and sweat, and when she puts her hands over her head, her ribs feel like they’re cracking. She climbs into the shower, turning the water on. 

The hot water rolls down her back, mixing with the blood and creating a red puddle at her feet. Her entire body’s swollen, she has cuts everywhere from her opponent hitting her hard enough to break skin. 

Marlow sighs. This was her choice, she wanted this, wants this now. Wants this even though her body hurts all over. 

She doesn’t normally lose like this, she’ll go to sleep thinking over each move she made, and she’ll wake up early tomorrow morning and hit the gym to fix her mistakes. 

She’ll get through this. She’ll learn, she’ll move on. Marlow’s seen people who can’t recover. They get killed, or worse. 

You’re killing yourself.

Marlow knows. She doesn’t need Bea or Finn to tell her. But it’s better than nothing, it’s better than being forced into stillness and monotony.

She was made to fight. 

And she wishes she wasn’t.

The water hurts, soap hurts even more but she has to get the dust out of the wounds so they don’t get infected. 

A deep wave of sorrow slams into Marlow, seemingly out of nowhere. Just go. Please.

Kid, are you sure you wanna do this? There’s no going back. 

Yeah, I’m gonna chew you up and spit you out, little wildcat. 

It’s a sorrow so powerful she drops to her knees. She hasn’t even finished washing the blood off, but the runoff water is down to a pinkish color. She bends over, pressing her chest to her thighs, curling herself up as small as possible. 

Marlow Lancaster begins to cry. 

Quiet, at first, barely noticeable until her chest starts heaving and small noises escape her lips, she presses her hand to her mouth to muffle the noises. 

She likes fighting, she does, but she doesn’t like how she feels after. Hollow. And she hates how feels like she always has to run and run. 

Because the second she sits down, when she stops, she feels like she’ll die. 

Marlow’s grab bag, her emergency stash of clothes, cash, and granola bars, sits in her dorm, but the girl herself stays on the shower floor and cries. 

***

“Star, w-wait.” Sunny stares up at her from his spot on the floor, his blue eyes wide. “Y-you need my, my help.” 

“No, it’s okay. I’m fine.” Star limps to the bathroom, blood dripping down her back and legs. Hunter whipped her again. She can’t remember why. 

Star is very clearly not fine, her head is swimming, she’s bleeding everywhere. But she doesn’t want to ask anything of Sunny, knowing how tired the boy is. 

“A-are you s-sure?” he asks. “You l-l-look ha-half d-dead.”

“Yeah, honey. I’m fine. I’m just going to take a shower.”

“S-Sir is go-going to k-k-kill you,” he stammers. “You’ll g-get your, yourself k-killed.”

Star clenches her fists. What does she even say to that, where does she start? I know and I’m sorry but I can’t stop, I’m a broken pet and I deserve to die and sometimes I want to die but I can’t because I won’t let myself and I won’t leave you alone.

But she doesn’t say that. “I’m fine,” she repeats. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not, n-not wrong.” Sunny tangles his hands into his shirt. “Y-you’re not a g-good pet and you’re ki-killing yourself.”

“It’s fine, Sunny. I’m fine.”

He shakes his head. “N-no. B-but go sh-shower. And t-then come ba-back and we, we can g-go to sleep.”

“Okay.” She leans down, back burning with the simple movement, and kisses him on the forehead. “I’ll be back.”

Star limps into the bathroom, stripping off her clothes and stepping into the shower. 

The water pressure is all but gone and there’s mold on the faucet, but Mr. Bianchi can’t be bothered to hire a plumber to fix it. Star doesn’t think it’s bad mold, she doesn’t care much. The water seeps through her cuts and she almost screams from the pain, pressing her hand to her mouth to muffle the sound. 

She falls to her knees in the tub, the faucet still relentlessly pounding on her back, but she doesn’t move away, not from that or from the mildew mere inches from her face. Sunny must have heard the crack her knees make when they collided against the porcelain, but he doesn’t come knocking.

She’s a bad pet. Discipline is necessary for the well-being of a pet, but she’s punished every single day and she’s still a defunct product, she’s still not good enough for Mr. Bianchi because she’s a impudent little bitch who needs to be put in her place. 

Go sh-shower. And t-then come ba-back and we, we can g-go to sleep.

Star bursts into tears. 

She doesn’t like fighting, but she can’t stop herself. And she doesn’t like being good, either, because not only is she humiliated but she still gets hurt, she still has to take the pain because Handler Greco taught her that no matter what she does, good or bad, she has to suffer. 

Her tears splash to the tub beneath her, mixing in with her blood. 

She won’t survive like this, she knows that. 

She was made to be Mr. Bianchi’s.

And she wishes she wasn’t.

The only thing keeping her bound to this place and the earth is her bonded, the beautiful boy with golden hair sitting in the pet room, but the girl stays on the shower floor and cries.