Chapter Text
NED
Damn heartburn always acts up when he lets himself get too stressed. Ned shifts in his seat as he stares at the man across the desk from him. He doesn’t let it show that there’s a rising itch climbing up his throat and making him want to gag. He rubs at his sternum and tries to keep the movement small and subtle, unwilling to give any sign of weakness to the man across from him.
Edward Teach is one of few of the old guard that Ned can consider his cohort in the hybrid fighting world. Ed is popular and engaging, an intimidating man with a handsome smile and a terribly intelligent glint in his eyes. Ned can’t say he despises him, even though his stomach roils unpleasantly whenever he’s in the room with the man. Ned respects him more than anything. Like himself, Edward has climbed his way up the ranks to the top of the underworld. At first, he’d thought they would be friends, or at least cordial. However, it quickly became clear that he and Ed had drastically different views on how to run their dogs. Ed lacked polish, if you asked Ned, to say the least.
“Good to see you, Ned. Can I pour you a drink?” Edward says, leaning back comfortably behind his desk as he puts out a cigarette.
Ned has visited Ed’s kennel from time to time, to observe the competition—Ed’s team was always just a step ahead of Ned’s own dogs. It was a professional courtesy from back in the day, when they were both rising stars. As much as the fights were no-holds-barred, before they could blood test the dogs for performance enhancing drugs the different Kennel Masters used to drop by each other’s places under the guise of professional friendship. Everyone knew what it was, and the act is still more about stealing secrets than anything else. Ed’s kennels are more like a dungeon, another part of his heavy metal performance. Ed’s dogs are barely hybrids, their personhood completely and systematically stripped from them until they’re basically animals. Unspeaking beasts with jagged, exposed ribs and dripping mouths. No one makes a habit of going by Ed’s kennels too often.
“Scotch, if you have it,” Ned replies, having already seen the bottle of Lagavulen in the cabinet on his way in. It’ll burn like hell but at least it's delightfully rich and smokey. Ed walks over to his liquor cabinet and pours two fingers into a crystal glass, offering it to Ned. Their fingers don’t touch on the hand-off, both of them assiduously avoiding actual contact. “Are we here for a drink between friends, or is there business on the agenda?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard all the rumors about my retirement? They’re true,” Ed says, flashing that charming grin of his and looking too beautiful by far.
The rumors of Ed’s retirement came from the fact that his dogs weren’t winning any more. There was no new blood in his pool, and they’d had two in-ring fatalities of older dogs this month. Ed was racking up fines, not even attending the fights in person—he just didn’t seem to care any more. As if ‘care’ was ever something Edward Teach could have been accused of, even in the glory days.
Ned has never seen one of Ed’s dogs without a muzzle and a thick studded collar. Ed liked piercing his dogs too. Ears, noses, nipples, whatever flap of skin he could needle through so that in the desperation of a fight the little bits of metal would be ripped out and make sure the whole affair got nice and bloody. There was something undeniably beautiful in the way that Ed’s dogs fought. They weren’t in the ring to show off, or prove they were the best, or make money. Ed’s dogs fought for survival. The movements weren’t honed and they weren’t practiced, his creatures were desperate, mean, and once one of Blackbeard’s boys bit down, it was never letting go. Ned appreciated it as an art form, so long as he didn't let himself think of the consequences. In some dark corner of his mind Ned boxed up his knowledge of how these dogs fought and what it must mean, and labeled it a performance. He was more comfortable that way. Ed’s dogs changed frequently; they fizzled fast for the most part, a constantly cycling crew with tattooed numerals on them as their only names, the digits rising rapidly.
Even outfits with more positive reputations modeled their fighting style and fashion after the way Blackbeard dogs went down for a fight. It was cool, it was authentic and it won the matches. For two decades Ed has been winning his matches and losing his dogs.
So, now Ed has decided to retire. Retire. Ned isn’t innocent himself. His hands were stained with the blood of the dogs. Dogs catching a sharp maw to the jugular and bleeding out in his arms, applying pressure and watching the light leave confused and panicked eyes. The dogs didn’t do anything to deserve this but be born into a body for which the world only had a handful of uses. Some were prostitutes, some did backbreaking labor, and life was hard in a thousand little ways for any of them that tried to live autonomously. They’d end up in prison and then back in one of the three professions that seemed to find these pitiful hybrid creatures.
There were always sly and untrustworthy men in the shadows ready to take the vulnerable hybrids and profit off of them. Ned himself was one of them. And now Edward Teach thought he could take his roster of dogs, a ledger soaked in blood, and simply wash his hands of it? The idea makes Ned want to groan out loud, the ridiculousness of it and the the acidic scotch bile churning in his gut making him worse at keeping his cards close to his chest. He manages just an eye roll. You can’t retire from a place like this or a job like this. Even if there are no dogs left in your kennels, the blood is built into the very bricks of the foundation.
Still, he supposes that Blackbeard can do whatever he damn well please. From what Ned had seen, he always has so far.
So Ed wants to retire. And he’s called Ned here for…what?
“Like I was saying.” Ned’s focus is pulled back to Ed, watching smoke curl out of his mouth and into his mustache. The whole room smells like smoke, it’s made the dog sitting behind him sneeze more than once. Ned's guard dog was a huge mastiff twice Ned’s size. Loyal, strong, built for the fight and for the win. “I want you to buy him from me. I’m a bit sentimental about this one. I think it’d be best if he die in the ring but I’ve had him at max schedule for two months and this fucker doesn’t die. He’s housebroken when he wants to be, but I got a lot of trips planned and he’s always alone in the kennels. It's getting hard to take care of him. He’s worth more than some fuckin’ bait breeder would pay, even with his record. He needs to be a fighter. S’what he's made for.”
“Who?” Ned rolls his eyes slowly, “I don’t want any of your backyard breeding fuck-ups.”
Ed sneers at that, lip twitching back into a low doglike growl. Ned feels himself smirk, two fresh fingers of scotch in his system taking away the stiffness and misery for just a moment.
“Fuckin hell man, you been listening to me? This ain’t no fuck-up, it’s my damned prize fighter. Blue ribbon bitch.”
Now that catches Ned’s attention. “You don’t mean…”
Ed lifts his gloved hand and beckons in a silent cue. In response to the command, the doors open and a crate is wheeled into the room by the young delinquents that kennels usually ended up employing as handlers. They’ve been the only staff of Teach’s that Ned has seen since he got here. The box they're carting is small and wooden. Usually a dog is only kept in such a small crate if they’re trying to keep the creature off their feet for some reason. Wheeling a dog for sale out in one was a tell he was surprised at Ed for showing. Peering inside, Ned can see a small black or dark gray body, tucked into one corner. When he catches a glimpse of the eyes, they are feral. Wide and red, darting around, this creature is not in its right mind. Either drugged or damaged. It’s claws digging into its arms as it tries to pant behind the black leather muzzle digging into its face. It’s half naked, save for some tattered leather pants and bindings around its lower legs. Ned knows this dog, the bait dog that went pro.
Israel Hands.
Ned knows he’s staring too hard, his eyes are too wide and confused as the crate is wheeled to sit beside Ed’s desk. The dog inside almost immediately starts to whine, pressing against the crate as if reaching for Ed. It’s not surprising. This dog was always with Ed, from the very beginning. Ned always considered him more of a pet, a guard dog, even a companion. If it had been anyone else, Ned would have assumed the two of them were friends, or partners. Izzy would come to the after parties when he was younger, even punch drunk and bloody. Ned had watched Ed share cigarettes with Izzy, even eat from his plate. It’s not uncommon for Kennel Masters to have this kind of relationship with a dog or two, so Ned would have never in a million years thought that Ed considered him something sellable.
“He’s my last big drop off before I can finally get out of this game.” Edward pats the top of the crate. Izzy is whining inside as he’s disoriented by the thumping and strains to feel his master's hand. “Like I said, it would have been a kindness for him to go out in the ring. It’ll be hard for him to adjust to a new owner since we've been together since we were both pups. After he’s done fighting though, if you ignore breed standards, breed him with something big enough…” Ed eyes the mastiff hybrid stationed behind Ned.
Ned’s having a moment. “Edward, he’s our age.” Forty in a few months, but who’s counting? Behind his eyes he’s remembering every time he has seen Izzy fight, at Ed’s side, tucked under Ed’s arm. Izzy’s existence as half of Ed Teach is why Ned could ignore all the other battered and desperate dogs that came and went through Ed’s Kennel. Surely Ed takes care of his dogs, surely Ed gives a shit about them as living things, if Izzy has been around so long. Ned's seen Ed kiss Izzy, grope him on the way back to the holding room. How is Izzy just another dog to him? He’s stuck in the mental loop, feeling sick to his stomach. “How on earth haven’t you seen him retired yet?” Ned sits up in his seat, digging his nails into the plush arms of his chair. Ned retires all of his dogs once they hit thirty, or when their bodies fail them and their fight goes out. A cut of their winnings, a place to stay while they figure out what's next and then sent on their way. Ned had always assumed that Ed did the same. It was literally the least they could do.
“Retire?” Ed sneered, “A fuckin killer like Iz? Hell no, no point. I’d get put away for even considering the idea, if he did something savage and they traced him back to me. My dogs fight until they drop, Ned. Izzy’s got at least another dozen good fights in him. Hell, throw him back in the bait pen and he’ll train your pups up good. But he doesn’t have any skills, fucker doesn’t even talk. He’d die faster than if I shot him, if I just let him go. ” he slips his fingers into the cage and scratches Izzy between the ears.
Izzy melts into the affection, desperate for scraps like a starved animal. Ned wonders if his capacity for receptive language is impaired or non-existent, or if the wretched thing is just used to Ed talking about him like this.
“Why don’t you just keep him, then?” Ned hisses, he knows the dog will struggle terribly adjusting to any normal life after the one he’s lived. The wretched thing probably can't even form another bond with another Master.
“Ah, the new guy I'm seeing? He’s one of those big hybrid rights guys. He’ll flip if he finds out that I've been involved in this shit. I gotta bulldoze the kennels before I could have him over. Can’t have Iz in the house, he bites. And honestly keeping him fed, looked after and shit, I've got no time for it. I’m always out. Got an apartment in the city.”
The dog whines, gnarled gray tail thumping on the ground as Ed tweaks one of his piercings. The scene makes a sharp bolt of red hot anger shoot through Ned’s gut.
Ned watches, silently. His knee bounces as he leans forward, the dog at his back leans around to watch. “How much?”
Ed smiles and his eyes light up with excitement, like a fisherman with a taut line. “Thirty-five thousand.”
Thirty-five thousand is a lot. “He’s injured. He’s old. You’re selling me a fucking fixer upper that’s barely worth fixing. Five.”
“A fixer upper? Five is an insult. He ripped some poor fucker’s throat out last night! Thirty. Just needs some antibiotics and a bath.”
Five is an insult. Ned gets his head on straight. “Fifteen, I’d pay twenty five if you took him for a vet inspection before transferring his contract.”
Ed sucks at his teeth for a moment, taking a drag of his forgotten smoke, “Sixteen and I’ll give you my secret recipe for his food. Make the transition easier.”
“Whatever.” Ned stands, steadying himself. He shouldn’t have had the whiskey— he’d already had a few just to get himself in here. “Wired to the same place?”
“Of course.” Ed smiles wide, “You have fun with him Ned, he’s good for everything.”
Ned refrains from snapping his teeth at Ed as the other man winks. Too much time spent with only his dogs for company. He knows that Ed samples his dogs, especially Izzy. After particularly bloody matches he had hauled Izzy off practically ass first. Ned can’t act like he hasn’t gotten his blood up the same way, given into the same urges, but at least his dogs have the language to agree. He waves a hand at his old enemy and turns away.
“Boris, Get the crate.”
The dog behind his chair rises, towering over both of them easily. Ed gives an appreciative raise of his brows. Boris is one of Ned’s older and more trusted dogs. You’d think he’d be a thundering and drooling thing, but Boris is always soft in his way. He slips around Ned and over to the crate. Inside, Izzy starts to growl, snarling deep in his throat at the larger dog. Thankfully he can’t bite or lunge due to the muzzle and the size of the cage. Soft and steady Boris isn’t bothered by the proximity to such an anxious dog. There’s something like pity on the larger dog’s velvety face.
Boris takes hold of the cage, and begins to push it out of the room. Inside, Izzy seems to register what is happening, sensing the distance growing between him and his master, and yowls loudly as he scrabbles back towards Edward. He reaches through the slats for Ed, who seems completely unbothered, turning towards the work on his desk.
Ned follows behind the two of them, glancing back one final time as Ed’s phone begins to ring.
IZZY
The car ride is silent, and Izzy is in the crate. Izzy usually gets to ride in the front seat with Ed unless he’s filthy from a fight. When he wins. He usually wins unless the other fucker does some dodgy shit with points. He can’t smell Ed. His brain is foggy with fever, or maybe drugs. Sometimes when Ed takes him to the vet he’ll drug him up so he can’t behave too inappropriately. It’s hard for Izzy sometimes, to be good. To remember never to talk. Last time he started talking it was because he had a fever, like now. But he needs to remember. He needs to show everyone what good care Ed takes of him.
He can’t smell Ed.
Izzy shakes his head, trying to clear the fog. Izzy is in the crate. His leg hurts so badly, he wants to lick it but the tight crate doesn’t make that position possible. He can only smell another large dog, and a human that isn’t Ed. Familiar, but his brain is too foggy to place it. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve this; being in the crate. Was he bad? What did he do wrong? If Ed will just tell him then he can fix it, he can, he can always fix it. Ed’s the one that gets overwhelmed, takes on too much, can’t finish what he starts, but eventually he always breaks down and trusts Izzy with his problems, and Izzy always fixes it.
The car stops moving.
“You, bring him inside. Boris, The burgundy room should be free and suitable for a quarantine newbie. Get him straight to the bathroom first and wait for me. I need a moment.” The man, Ned Low, Izzy’s dizzy mind supplies, is speaking. A room? The bathroom? Why, what’s happening? Where is Ed? Why can’t he smell Ed?
“Are you sure, Sir? In the house…he may be more comfortable in the kennels. With the rest of the fighters.” This new voice has a familiar accent, a lot of very doglike hybrids carry the same hoarse and sharp way of speaking thanks to their mutated vocal chords. Why is a hybrid speaking? Does he not fear the whip? The cane? Speaking amongst themselves was bad enough, but to his Master? Where is Ed?
“It’ll overstimulate him if we take him to the Kennel now, Boris. Maybe later. I’m not even sure we can get him in fighting shape. For now, I want him under observation in the house.” The man coughs wetly and it smells like acid. “Excuse me.”
“Yessir.”
The crate is moving, being lifted and wheeled out of the car. Izzy whines, clinging to himself and trying to curl into a ball. With every second that passes there is less of Ed left in his nose. He’s further from their compound than he hardly ever goes. Why is he so far from Ed? He’s supposed to be with Ed. He can’t protect himself in the crate, can’t hide, can’t lunge and bite. Pain zips through his injured knee and he bites back a howl as he’s jostled.
“Sorry, friend.” He hears from the hybrid moving his crate. Why is he apologizing? No, why is he speaking? Izzy snarls in response through his muzzle. The other hybrid sighs, setting Izzy's cage down.
They wait for the man, pretending that neither of their senses are keen enough to hear him retching in a different bathroom in the house. Finally Ned returns, and steps in front of the crate. He smells like alcohol and rot. There's a burning scent coming from somewhere deep inside of him, it makes Izzy’s nose crinkle behind the muzzle.
A metal bar slots between the top of the crate and the side, and pries the top up. The nails holding it in place pop and groan as they’re ripped out. Part of Izzy considers bolting, snapping and snarling and twisting until he’s free and then darting off. Another part of him is petrified, so he doesn’t move. A more pragmatic part of him, not held under by the shroud of panic and infection and medication, knows that his leg is shot, and he wouldn’t have a chance. He sits, like a good dog.
The walls of the crate fall away and Izzy comes face to face with Ned Low. The handful of times he had seen him up close, in the kennels behind Ed’s or at after parties, Ed had thought he was looking down his nose at them. So Izzy thought he had been looking down his nose at them. It makes his teeth itch for a bite. Behind Ned stands a large mastiff mix. Izzy halfway thinks he recognizes him too, accompanied by the memory of blood on his tongue. This man is…strange. Skin pale and sallow, almost yellowish. His hair is going white and unkempt, hanging down around his temples and ears in long wispy strands. His clothes look almost too big for him, hanging off his shoulders, clothes that had been lovely and high quality but had been in use too long, cared for but never updated. “Hello there.” Ned says slowly, “Don’t worry, I'm not going to hurt you. If we’re lucky, I won’t even need to touch you. Just need to clean you up. Don’t want my kennel getting infested with whatever this is.” He gestures at Izzy broadly and Izzy snaps his jaws behind the muzzle in response.
There’s a moment, a flash in Ned’s eyes, that makes Izzy still. This man isn’t Ed, but he’s still dangerous. Izzy stares at him, tail twitching and ears pinned back, hair standing on end.
“So it seems you understand me, Israel?” Izzy perks up a bit, he’s been asked a question. He needs to respond.
He nods.
Ned smiles, revealing darkened and damaged teeth, ground down. “Good boy.”
Izzy can’t help but preen at the praise, tail wagging hard. It’s not like Ned’s praise mattered, but he couldn’t remember the last time Ed had called him a good boy. He hasn’t been good lately, he’s been a stinking, mangy mutt, needy as fuck. Ed’s voice infiltrates his thoughts. Has he been needy again? He knows he gets needy. Pathetic. He can hear his tail still thumping on the floor even though he’s willing it to stop, embarrassed.
Ned reaches into the crate slowly, hand extended for Izzy to sniff. He doesn’t want to smell Ned. He couldn’t smell any less like Ed. Ed’s scent is strong, vital, smoky, it wraps around the sinuses like a many-limbed thing and establishes dominance. Ned’s scent is weak, complicated, barely able to root out, hiding beneath the scent of different kinds of sickness and a strange medicinal sharpness. Izzy smells antibiotics, a smell he knows well. The rot one got when an organ that should be cleaning and filtering can’t any more. Even a dying dog deserves scenting though. Izzy does want to placate the human. He sniffs gingerly at his hand, he doesn’t snap behind the mask, doesn’t make any aggressive moves. Izzy won’t bite. He won’t. He won’t bite people.
“Good Boy,” Ned says again, and it’s like a zip of pleasure straight to Izzy’s brain. He’s been trained well. “Let’s get to work then.”
Ned rocks back on his heels, unhooking a lead from his belt. No other dogs were around, save for the other Hybrid who had wheeled Izzy’s crate in. Ned leans over Izzy in the crate and clips the leash on. Izzy can’t help the change in him that he feels once he’s on a leash, in a cage again consisting of a single short leather strap. His hackles half raise again as he surges with the urge to fight, to bite, to run, it’s all back and gnawing at his brain. This man isn’t my master. I don’t trust him. He’s holding the leash. Ned senses his pause, and searches Izzy’s face before giving the lead a soft tug to guide Izzy out of his thoughts and out of the crate.
Izzy does his best to be good, he stands without thinking it through, and pain shoots through his lower body as he puts pressure on his injured leg. He chokes on a whine to hide it. Instead he snarls, hoping it comes off like a dislike of the leash. Don’t show weakness. Ed will put you in with the big dogs again. He can’t have a whining bitch by his side.
Ned narrows his eyes, calculating, but shakes his head. “Don’t start. Just follow me.”
Izzy glances around, there's no escape. his leg is completely fucked. He has to alter his gait and use all fours to hide that it can’t handle any weight at all. The other hybrid is almost three times his size. Even if he can fight, he can’t run. Izzy has no choice but to follow.
Izzy hides his limp perfectly as he walks, keeping his head high. Ned can’t know that he normally prefers to be on two legs instead of four. Izzy is a completely furred hybrid, he has full ears and a snout. Plenty of hybrids less dog-formed than he is still prefer all fours. He may have to go, but he will have some dignity.
Izzy is led to a bathroom, sterile and clinically clean room with white tiled floors and walls. It shocks him with memories of the washrooms in the rings
His tail tucks between his legs before he can stop himself, to protect his sensitive areas. Ed threw all the dogs into the washroom at the same time to hose off the blood before they went to the back of his cargo truck. Izzy is small and usually tired after his fights, bloody, when all the dogs have their blood up. It’s Izzy’s least favorite part of fight days, everyone biting at each other. Excited by the water, horny from the fights, looking to feel good and sniffing around the smaller dogs and the bitches.
There's a steaming bathtub in the back of the room. They didn’t have baths in the pit lockers. Izzy doesn't think he’s ever had a bath. Ned puts a hand gingerly under one of Izzy’s arms to lift him to standing, and ties Izzy’s leash to the shower pole, a tight knot. He isn’t going anywhere. He whines and gives the leash a short tug, feeling vulnerable standing like this in the sterile room, belly exposed, his body starting to shiver. Stupid. It’d be a short spray with cold water like always. Why would he assume if he saw a steaming bath that it would be for him? The fever was making him stupid.
“Don’t go crying now, you’re alright.” Ned speaks calmly as he gets a duo of towels and a few bottles from a nearby cabinet. “Go ahead and strip out of the pants, please.”
Izzy goes rigid, and swallows hard. A command. He can’t deny a command. Not a command from Ed, but still a command from a person. He has to obey this man until Ed comes back for him. Ed is coming back for him. Ed was talking about the vacation he wanted to take with his new boyfriend, so maybe he’s out of town?
Izzy shakes off his questions, trying to ease the tension of his body, then he begins to undress. His back is to Ned as he unties his pants and kicks them off, biting his tongue behind his muzzle as he puts weight on his bad leg for just a moment to kick the pants off of the opposite leg. He doesn’t move to take off the muzzle or collar, he’s only allowed it off for fights.
“Jesus Christ…” Ned says when Izzy turns to face him, his whole body bare and on display. From the scars lining his thighs and legs, to the oozing and infected wounds around his injured knee, and finally to the daintily tied trap that is his cunt. “You’re a bitch?’
Anger flairs in Izzy. Edward could call him a bitch sometimes when Izzy was being annoying and Ed was mad at him. Sometimes back when they were young, and Ed would take him roughly after his winning fights, calling him a good bitch and filling his ass with come. Izzy doesn’t mind it when Ed calls him a bitch. If Ed wanted pups in him, that would be fine too. But Ned fucking Low isn’t Ed, and Izzy has only been called a bitch one other time.
Back in the first few batches of pups through the Kennels, some knothead in the showers had been drawing attention to Izzy, fucking him, trying to demean him. Some fucked up show of sex as dominance, he’d been raised in too human a household. Izzy hadn’t just torn out his throat, he’d taken the fucking welp apart. Ed had beaten him for killing one of his newest, strongest fighters. The idiots still got to Izzy in the showers, still fucked him in their rut. Izzy wasn’t a completely passive bystander, when the blood was up it was easier to fuck than to let everyone rip each other apart. Too many too close together. But no one ever called him a bitch again.
He snarls, loud and deep. The sound reverberates throughout the room and Ned jumps at it.
“Fuck! Okay! Alright! Sorry. Lord help me.” Ned rolls his eyes but holds his hands up to placate him. “I didn’t know, sorry.”
Izzy’s ears twitch in response, tail flicking. He doesn’t know what to do with a human apologizing to him.
“Bite my fuckin head off for…” the smell seems to hit Ned as his eyes finally land on Izzy’s injured leg. Ned’s eyes go wide, his Adam’s apple bobs like he’s trying to swallow down a gag. “Oh, God.”
Izzy steps back, trying to hide his injured leg behind him, ashamed. The knee buckles and he has to catch himself, straining against his leash with a short yelp until he can steady himself on the shower pole.
“Hey, woah okay. It’s okay.” Ned steps forward as if to catch him, holding his hands out. “God your leg is terrible though- you have to let me fix that. I can- I can do what I can and then my vet will handle it, okay?”
Izzy isn’t sure, he doesn’t trust this human. Can he trust him? He hasn’t made a grab for him, his eyes barely lingered on the silver piercings lining his genitals. He’s wary, but he nods slowly.
“Alright then, we’ll get you lathered, rinsed, then you need a long soak in the bath.”
Ned reaches around him, and Izzy snaps a little, through his muzzle, at the arm as it passes by his head. He cuts the motion off with a growl, jerking back, shaking his head and trying to clear it. His tail tucks even harder between his legs, his ears pin back by way of apology.
“I suppose we’ll be keeping the muzzle on until further notice.” Ned grumbled to himself, arm returning with the shower head. “You can go start dinner, Boris. Do the chicken piccata. Set up the proper things in Izzy’s room. And eat first, I may need you later.” Izzy had forgotten about the other hybrid in the room, and as soon as the giant pads away and the door clicks closed he feels himself relax, just a little.
Ned runs the water, warming it against his hand before holding his hand out for Izzy’s. Izzy has unique hands, not quite a paw and not quite a hand. Full claws, and thicker skin on the palms and fingers of about three-quarter length digits. They’re very useful, as writing and other fine motor tasks are usually impossible for a fully pawed hybrid, but the claws are better for fighting. Izzy obeys. Ned starts the water there, rinsing off one hand, arm, and then the other. Deep brown water starts running off Izzy, blood and fleas and dirt.
”A trim, nothing drastic before we get that muzzle off, just the mats.” Ned is rubbing Izzy’s body under the spray of the warm water as he goes, feeling his ribs, his joints, a professional assessment. That is, until his hands rove across Izzy’s chest, and he lets out a mild appreciative noise.
Izzy knows he’s well muscled, even though Ed hasn’t been able to get around to feeding him a lot lately. His chest is rounded and firm, his shoulders are large for his frame, he has good form. Ed used to comment on it enough for him to believe it. It feels nice to have someone notice. Being touched like this is also a treat, something Izzy knows he needs from time to time. Humans and dogs both need touch, and he is a combination of both. A head pat from Ed here and there, that’s usually all he would really need. This was excessive. Ned turns him and works down his back as well, hands not lingering too long. Inspecting. Appraising. Izzy falls into a kind of trance, the touch and the water and the fever all working together to lull him. It’s unlike the hosing down he’d get at the wash rooms. It’s all encompassing. His eyes droop and for a moment he melts into it, until he hears the shampoo cap.
Izzy goes rigid again, eyes shooting open as he looks at Ned. The man has rolled up his sleeves and is lathering a thick white cream into his hands. It smells like oatmeal. Shampoo? Why does he have-
Ned’s hands are in Izzy’s hair, on his fur. Carefully scrubbing the dirt away from his hair and pelt. Layers of filth that Izzy had perhaps never been rid of. He washes and rinses him twice, Izzy letting out short grunts and growls in between every rinse.
“I’ll wash your leg better after the soak. I’m not touching it yet, but I’m going to trim away most of the fur.” He brandishes a large pair of trimming scissors, and flashes a dark smile, “Hold still.”
Izzy doesn’t get trimmed often, not recently at all. He knows with shame that there are clumps, he tries his best to card through the longer fur on his head and back and limbs, but some is harder to reach. Ed kept him well groomed, when they were young. Izzy likes being well groomed.
Mats get trimmed off his back, under his arms, on his scruff. A thousand little pinches and pulls are alleviated almost all at once. “Lift a leg, for just a minute.”
Izzy opens his eyes, bleary and confused, to look down at Ned. Not far down Ned is kneeling in front of him, which puts him down around Izzy’s chest. Ned is gesturing the shears between his legs.
Izzy whines, a sound that comes out without permission. The thing is, he knows he has mats and clumps around his tail, between his legs. Ned is right. He lifts the bad leg, trembling.
Ned is quick and efficient, even though his hands shake. His eyes linger but he makes no comment on where Izzy’s cunt is sewn shut between five sets of ring piercings on either side of his outer labia. He knows it’s dirty now, unwashed and probably just as infected as the leg. Izzy used to keep it clean, Ed would use him there, only keep him sewn up for heats when it could quicken. Lately, the maintenance has fallen to the wayside. Ed’s very busy these days. He loves someone now.
It’s done. Ned holds out the shampoo bottle, “Would you like to do the honors?”
Izzy holds out his hand, and Ned pours a dollop of the shampoo. Izzy reaches between his own legs, washing at the fur, back to his ass, over the rings. Ned hands him the shower head as well, and Izzy presses the spray between his legs. The water runs a filthy color as he is washed there, he notes with more humiliation.
“Good boy.” Ned mumbles. He walks the few steps to the tub and grabs a lead already attached to a hard point by it, clipping it onto Izzy’s collar and unclipping the one attached to the shower. “Get in the bath at your leisure.
Izzy eyes the water. It doesn’t seem like a trap or a trick. A towel’s been laid down at the bottom so his claws don’t slide along it. The leash has just enough slack for him to step in, and sink down into the warm water. The water burns at his wounded leg and he starts to whine again.
“You’re okay.” Ned reassures, “Good dog. You’re going to be fine.”
Even with his two rounds of shampoo the water slowly turns a sludgy red brown. He dunks his head under when he feels the fleas crawl their way up out of the water to his head, killing the last of them. Ned drains and refills the tub, letting Izzy relax in the warm water. The tension melts from Izzy’s muscles even as he keeps a cautious eye on Ned. The man has moved across the room now, gathering towels and what appears to be a first aid kit. Izzy quirks a brow as Ned pops a few chalky looking tablets into his mouth.
“Alright, now the leg. Up and out.” Ned helps him out of the tub, Izzy does not shake. He doesn’t want to know what Ned will do if he shakes. Ned dries him under a light bulb that gives off a lot of heat, using multiple towels to make sure his multi-layered fur is nice and dry. He has Izzy sit on the edge of the tub, and kneels down in front of him again.
It brings their faces very close together. Izzy can smell the rot on his breath, masked by the cotton candy scent of the medicine. Ned moves slowly, not hiding the tools he is about to use.
Red hot pain shoots through Izzy’s leg and he snarls, jolting back and strangling himself on his leash. He nearly falls back, arms pinwheeling for a moment before he catches himself. Ned holds his leg where he had been touching it, and shakes his head.
“I’m just trying to clean this before I bandage it, you’re okay.” He huffs, continuing to wipe at the oozing wound with a rag. “I really shouldn’t have let you submerge it, but you were filthy. God this is bad. How long have you been hurt like this?”
A question, a question posed directly at him. He…he can’t answer. He remembers the initial injury. The bullet that made him slow. But his slow leg had caught bites lately with all his fights, he doesn't know how long he’s been bleeding from there fresh, or who injured him. He stares at Ned, warily.
Ned sighs and shakes his head, muttering under his breath as he continues to clean the wound. “Tomorrow I’ll take you to my vet. He’ll fix you right up.” His nose crinkles at the smell of infection. He wraps the wound with clean bandages and sits back on his heels, hands resting on his thighs.
“Alright?” He waits for Izzy’s nod before he rocks back onto his feet and stands with a grunt. On instinct, Izzy moves to help him. Ed’s bad knee acted up sometimes, Izzy would always help him. Izzy helps, that's part of why he’s lasted this long. Ned flinches away from his touch though, taking a step back and staring at him. There's something in his eyes, emotions that Izzy can’t read. Izzy takes his hands back, holding them up innocently before dropping them to his sides. “Come on, up then.”
Izzy rises, being careful to not put too much pressure on his bad leg as Ned unties the leash. He follows Ned out of the bathroom where the other hybrid is waiting. A hulking beast of a hybrid, the one apparently named Boris. Izzy stares at him, ears pinned back and eyes narrowed; Boris pays him no mind.
“The bedroom ready? Dinner?” Ned asks, reaching and rubbing the knuckle of his thumb against his sternum. The big dog nods, lifting his hands and making some odd short movements with them. Ned watches his hands move, watches the hybrid’s face twitch and adjust in short expressions. He’s a more partial hybrid, having human hands, and more human expressions beneath the soft velvet of his jowls. “Good,” Ned nods, “Boris, go get him something to eat. Pumpkin puree and bone broth. Nothing heavy.” Boris nods obediently before turning and slipping off.
Izzy is bewildered, everything about this is wrong. A dog Boris’s size would never be allowed to stand in Ed’s presence, all heads had to be below his. Speaking to the hybrid as if they’re people, allowing free rein of the house…Izzy doesn’t get it, “Language is a bit difficult for Boris, he signs a lot around the house. You can ask him to speak if it makes you uncomfortable. He doesn’t have to, but he's kind, he’ll do it.”
Ned tugs his leash, and Izzy follows him down the long hall to wherever he’s being led. The pit in his stomach twists and makes him feel sick. He’s nude still, having not been offered clothes. He wants to whine, but he doesn’t. He’s painfully aware of how well he’s been cleaned.
Finally they come to a small door, Ned pushes it open and inside is not some butcher's workspace, or fuck dungeon, nothing Izzy has been imagining…it’s a bedroom. A proper bedroom, like Ed has.
They linger in the doorway for a long moment before Ned glances at him, “Well? Go on. Inside.” he nods towards the interior of the room. Izzy glances at him before he slowly pads inside. The room inside is scentless compared to the hall outside, though obviously other dogs have called the room home. He sniffs around carefully, trying not to assume too much.
“The room is yours. That means you can move things, use things, just…don’t mark the walls, please. Use the bathroom for everything that comes out of you. You can do that? Do you know how to do that?” Ned asks with a light groan. As if remembering something from the past. He stares at Izzy until Izzy gives him a sharp nod. “Great. If you’re lying, and you don’t know how to use a human toilet, Boris will show you. I never even have to know. The only other person in the house overnight is Boris. He plays nice, he’ll be bringing you your dinner in a bit.”
That quirks Izzy’s attention. Dinner? Here? How would that work? Back in Ed’s kennel, the dogs had to go up to a special slot by the door, heads pressed back to a board to still them while Ed or a random hand quickly snaked a tube down their throats, through the slats on their muzzles. It was easier that way, it made more sense to pump 2000 calories down a tube in a minute than feed them all three times a day and make all that fuss. Then Ed could go about doing everything he needed to do with all the dogs perfectly fed and watered. If some dogs didn’t like the process, they were free to skip it for as long as they liked. The fight schedules would remain the same. “Yes, dinner. Not anything good though, until later. You’ll upset your stomach.”
Ned stifles a yawn and gives his body a little shake. “I’ll leave you be then. Good night Izzy. This room and the en suite will be locked from the outside for your first few nights here. The window is fused shut. If you need out, just flick this switch by the door and it’ll alert us.”
Ned unclips Izzy’s leash, then turns and slips away down the hall.
Izzy stands where Ned left him in the center of the room for a long while, waiting for something. Anything. What are the house rules? Where are the other dogs? Where is he supposed to sleep? The bed doesn’t take up the entire room, he could sleep in the corner, but each corner is occupied. A shelf, a trash can, a hamper, a dresser. And along the walls are the other things that make up a room. A desk, with a small chair. A window with a comfy looking bench under it. Izzy listens hard, and it seems like Ned really did go to bed. He glances at the clock on the wall to see that it reads 7:38 pm. Was it normal for Ned to be asleep at such a time?
The house slowly starts to reek of chicken. Chicken, lemon, capers, butter, the heady smell of deep fry oil. Izzy hasn’t eaten in a few days and the smell is absolutely dizzying. He can hear Ned sleeping, a dragging snore that can’t be more than two doors away. How is he sleeping through this smell?
Maybe it’s a punishment, to sit here so hungry and smell this smell. Izzy had lapped up some water through the muzzle while he was in the bath, so he is at least confident he’ll be okay until morning. Waking this hungry will be hard, but he can do it. He’s done it before.
He can’t seem to bring his body to do anything but stand there, naked, waiting for what comes next.
But nothing comes. At least nothing bad. No punishment comes besides the tantalizing smell, no tricks. Izzy’s senses hone in on more dogs entering the building, maybe six to eight. The sound of silverware on plates, friendly chatter, laughter. They’re sharing the chicken meal downstairs while Izzy just has to listen and smell. It actually feels very cruel.
Boris comes to his room only a few minutes after the dinner downstairs begins, seeming surprised to find Izzy standing in the center of the room. He has a tray of food in his hands, and sets it down on the dresser with a friendly smile. Izzy growls at the intrusion into his newfound territory, but Boris just gives him an apologetic duck of his head as he opens the top drawer of the dresser and pulls out a pair of wrap briefs, meant to go on easily around a longer tail like Izzy's.
Izzy takes them gingerly from his large soft hands, and sets some of his weight against the bed to get them on with his bad leg. The wounds on it look to already be seeping through the bandage.
Next Boris pulls out the chair from under the desk and gestures to it. Izzy hobbles over to sit, keeping a wary eye on the larger dog.
Boris brings his food over to the desk, with some utensils, and quietly moves to sit on the floor next to him, wincing at some pain in his own leg as he does so. He ducks his head and keeps it low, looking away from Izzy and his food.
Izzy appreciates the sign of respect, and looks at the tray.
“Mr. Low says you need to eat,” Boris says, gravelly and low, “something before I go.” He doesn’t have good breath control. A lot of hybrids can’t control their breath well for speech. When Boris speaks it has to be on an exhale. It’s a bit slower than human speech, pausing to take breaths in and get as many words on the exhale as possible. When they yell, it sounds more like a bark than anything. “Just a few bites will do.”
Izzy stares at the tray. There's a bowl of pumpkin purée, watered down, a glass of pale apple juice, and about a tablespoon of the chicken he’s been smelling minced up in a tiny bowl off to the side. There’s also a tiny plate with the smallest round of some kind of cream colored dessert. Izzy smells it. Sugar, rice, eggs, fat, all precious parts of a meal.
His mouth waters almost viciously. It strikes him that this isn’t a trick. There are dogs downstairs right now digging into chicken and pasta and not protein mixture through a tube, straight to their bellies.
Izzy’s hands tremble, he balls them up on either side of his tray. He wants this food. He wants to eat it and chew it and he wants to feel it in his belly, heavy and healing for the burning sensation there. Ed left him here, Ed is gone now, so Ed probably wanted him to have this food too. His head is still so fuzzy and this makes sense, maybe he really won’t get in trouble for eating something that looks so much like human food.
Just when he's starting to panic, wondering how he’s going to describe his problem, wondering how he’s going to eat this food he desperately needs, he sees that one of the metal utensils on the tray is a straw.
Izzy wonders if he can use a straw. He has never used one before unless it was forced past his gag reflex and down his throat.
He gives it a tentative try, lining the straw up in the pumpkin puree through a gap in his muzzle and seeing if he can seal his snout in such a way as to provide suction. It’s a moderate success, but the puree is too thick, and gets stuck halfway up the straw. He modifies the dish, pouring the apple juice into the puree, and tearing the chicken up into an even finer mince before adding it to the bowl of food, salivating the entire time, trying to lick away the slobber before Boris notices.
It gets to his mouth. There’s terrible logistics, he isn’t good at getting food from his mouth down his throat, and swallowing is difficult. The watery puree drips out of the sides of his mouth and he has to lick and try again, lick and try again.
It’s the best meal he can remember eating. The pumpkin tastes like the earth, like sugar and salt and comfort. Each chicken bit hits his tongue in a satisfying burst of flavor and sends the message to his brain and stomach that he has protein, he’s going to be okay.
He mixes the dessert up with the small glass of water that is the only thing left on his plate. That’s less delicious, low on the protein that his body craves, but he’s still glad to have it. His stomach hurts, cramping around all the sugar and starch that usually wouldn’t feature in his meals. It’s nice to not be bloated though, like the large dose of calories once a day would make him feel. Boris clears his plate and takes the dishes downstairs, and Izzy is alone in his territory again, feeling much more in ownership of it.
Izzy knows the best way to deal with a stomach ache is to sleep through it, so he slips off his chair and under the desk, curling into a tight little ball and falling asleep instantly, more exhausted than he’s been in a long time.
Izzy wakes up in the night close to bursting, it takes a minute to orient himself, but he remembers his promise to Ned and heads to the en suite to piss. He doesn’t turn on the light, there’s enough glow from the moon outside his window. It’s a simple bathroom, a sink, a shower and a toilet. More than he needs. The toilet looks different than anything he’s seen before, but he told Ned he knew how to use one and he isn’t a liar, so he gingerly sits on it.
He feels shame again, knowing that he has to piss through his closed up cunt. How it still smells almost as bad as his leg, even after the bath. It feels discordant, his filthy body living in this clean and tidy room. He looks around for toilet paper but can’t find any, and in his search, he braces himself on a small panel beside the toilet, and warm water shoots up against his ass.
Izzy yelps, jumping a foot in the air and landing hard as his bad leg folds underneath him.
He stays on the floor for a minute, staring at the toilet. It seems utterly bizarre and yet makes total sense. Hybrids with paws would need something like this to get clean, to be pampered house dogs.
Izzy could use it to get clean, too.
He scrabbles back up onto the toilet again, turning on the light as he goes. He blinks against the harsh and sudden light, and then examines the buttons. This leads him to the conclusion that there are too many buttons. He steels himself and pushes one of the more prominent ones.
The spray is targeted, he has to give it that. Right up into his slit. He shifts around as the spray goes, restarting it a few times. He presses a different button, and the spray seems to get stronger. He presses it a few more times. The water finally has enough pressure to get through the rings, tightly bound together by the string. It feels itchy at first, his whole crotch is always itchy when it’s bound, but as he shifts a little, more and more, he finds the areas he can penetrate. Instead of an itch it starts to feel like a scratch, fresh clean water flowing through his bound together mess of a cunt. He’d had heats since the thing had been tied, desperate and sealed up and drooling, all that slick just drying and gumming up and clinging to him.
He loses all track of time in the pulse of water, the feeling of being clean and fresh taking away some of his shame. He tests all the buttons, he turns the temperature up, aims the stream all up and down himself, experiments with the pulsing.
“The water has been running just a little for an hour. Drove myself mad trying to find a leaky pipe.” Ned is standing in the doorway to his bathroom, Izzy had totally lost awareness and he yelps in surprise.
Izzy turns off the water and stares angrily up at Ned, embarrassed.
“I’m glad you’ve figured out the facilities. I’m sure it feels good with that whole mess down there. Here. Come on, come to the bed.”
Izzy’s heart starts pounding. Of course Ned thinks he’s some kind of slut now, sitting on the fucking toilet and shooting water up his ass for an hour. He may as well have been begging for attention. He can’t even fault the man, what else would he think? Maybe Izzy did need a thorough fucking, to make sure he was put in his place. The entire day he had been a ripe shit. Ed put him here, so Ed wants him here. Enough with the dramatics, Izzy.
Izzy grimly limps to the large bed and lays down on his stomach, hips canted up, ready to get it over with.
“I think it’ll be easier for me to reach if you’re on your back.” Ned says mildly, a joke in his tone.
Izzy rolls over. Ed doesn’t have him this way, not usually. He’s a dog and he needs to get fucked like one, is what Ed had to say on the subject.
Ned snaps on two blue nitrile gloves and leaves the room for a moment, returning with scissors. Smaller ones than the shears he trimmed Izzy with, made for precision. “I think we need to get this cord off. Seems unsanitary.”
Ned doesn’t wait for Izzy to process this, he crawls on to the bed, pressing Izzy’s legs wide. Izzy lets them go loose, brain slowly catching up. Ned is going to cut the cord? Edward said he could?
“I wonder if you’ll want to keep the piercings or not. They look long healed.” Ned says mildly, bringing the scissors to one of Izzy’s most sensitive places, “I don’t hate the look of them.”
It takes no time at all to cut a string. Izzy lets out half a sob when the damn thing pulls free, and his outer lips pull free of each other.
Izzy’s belly is full, his back is on a soft bed, his fur is groomed. Something about his cunt being open now, how his lips spread for the human who has seen such good care taken of him today, it fills him with a need he hadn’t expected to feel.
He whines, and rolls his hips. If Ed left him here, he’ll want him to behave right. He’d want Izzy to make Ned happy.
Ned stares down at him with keen interest. “That’s not what this is, pup.”
Izzy’s breath shudders to a stop and shame washes over him like a tidal wave. He can’t stop his whines, and he covers his face.
Ned disappears for a moment and Izzy hears the bedside table open and close. Ned returns between his legs, brandishing something that looks like a large and puffy microphone, “This is your toy, it lives in that drawer and no one else has ever used it. It’s yours. I’m going to show you how to use it.”
Izzy startles a little when it’s turned on, the vibrations coming off of it sending his hair on edge.
Ned is still wearing his blue surgical gloves. He reaches out to Izzy’s hot cunt, rubbing back and over the whole thing, focusing pressure down on Izzy’s little cock, letting his fingers explore Izzy’s slit. It had never occurred to Izzy to just touch down there. It was a dirty place, met only with the dirty places of others.
Ned touches the vibrator to his cock through his hand, at first. Izzy starts twisting, panting. His brain scrambles to understand the sensation, understand the tensing, the cliff he is heading towards. After a few minutes Ned removes his hand, pressing the massive vibrating head straight onto Izzy’s overstimulated cock.
Izzy jerks and pulses, caught entirely off guard by his body betraying him. He can’t control his arms. He doesn’t know where his legs are, and his body is tight and throbbing and for a handful of seconds it’s the most amazing feeling in the world, quickly replaced by too much all at once.
Ned flicks off the toy. Izzy is sniffing and twitching on the bed, belly exposed and feeling more vulnerable than he can ever remember. He wants to scent, he wants to touch, he has the flash of a thought that he wishes Ned had gotten his cock out, or that Izzy at least could sense desire on him. Humans are different though, they don’t always reek of their animal urges, it’s harder to read their thoughts with smell and sound. It would be nice to feel desired.
Needy, pathetic Izzy. Always the same, always reaching. And he reaches now, the fever and the loneliness and the bone-crushing comfort he feels in his body mixing together to form a madness; he reaches for Ned Low.
Ned acquiesces, his larger body settling over Izzy’s, pressing him into the bed fully clothed but still warm and solid. The human’s arms come around Izzy as well, snaking below his sacral spine as Ned relaxes more, breathing deeply into the crook of Izzy’s freshly cleaned neck. He is a Kennel Master, Izzy blearily remembers, he has to know he’s scenting Izzy. One half of Izzy’s tail isn’t trapped beneath him, the gnarled and curled little thing thumping steadily on the bed as they fall asleep.
LUCIUS
Welcome to Bringing it Borzoi! Personal blog to the Personal Assistant of The Bonnet Group Hybrid Rights activism firm founder, Stede Bonnet. As stated in our personal message above we do not accept messages from journalists, fans, or crazed stalkers (unless provided my $500 open book fee).
So what are we doing today you all may be asking? Well, a lot of people have a lot of questions about Hybrids! If you do too then you are not alone, here at BIB we have explainers, rants, essays, and random jokes that I think of while stoned at 3 a.m.
Yes! Hybrids have cannabinoid receptors just like humans, and in some it can make them sick, but others can get really, really high. But that’s for a later article, or go read last week's rant about the non-accessibility of the edible market for hybrids, I mean really.
Anyway!
Owner, Master, Person, Partner, what does it mean to be that special human to a hybrid? It means a lot of things between dogs and humans—some dogs are cherished personal pets, some dogs work, some dogs are responsibilities that owners were not prepared for. No matter what you call your person it should always be your choice. No human should force you to refer to them as anything that makes you uncomfortable.
There’s an important difference when it comes to our canine cousins—they’re either property or illegal. Hybrids have been ruled time and time again to be legal full persons, usually in carrying out harsh punishments against us in our legal system. Rarely ever, before my person Stede got involved, were hybrids considered their own persons in non-punitive situations. We here at BIB and affiliates believe that if Hybrids are expected to follow the same social contract as humans, they need to reap the same benefits.
So while Hybrids are legally distinct from the people that may house them and feed them, how it looks from there is murky and complicated. Many Hybrids love the humans with which they have found companionship, and may value the happiness of their humans over their own. Like all relationships, it’s important to understand what everyone is bringing to the table, and what everyone needs.
From personal experience, I know that if I am not allowed to work for my person, I can get a little antsy. I have more anxiety than most hybrids, and not knowing what he’s doing and if he’s safe causes me a lot of problems, so we came up with my PA role as a solution. This way, I earn money for more independence, as well as practice a well specified dependence. I’ve also taken to pushing myself to relax when it comes to the leash I keep Stede on. It’s important for both of us to have lives outside of our status as hybrid and person. I keep multiple romantic partners and Stede has a boyfriend; both of us see them separately and with very little strain on our dynamic. It’s been a work in progress, as every relationship is. It works for us, but it’s not what works for everyone.
Some Hybrids may not want to live with people. Some people may abuse their Hybrids, leveraging their eager to please nature to use them as prostitutes, fighters, or dangerous laborers. Now we here at BIB don’t cast judgement on these professions, those jobs are simply the best for highlighting that if you feel like the devotion of a Hybrid to their Human makes free will a tricky concept, your instincts are spot on the money.
It is tricky!
We must appreciate nuance in our legislation and our perceptions.
And if you’re a Hybrid reading this, just know that your desires are valid, your dreams deserve to come true, and if you need help talking to your human about how to go about it, send the Bonnet Group a message at the link below.