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cryptidwritings · 5 days

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Dark Water

Chapter 45 : Dignity

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cw: derogatory use of the word 'whore', heavily implied noncon, implied past noncon, convinced (not quite forced) to drink.

...

The storm was still alive as Reid dragged Isidro back to the dock. His feet slipped in the mud as the horses brayed behind him; frightened by the most recent crack of thunder.

“Ye couldn’t even answer what ye were!” Reid laughed through the rain, “My brother pegged ye for a whore. Now I know he was right!”

Isidro's bloodied lips curled in a snarl, “Your brother was a fu- gah!”

Before he could finish, Reid had his hair in a fist, pulling his head back with the other around the chain behind his back. The sudden movement made him dizzy, and he fell back into Reid’s chest.

“Best not speak ill of ye future mates, aye? Seein’ as how ye just lost ye only one.”

The pirate slammed Isidro face-first onto the table. His heart drummed against his chest in a panic, catching in his throat as lightning flashed. The rain kept on it’s onslaught, pummeling Isidro down into the table where his body shook from the cold; running down his aching body and to his frozen toes.

Then the rain settled, and Isidro felt a warmth on his back, and the singe of pressure on his hand. He dared to look, realizing with horror that Reid was draped over him—lips pressed to his ear.

“Ye old boss knew what ye were good for.”

His voice had danger dripping from his lips. Isidro stilled, suddenly not cold at all. Instead he was focused on the feeling of Reid’s body on his, and the way his leg had found it’s way between his own, kicking them wide as he pinned him down.

“Maybe I should follow suit. Let any pirate that comes ashore have their way with ye.” Reid’s breath fell on him. “While I take my time with Theodora.”

Isidro trembled. Reid’s hands gently trailed down his scarred back before lingering at his waistline.

“In fact, I think I’ll like the way ye scream just as much as her.”

The threat made him try and wiggle out from underneath, earning the sharpness of Reid’s elbow in the middle of his back.

“No, no,” his low laugh rolled into the Isidro's ear, which carried to his heart that beat against his chest like the fist of a man buried alive.

Suddenly, he was reeling through the past, wondering what he had done to provoke this. The questions, and their possible answers, ensnared him into a suffocated, panicked silence.

He drowned in the ceaseless rain, unable to keep his broken sobs from falling over his swollen tongue which quickly turned into screams of pain mixed with sounds of desperation—a siren of the war within his body.

Isidro grit his teeth and retreated, allowing the pirate’s mocks to fade into the background; instead tuning in to the rain on his skin, and the wind wicking across his bare back that ached from the cold and sent a deep chill down his exhausted spine.

When the pirate tossed his spent body back into the water-logged cell, he curled in on himself, letting the water wash away the lingering burn of Reid’s fingers indented into his skin.

“See ye tomorrow, fish bait.”

Isidro lie in a heap, unable to feel much except for the throbbing of his hand and the burning hollowness at his center. He blinked, and retreated further, breathing out with an exhausted groan as another shiver wracked his wearied muscles.

“Y-yes, sir.”

...

Reid slammed the door and kicked off his muddy boots. Moss hadn’t moved, though now his legs were splayed out in a V, and his back was fully against the bottom of the frame.

The pirate passed by, making it to his bed where he changed out of his sopping clothes; stopping at his shirt. Bright red streaks of blood were in the fibers where he had leaned over the sailor’s severed fingers. He traced his thumb over the stain, then balled up the shirt and tossed it in the back of the fire.

The lad didn’t stir even after his shackle was loosed. Reid left the other side there even though it really didn’t belong on his dead brother’s bed. Maybe it would serve as a neat little reminder. He might’ve promised Moss a semblance of freedom, but he never said it would last.

“Ye still hungry?”

Moss shook his head.

The pirate retreated with a tired sigh and swiped a half-full bottle from the table. He sat down in front of the fire and leaned back, warming his toes as he uncorked it with his teeth. It went down with a splash.

“Full belly, liquor, a roaring fire, and some rain.” He twisted around to peer at Moss from his chair. “Can’t ask for much else, can ye, lad?”

Moss still didn’t look up.

“C’mere. Drink with me.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

The usual bitter bite in his tone was gone, replaced by the flat response. Reid smirked, then took a small sip, wiping the pleasure off his face along with the small dollop on the back of his hand.

“Sure ye are,” He held the bottle out. “Ye friend lies to ye and ye jus' fine, aye?”

There was a pause, filled by the rain and the crackling fire. Then there came a quiet shuffle, and Moss’ arm appeared, stretching toward the bottle from his hands and knees. Reid pulled it away slightly, looking into Moss’ eyes before flicking out a finger towards the only other chair.

“Take a seat, lad.”

He didn’t argue. No one in their right mind would argue against a chair and a bed, but friendship and all the other sentimental garbage that comes with it clouds even a sane person’s judgement. He’d seen it; experienced it himself. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

Moss crawled, his bad leg trailing behind him awkwardly like an injured dog. He lift himself into the chair, releasing a pained groan as he slowly settled back, then sighed. His body looked tense, with unsure eyes muddied by the orange flame as he massaged the muscles around his wound. Another roll of thunder came and went.

Reid took a swig, then handed it over. Moss grabbed it and put it under his nose; coughing after he took a whiff. Then he drank, coughing again.

“More.”

He shook his head. “I can't.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want to.”

“Ye sure?”

Reid didn’t bother looking at him again, instead focusing on the fire, tossing in the memories of a moment ago as the remnants of his shirt were wicked up by the flames—carried up the chimney in a plume of black smoke.

The lad drank again. Then again.

Before long, Moss’ cheeks were painted with a bit of color stretching across his nose. His eyelids drooped, and his body settled into the chair.

Giving the lad a double dose of the powder was enough to knock him out hard enough to allow Reid to re-dress his wound. It was red and swollen, with swamp algae clinging around and inside it. He flushed it out, and Moss barely responded. If a little powder did that, he couldn’t wait to see what the liquor would do.

“Still not hungry?”

Another shake of the head, and the bottle dropped to the ground.

“Ye feel hurt.” Reid sighed, rocking with a bit of contemplation. “Can’t help that. Everyone has somethin’ to hide. ‘Specially the likes of him.”

Moss grunt. “Tha’s not what bothered me.”

“Oh?”

The lad shook his head. “I’m gonna lie down...” his eye flashed over to Reid, then back to the fire. “If that’s okay.”

Reid smiled. “Aye, lad. Just fine.”

He used the chair to stand, then limped away. His right foot hit the floor with almost his entire weight, making it only a few steps before he resolved to crawl again.

The door shut, and Reid pushed himself out of the chair and towards the small cupboard where another five full bottles were nestled, safe. He opened another and took a drink, letting it fill him out and lift him over to his bed just a few paces away.

The whole ordeal made him almost optimistic. He lie down, setting the bottle on the ground and smirked, not even bothering to lock the door before falling asleep.

...

taglist: @sparrowsage @kixngiggles @honey-is-mesi @annablogsposts @sunshiline-writes

#pirate whump #two whumpees #whump series #captivity whump #tw restraining #manhandling tw #tw implied noncon #drinking tw

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distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

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In League — Dead Ringer, part III

Masterlist

Summary: (Continued from part II) The foreshadowed and promised caning. August is punished by Keats and loses any progress he might have made in making a friend. Takes place two years before August meets Wyatt. Beta-read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, indentured servitude, classism, degradation, manhandling, implied past noncon, burn mention, implied starvation, punishment (caning). Whumper pitting whumpees against each other and being a bully.

“It’s been a spell since I’ve seen you, Fionn,” Keats said, his back to August as he fingered Fionn’s bowtie. “I truly wondered if I’d gotten it right with this new one.” He circled Fionn, keeping an open hand pressed to his throat as he moved to stand behind him. A python holding its prey. “Isn’t he just perfect?” He leaned down, just shy of putting his chin on Fionn’s shoulder so their faces lined up as they regarded August.

Or, rather, as Keats did. Fionn started ahead unblinking, unseeing.

Their master must have been wise to his absence but rather than turn angry, he smirked and winked at August conspiratorially. “I think—” He pulled Fionn closer, forcing him to stand taller by the hand at his throat, and placed the end of the cane between Fionn’s feet. “He’s even better than the last.”

Fionn’s expression crumpled, something of a whimper escaping his lips. His hands at his sides were trembling fists.

Keats laughed, the movement shaking both of them for how close together they stood. His hand at the top of the cane between Fionn’s hips pulling him nearer still.

August averted his eyes, all too aware of Keats watching his every move, feasting on his reactions as encouragement.

“My, my, you have been missing me, haven’t you?” Keats continued, too loudly for it to be an honest exchange. All of this was just another game. “Poor wretched thing…”

How long had Fionn been up here alone? How long for him to be melting into the embrace as if it were salvation and not something wicked?

Some years ago, August had stumbled upon a tangle of limbs at Elmwood. A footman who’d always given him sour glances with one of the stablehands whom he wouldn’t have been able to pick out of the lot of them. He’d turned and run, abandoning whatever errand he’d been sent on and later refusing to return to complete it when he was discovered skulking in the servant’s hall. The footman had taken it on to make August’s life miserable, a display of influence and power, to dissuade him from becoming loose-lipped.

He didn’t realize that August was afraid to even admit to seeing the depravity, fearing any association with it. They’d all been warned about perversions at the workhouse. Had once watched a pair of boys whipped bloody on the racks before being dragged to prison for the crime. With little to look forward to after the workhouse, the boys often occupied themselves ranking the various types of labour they might find themselves indentured to. Among the worst were mining for the stories of being buried alive; factory work that would cost fingers at a time; being shipped to America only to drown on the voyage; and digging sewers whilst knee-deep in shit.

It was a taunting game to assign these wretched fortunes, same as it was an indulgent fantasy to allow themselves to wonder at being chosen by a tradesman, a farmer who’d never had a son, or a shopkeeper in the city in need of an assistant. But after that day, they had been armed with the ultimate derision, born of their shock and fear: Handsomer boys could be bought by twisted men and damned to suffer Hell twofold.

So, August was more than relieved when Keats said, “None of that today, Fionn.” Though the promise in his admonishing tone made August’s stomach flip. Fionn shivered as he was released but remained standing at sharp attention. “I’m not sure if August has informed you, Fionn, but he made a mistake earlier today and we agreed that the natural course of punishment would be the cane—”

“Sir, I thought—” The slap surprised August, a flash of pain on his cheek that brought tears to his eyes.

“You will learn to hold your tongue and speak only when invited.”

He clenched his fists at his side.

“Where was I? We agreed the transgression was deserving of the cane. I’m sure you’ll agree, Fionn.”

“Yessir,” came his well-trained reply, face betraying no emotion.

August swallowed. He hadn’t imagined they’d formed any sort of understanding in such a short time, let alone some sort of alliance, but it still felt like something of a betrayal for Fionn to simply accept this course of events. Perhaps it was purely self-preservation, which August ought to imitate rather than resent.

Their master tapped the end of his cane on the floor. “On your knees now like a good boy.”

There was less shame in simply sinking to the floor. At the very least, he’d be able to hide his reddened face from—

Keats snapped his fingers and August found himself hanging by his bowtie and collar, the oaf holding him from behind. He scrambled to put his feet back under him and straighten, reflexively gasping in a breath as he did, though he wasn’t released.

“You are slow,” Keats observed, grabbing August’s chin in a bruising grip. He turned his head left and right, inspecting him with those beady eyes. “I hope you’ll wind up being worth all of this trouble.” He released August and stepped aside. “I didn’t tell you to move.”

Fionn was on his knees.

“What?” August should have expected the slap this time. Tears spilled down his cheeks but he did his best to ignore them. “He didn’t do anything. Sir, the…mistake was mine, the punishment should be as well.” Keats raised his hand and August cowered as much as he could with the lackey still gripping his collar.

Keats let his hand fall. He paced back and forth like he was having a constitutional through garden instead of threatening his kept boys, cane tapping along with his heels on the hardwood. “You were agreeable downstairs. You thanked me so graciously for sparing you from the cane.”

“Sir, please.” His voice notched higher, made thinner by the pressure on his throat. “I didn’t understand this to be what it meant. I never meant for—”

“You are astonishingly dull-witted.”

“Please, sir. I’ll gladly take the cane myself. He shouldn’t have to pay for my error.” Fionn hadn’t even spared him a momentary glance and August couldn’t blame him. There was little chance they’d find camaraderie after this.

“An admirable sentiment and certainly meaningful as we are learning that your shortcomings far outnumber your strengths.” August felt his cheeks burn, his blood boiling with hatred for this man who was so visibly sated by the suffering he could cause. “Perhaps next time you will employ more of your limited discernment to make a better choice.”

He seethed, holding tightly to his anger rather than dissolve into hot tears of defeat. He wanted to scream, to lunge at Keats and beat him with his own cane, but he couldn’t take a step – let alone hope to best two bigger men.

Keats was smirking. “Yes, best not to fight and make things worse for poor, old Fionn.” At that, Fionn let his gaze fall, just for a moment. Keats turned to see what August was observing but Fionn had already fixed his expression, returning to emptiness. “I was planning to be merciful. Rather than strikes to equal the worth of the item you lost me, just one for each hour that you’ve been here, succeeding only to disappoint.”

August couldn’t help but be relieved. It had to be less than ten, maybe fewer than six. Things really had gone downhill rapidly. Fionn had told him it was fixed, which explained how it could have all turned on him. He felt even guiltier. Fionn had tried to help him. Perhaps if August apologized enough, when this was over, explained that he truly had never intended to pass off the punishment and—

“Unfortunately, I have no way of telling the time…” Keats raised his hands in a theatrical shrug, cane swinging, hooked over one of his open palms. “We’ll simply have to take the whole day. Twenty-four hours.” August struggled against the hand restraining him, struggled to stop himself from swinging and kicking out. Keats grinned. “Perfectly reasonable, don’t you think, Fionn?”

“Yessir,” he whispered, no different than before but now he looked so small and frail, kneeling there, Keats looming over him. August squeezed his fist tighter, fingernails biting into the burn on his palm, pain radiating up his wrist.

Keats raised the cane. August wondered how Fionn managed to stop himself cowering or flinching. His obedience was frightening. Their master swung the cane up. August held his breath—

And Keats let the cane fall. “Can you count as high as twenty-four? Or shall poor Fionn have to take responsibility for that as well?”

August gaped at him. Fucking—

“Well?”

“Yes, sir,” August grit out. “I can count to twenty-four.”

Keats raised his eyebrows. “I hope for Fionn’s sake this isn’t more of your unfounded arrogance.” He turned his attention back to Fionn. “Jacket and waistcoat.”

Fionn removed the layers until he wore only his white shirt, buttoned up to the same fucking bowtie that was being used as a collar on August. He painstakingly folded each item before placing it beside him. Keats didn’t wait for any further sign once he had straightened again.

The cane whistled through the air and came down with a crack on the center of Fionn’s back.

“One.” August had almost forgotten to say anything. “Two—”

Keats wound up for every blow, putting his whole weight behind it. By the fourth, Fionn seemed unable to kneel upright and had sunk onto his heels, starting to bow forward. He was breathing through his teeth, tears streaming down his face, but he hadn’t made a sound.

Halfway, Fionn was doubled over, an even easier target with his back horizontal. His spine and shoulder blades caught the worst for how much they protruded. Keats delivered the blows even faster now that he didn’t have to pay so much attention to the angle.

When Keats landed a blow across the back of Fionn’s neck, the boy finally cried out. His scream cut off with the next and then he was breathlessly whimpering. Keats paused to wipe his brow with a handkerchief and spared August a grin that made him want to be sick.

“—Twenty-four.”

The air rang without the sounds of the beating. Keats was breathing heavily, more so than Fionn who hadn’t made a sound for some minutes and remained, still as death, curled on the floor.

Keats wiped his brow again, letting his handkerchief fall in a flutter to the ground when he finished with it. “You’ll still have plenty of time to think, to make sure this really sinks in.” He stepped closer to August, too close, so that he could feel his breath on his face as he spoke. “I’m sure you’re grateful for my merciful hand to guide you in bettering yourself.”

It was all he could do not to laugh out loud and spit in his face, but clearly a spoken answer was expected of him, judging by the oaf shaking him. “Thank you, sir.” There was nothing to be done about the bitterness that was evident in his tone.

His master chose to ignore it, straightening his jacket as he headed for the door. He paused in its frame, turning to look at August again, though he didn’t address him. “Fionn, be glad that you’ve no need for such corrections.”

“Thank you, sir,” he croaked, using his hands to push himself up just enough to bow his head at Keats.

August’s lip curled in distaste and Keats grinned, winking at him. He was glad Fionn couldn’t see the judgement he so poorly contained even knowing Keats had only elicited the response to get a rise out of him.

He didn’t breathe any easier when he was shoved away from the lackey’s grip. Nor when he and Fionn were locked back in alone. Even as the seconds stretched into minutes since their footsteps had disappeared, he still stood there rigidly, fingers balled into fists, seeing red. He thought of all the freedoms he’d enjoyed at Elmwood. His own time to walk into the village or on the meandering paths through the wood. The small shelf of books in the servants’ hall they could borrow from. Even at the workhouse, there’d been scraps of newspapers, empty cupboards and deserted corridors to hide away in, and his best friend. August really had found himself in Hell on earth.

It was Fionn that finally snapped him out of it. He whimpered, trying to unfold himself to replace the rest of his uniform.

August rushed to help him.

“Please,” Fionn whispered, keeping his eyes on the floor. “Please, don’t.”

Of course not. August was the last person he’d want to help him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled, knowing it was no concession.

He retreated to the mattress Fionn had approved earlier, lying with his back turned to give the other boy what semblance of privacy he could. He stared ahead at the greying wood of the eaves and wondered how long it would take for him to match Fionn not only in looks but in spirit as well.

@whumpy-writings @writer-reader-24 @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake-deactivated20 @painsandconfusion @wolfeyedwitch @briars7 @gala1981 @redwingedwhump @whumpflash @peachy-panic @hold-him-down @poeticagony @annablogsposts @fleur-alise @melancholy-in-the-morning

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spanishsenpai · 7 months

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Whumptober 2023 - Day 4

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

I had a lot of fun writing this chapter! If you're confused at a certain part I did a little explanation in the endnotes on AO3!

Read it on AO3 if you'd rather! :D

Aitor came to in an entirely new place. His memory… was a little fuzzy. Pain came to the forefront of his mind though as he tried to take a breath. His hands, now un-ziptied, flew to his midsection as agony pulsed through the lower part of his ribcage.

Right. Beaten. Kidnapped. Beaten again. How could he forget.

He hissed as he waited for the flash of pain to calm. Swallowing thickly, his hands hovered around the injury but he was unable to actually touch it. He was stuck, frozen until the flare dulled down. God he hoped it would dull down.

His body relaxed ever so slightly as the pain, thankfully, faded enough for him to actually think. His eyes darted around, taking in this new space. A glare settled on his face as he realized he was in a cell, complete with bars separating him from the other half of the cold clinical room full of all kinds of machines he couldn’t hope to understand.

As he looked down at himself, he snarled as he found his body armor had finally been taken, leaving him in only his pants, button down shirt, and socks. Even the belt that had been around the outside of his shirt had been removed. He tried not to imagine the fuckers who’d undressed him. At least he still had on his original clothes.

He dragged his feet closer to him, glad to find that his ankles had been freed too. Getting up should hopefully be easier than last time. His hands carefully slid to his sides. Aitor held his breath, wincing as he slowly eased himself up into a sitting position. He was smack in the middle of the cell which meant there was no immediate wall to lean on. Already his arms were trembling from trying to keep him up.

The pounding in his temples was starting up again at the change in orientation. He groaned, leaning forward to sit on his hip. One arm gripped the fabric of his pants while the other rubbed a hand over his face as he tried to fight the rising nausea. It felt like someone was drumming against the back of his skull, sending wave after wave of ache across his head. He reached for the back of his head, surprised to be met with gauze instead of sticky bloody hair. His hand followed the gauze, finding that it wrapped around his forehead and back down to his injury. The old blood trail down his neck was still there though. He huffed, if that was still there they probably hadn’t looked past his outer layers.

Slowly, he slid over to the back wall, letting out a sigh of relief once he was leaning against something. It didn’t last long. His stomach growled, sending what felt like acid burning up his throat.

How long did Waltz expect him to live without food? Or water for the matter.

He jolted in surprise as the door outside his cell banged open. Two Renegades stood there. As they saw him, they snickered amongst themselves.

“He’s awake!”

“Let’s tell the boss.”

Aitor paled as they took off. God, he couldn’t take another beating. He wasn’t as resilient as he used to be and passing out so much couldn't be good for him.

He heard slow steps echoing off what must be empty halls. It could only be Waltz. His broken rib seemed to throb at the notion.

His brow furrowed. He didn’t want to be huddled against the wall when Waltz came in. Gritting his teeth, Aitor quickly pushed himself up, swaying heavily as his vision swam. His legs threatened to give out, forcing him to fall back. The wall was the only thing keeping him up as Waltz stepped into the room a second later. Aitor’s eyes were immediately drawn to the bag he had in hand.

“Good to see you awake. I’m sure you’re dying for something to eat but first,” he brought the bag onto the desk outside the cell, opening it and grabbing something from inside. “You need your medicine.”

Waltz began setting up equipment on the desk. Beakers and flasks and needles joining the instruments already there.

Aitor’s eyes widened as Waltz pulled out a familiar container.

Inhibitors, Aitor identified.

“What are-?” Aitor stopped himself to wet his dry throat. His voice was so raspy and sore he could have mistaken it for someone else. “What the hell… do you think you’re doing?”

“With the state of things, it's gotten a little harder to synthesize the ingredients needed,” Waltz said instead. “Luckily, I’ve always been resourceful.”

Aitor watched him handle the ingredients. He mixed and measured for a few minutes. Each second that ticked by made Aitor all the more nervous as well as unstable on his feet. He hated it, but he was going to have to sit down. Waltz was still enraptured with whatever he was mixing as Aitor slowly pressed his back to the wall and slid down to the floor.

He glared at Waltz. That sick fuck was going to try and give him whatever he was mixing. The inhibitors were especially worrying for him. He’d never taken them himself, even when he was younger and at his peak. Nowadays even if he wanted to, he worried the danger of death or cardiac arrest would be higher. He couldn’t take risks like that with a family waiting for him.

That choice might be taken from him, he thought, swallowing thickly.

The inhibitors were the last thing Waltz added to the test tube he’d been working out of. There was a quiet hiss from the tube shaped container as he opened it. He grabbed one injection of the three inside before closing it back. Aitor watched as he added the entire injection to the concoction, lifting it up to the light in the ceiling and swirling it a couple times. Waltz seemed to be finishing up as he took an empty needle and filled it with whatever the hell he’d made.

“You should feel honored. You will be the first test subject of your kind I’ve had to work with,” Waltz proclaimed, approaching the cell. “Maybe the reluctance will improve your chances.”

Aitor got back up as fast as he could, stepping to the farthest corner from the door. “Stay back,” he snapped, trying to hide how helpless he felt.

“Don’t worry. You won’t turn. This little cocktail would need something to feed off of to do that and you’re running on empty. No food. No water. No adrenaline left.”

“You ain’t getting that anywhere near me!” He snarled, eyes widening. Turn?? What the hell did he mean by that? What was he trying to give him?

Waltz chuckled. “I’m glad you’ve still got that spirit in you. You’ll need it, especially with a dose this high.”

Waltz unlocked the door and swung it into the cell. Aitor’s heart was in his throat and god was it making him feel woozy. Waltz was right, he was running on empty. How could he fight back?

He strode over; every step his face grew more and more excited. Aitor snarled when he was little more than 3 feet away and pushed himself to the side. This cell wasn’t that big, allowing him to catch the bars and regain some balance. Waltz lunged after him as Aitor tried to shove himself towards the door.

His chances had been slim at best. He’d known that. Yet even then, as Waltz’s hand snatched the back of his shirt and threw him to the ground Aitor’s heart sunk. He could die from whatever the hell Waltz was about to do to him.

A knee dug into his back, pinning him while hands pressed his arm flat to the ground. Aitor’s legs squirmed, socked feet trying to find traction on the smooth floor. Fuck, his chest. He couldn’t breathe. Another knee appeared above his shoulder blades. To Aitor’s dismay, he was facing away from where Waltz seemed to want to stick him.

“Get off me!” Aitor snapped, eyes wide. He was ignored.

When Waltz felt he was sufficiently pinned, he raised the injection up to Aitor’s forearm. The man’s squirming didn’t deter him in the slightest as he swiftly jabbed the needle into the muscle.

Aitor grunted at the sudden prick, whole body jolting. A chill went up his spine at the feeling of the liquid being pushed into his muscle. Fucker! Holy shit, what was about to happen to him?

Waltz stood, tossing the empty needle to the side. Quickly he closed the cell door, blocking Aitor from making another go at it, and stared down at his test subject.

Aitor gasped as every muscle in his body seemed to clench and tighten. He couldn’t stop himself from gasping as his lungs seemed to contract with everything else, broken ribs be damned. His vision grew black around the edges. His veins felt like a fire was running through them. He curled up into a ball on his side, fingers spasming as he tried to claw at the ground to relieve something. Most worrying of all, his biomarker was screaming.

In his pain filled world, he couldn’t remember why that mattered.

It was a relief when the black finally took over and he was out.

He woke up with a gasp, bolting up right before quickly laying back down as his chest burned. A groan escaped him as every muscle in his body felt sore, like acid had been pumped between each one. He closed his eyes, wanting to return to unconsciousness.

“Ah, excellent. You lived.”

He flinched at Waltz’s voice. He sounded too close. He was so exhausted though, he couldn’t manage to even open his eyes again.

Fingers forced one of his eyes open as a bright light overtook his vision. He hissed, eye watering before the next one was given the same treatment.

“Good reaction,” he mumbled to himself.

He pressed lightly on Aitor’s chest, making the Peacekeeper cry out, whole body tensing up with pain. Apparently this was good too as Waltz hummed in approval.

“Well commander, I’d say you have fared just as well as I thought you would. Two more of those will determine if you will fulfill your purpose though.”

Aitor couldn’t find it in himself to care. He was so tired. Not even the army had broken him down like this.

Waltz was saying something as he shuffled around somewhere nearby but Aitor was already passing out again.

Cursing and crashing brought him slightly to awareness. Not enough for him to open his eyes or process anything, but enough to groan at being woken up.

The loud noises stopped and hands were suddenly on him, blinding him for a moment, pressing different parts of his body. Before he passed out again, he heard something that sounded like, “One more, one more.”

The next time, he wasn’t even sure he had woken up. There was a screeching sound in his ear. He growled, one hand snapping out to try and get rid of the sound. Something stopped him, snatching his wrist before he could get rid of the screeching.

His eyes flew open and he growled, something deep and animal like. Wild eyes darted around, trying to find what was stopping him. He sat up with a snarl, jolting as he processed there was something alive near him.

It was alive and he was starving.

He shrieked a terrible ghostly sound and attempted to lunge at whatever was near him. He would catch it. He would destroy it.

It fought back though, slamming him back down with muscles much stronger than his. Still, he clawed at the thing, trying to kick and thrash, anything to get the upper hand.

A roar far more guttural than he’d ever heard made him pause. He recognized the sound as… something…

Still he bared his teeth at the thing that seemed far less enticing than it had a minute ago. And then something bathed the whole room in a blinding glow. He screeched, trying to cover his eyes as it felt like his skin was burning. He was dying.

The world faded away again.

Something was lightly slapping the side of his cheek. He grumbled and tried to smack the thing away.

“-you still in there lieutenant?”

He managed to pry his eyes open, but almost immediately closed them as the light in the room made his head throb.

“Tur-n tha- off,” he slurred. Jesus, his voice was raw.

He received a chuckle in response.

“Good,” fabric rustled as Waltz stood, “Now sit up. You can’t drink on your back.”

Aitor decided he couldn't be bothered to listen to him. He was really trying to fall back asleep. His body was so sore. He must have been too out of it to properly feel the pain now. If he woke up, it would all come rushing back.

He yelped, eyes flying open as two fists grabbed his shirt and hauled him up into a sitting position to lean against the wall. Automatically, his body tensed up to keep from falling. As awareness fully settled on him, he realized, hardly able to believe it, his chest wasn’t screaming at him like it had been.

“There we go. Now drink,” Waltz said, offering him a water bottle.

Even if his body didn’t hurt like it had, he was still deathly thirsty. His hand shook as he reached up to take it, no fear that it was a trick of some kind. His hands were having trouble gripping hard enough to open the cap. He was desperate for something to drink though. Sighing, he focused on gripping the top as hard as he could and twisting. A quiet crack as the seal broke was his reward.

Two streams dripped down his mouth as he drank desperately before he remembered how wasteful that was. He drank more carefully, ignoring how his stomach was cramping at suddenly having something in it.

When it was all gone, he took a deep breath, enjoying the ability to even do so. Jesus, what had happened? He’d been so broken down last he could remember.

His eyes widened as the injection popped into his mind. He scrambled to his feet, nearly falling on his face as his knees felt like jelly and his muscles protested. He pointed accusingly at Waltz, who was now outside the locked cell, and glared.

“What the fuck did you do to me?”

Waltz ignored him.

Aitor snarled, stalking over to the bars of the cell. His fist slammed against the metal, “What did you do?!”

Waltz continued to ignore him. Aitor was ready to yell at him when he caught sight of his forearm out of the corner of his eye. His stomach felt like a rock had just landed in it as he saw three nasty looking injection sites. Each had dark veins surrounding them, similar to the ones on Waltz’s face.

“What is this? What did you give me?” His voice was nearly frantic. He tried to scramble to find memories of the other two injections, but all he got was an impression of some animalistic hunger and darkness.

“I had to give you all the injections much closer together than I normally would. The fact that you survived is incredible. Congratulations lieutenant, you just might be the key I’m looking for.” Waltz finally turned to look at him. “I’ll bring you something to eat but for now, don’t strain yourself. You’re still quite… fragile.”

That didn't answer his question. It didn’t even comfort him. Waltz didn’t give him another chance to ask questions as he strode through the door, leaving him alone.

Heart pounding, Aitor stared down at the injection sites. Veins that dark were only seen on people about to turn but his biomarker wasn’t screaming. It wasn’t even beeping.

What did Waltz do to him?

#whumptober2023 #no.4 #“You in there?”#dying light 2 #dying light #dying light aitor #dl2 aitor #fanfiction #fic #needles tw #broken bones tw #nonconsensual body modification tw #manhandling tw #cursing tw #whump #waltz is here too

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razzle-zazzle · 7 months

Text

Whumptober Day 11: all the lights going dark and my hope's destroyed

Captivity

3643 Words; Pearl and Seaglass

TW for kidnapping, dehumanization, manhandling, degradation, dehydration, torture

AO3 ver

Dion was having the time of his life.

The sand was warm underneath him, soft against his back. The sky was a riot of colors, swirling against each other like the coral of an endless reef. The water lapped at the shore, the spray filling the air with the smell of salt.

Dion looked to his side. Gisu looked back at him, her eyes alight with joy. “Peaceful, isn’t it?” She asked.

“Yeah.” Dion breathed. He could stay here forever, free from his responsibilities under the waves, free from his family’s judgment. Just him, Gisu, and the endless beach, pink sand and green water stretching out in every direction…

Dion came back into awareness slowly, the sun bright against his face. He shifted, the soft sand of his dream turning into sheets tangled around him. He still wasn’t used to the feel of them, still wasn’t quite sure what to make of the dry fabric wrapped gently around his body.

Beside him, Gisu was still asleep, her hair stuck to her forehead with sweat, her body splayed out like a particularly grabby starfish—her hand was latched onto Dion’s shirt, and Dion wondered if he’d be able to get it free without having to wake her up.

The sunlight had crept in through a gap in the curtains. Motes of… it was dust, right? Floated in the beam. It reminded Dion of marine snow, of flurries of plankton soaking up the sunlight. He could almost imagine shimmery fish darting through, snapping up whatever they could.

Dion could already feel his memory of the dream fading, even as the feelings lingered. His heart squeezed, homesickness and desire all knotted up inside him. He wondered if this was how Raz felt. If this—this freedom, from expectation and responsibility—was what drew Raz up here, up onto the surface with all of its dangers and wonders.

Dion thought that maybe, if that were the case, then he could understand. The sea would always be his home, but—

But his parents would never approve of Gisu. He would never be truly, completely free down there, not like he was up here.

(Even though he wasn't really free up here, either, confined to social expectations still.

But it was certainly a lot less than back home.)

Dion wanted that. More than anything, he wanted that freedom, for him and Gisu. Wanted to be able to rest in her hold freely, with not a single worry about parents or curfew or expectations.

Just him, Gisu, and the entire world stretched out around them.

The bed shifted as Gisu rolled over. She let go of Dion’s shirt, her eyes blinking open as she yawned softly. The sound was still so foreign to Dion. Everything was so different up here.

But not all of those differences were awful. Just most of them.

One such awful difference—sheets. Oh, sure they were comfy to sleep in, different from kelp beds in ways both good and bad—

But as Dion moved to leave the bed and start the day, the sheets tangled around his skirt—a very wonderful change—and his legs—a mostly-awful change—caught, sending him tumbling to the floor with a yelp and a very dignified flailing of his limbs, he was not at all like a panicking guppy, stop laughing Gisu—

“These stupid legs.” Dion growled. Up on the bed, Gisu snorted.

“You weren’t having any trouble dancing with them last night.” She pointed out, as Dion slowly pushed himself up.

“I wasn’t half-asleep last night.” Dion returned. He stood up fully, the sheet falling to the floor. The wood was cold against his feet.

Gisu shrugged, sitting up fully. Her hair was a mess, some of it matted down with sweat, some of it frizzed up into knots. Dion’s fingers itched to comb through it and braid it. “Well, I hope you’re not going to be falling all over yourself today.” She stretched out her arms, a small squeak escaping her throat, “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

Dion snorted. “My balance is perfect.” He insisted. Where did he leave his boots? He refused to traverse the surface without them—walking on hot sand and stone once was more than enough. Thank the gods that Gisu had a human friend willing to lend them clothes—he couldn’t thank Lizzie enough for the skirt that was still swishing softly around his legs now.

Speaking of…

“Did you see Lizzie last night?” Dion pulled on his boots. Ugh. This would be so much easier back home—but that was because he didn’t have these unsightly human legs back home.

“I think I saw her in the crowd once,” Gisu offered, rolling off the bed and grabbing her bag. She reached in and dug around for a few moments before pulling out the whale-bone comb Dion had gifted her last season. “Kinda lost track of everyone near the end.” She shrugged. “She probably went home early.”

Dion nodded, accepting the explanation. Gisu would know better than him about this kind of thing. There was a second comb in Gisu’s bag—Dion grabbed it and went to work on his hair. He still thought he should have been allowed to keep at least one pearl string woven in—or even just the pearl Gisu had gifted him, pink and blobby and uneven—but Gisu had insisted that humans didn’t weave shells and pearls and kelp into their hair, and as far as Dion had seen, she was right.

That didn’t mean he couldn’t be upset about it, though.

A little while later, they were both ready for the day, their hair tied back with two cuts of the same cord. Dion had gotten to braid Gisu’s hair once she finished attacking it with her comb, and nodded at his work.

Morris was in the kitchen with his parents when they left their room, talking animatedly. He greeted them cheerily, his parents already knowing Gisu from her past excursions up on the surface.

After breakfast, the three of them headed out—Morris turned off to go into the market to run errands for his parents, while Gisu took Dion’s hand and led him towards the docks.

As always, Dion found it impossible not to follow where she led.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion came into awareness slowly. His head was pounding, his hair hanging loose over his face.

What the…

Where…

Dion was in a big room, he could tell that much. Barrels and crates surrounded him. The scent of the docks—of the fish and sea air—lingered in his nose—so he was probably still close to that area, right?

But where was he? Last he remembered, he and Gisu had been wandering between the warehouses, looking for any sign that Raz had come through the area. He’d heard something fall over in an alleyway, and he’d seen a smallish shape that could have been his brother darting off into the shadows, but—

Ohhhh, his head hurt. He remembered a sharp pain—and then he was here, in this room, with no idea how he’d gotten here. He was seated on a chair, ropes across his chest keeping him from falling off of it. More rope was wrapped around his legs and ankles.

This wasn’t good. This was the opposite of good. Dion had no idea where he was, or why he was here—his heart was doing flips in his chest. His lungs were doing something funny, too, air caught in his throat like a blockage in his gills—

Dion coughed. It was the most unpleasant sensation he’d ever felt in his life. He couldn’t stop coughing, which was even worse—

Where was Gisu? What had happened? Where was he? He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe—

“Whoa!” A hand fell on his shoulder. “Shit, don’t die before the boss gets here!”

Dion’s chest spasmed. Air trickled into his lungs. His heart lodged in his throat. The voice—a human, Dion realized, who had been behind him previously but was now standing beside him, a hand braced on his shoulder—continued talking, the words incomprehensible against Dion’s panic.

Slowly, more air made its way into Dion’s lungs. He spat, flecks of spit and phlegm landing on the floor before him. Awful. Human bodies were just awful.

His heart was still pounding, and the stranger standing next to him wasn’t helping—

But at least Dion could breathe.

There was sunlight coming into the room from somewhere behind him. Other than that, the only light was that of a single lamp, which wasn’t nearly enough to fill the space. Ugh, why did human eyes have to suck so much? Dion didn’t like not being able to see through the gloom.

He didn’t have long to lament the lack of low-light vision before previously-unnoticed doors in front of him slid open. Bright light assaulted Dion’s eyes, and he scrunched them closed.

The doors slid shut, but the darkness didn’t last long—the scent of burning oil floated over to Dion with the gentle light of a lamp. Two more lamps joined it, revealing who had stepped into the room with him.

Not that Dion had any idea who they were. A smartly dressed man that Dion vaguely recognized from a few posters around town, and someone who might have been a land witch? They were dressed like Lizzie, who was pretty much Dion’s only reference to how land witches dressed—but somehow more, with full robes instead of just small charms.

“It doesn’t look like a mermaid.” The man sniffed. “Are you sure this is the one?”

Dion tensed. “What are you talking about?” He asked, “Mermaids? What mermaids?” Oh god please no no no don’t turn me into one of those fish at the stalls I don’t want to be cooked—

He was ignored. “We’ll find out for sure once I’ve undone the spell, Gristol.” The land witch assured.

The land witch stepped forward, holding a vial of… something. It wasn’t like Dion was an expert in vials.

(Gisu was, but Dion had no idea where she was.)

The vial was uncapped. Dion flinched as its contents were splashed onto him, the sour scent sharp against his nose. Ew ew ew!

“Hey!” He yelped. “What was that for?” It was probably for some magic purpose, but that only made Dion all the more indignant (all the more terrified).

The land witch continued to ignore him, grinding something in a mortar and pestle. The man in the stuffy-looking suit—Gristol, that was what the land witch just called him (why was that name vaguely familiar)—watched on with a haughty kind of interest, hands folded behind his back.

Ughhh. Dion’s clothes were going to smell awful forever now, he was sure. The land witch was drawing a circle on the floor around Dion—that was not a good sign.

“Hey—” Dion began, only to be cut off as the land witch spoke.

“Creature of the sea, creature of the wave,” the land witch began, “Shed your skin for scales, return to how you were made!” Light rose from the circle around Dion’s chair, ominous against the lamplight.

The magic burned.

Transforming into a human had been painful, but in an abstract way, Gisu’s magic numbing the pain and sparking light through Dion’s veins just as much as it hurt. But this magic burned, clawing up his skin and scorching his insides. Scales crawled up his back, down his arms, over his chest. His legs lit up with agony, a scream tearing itself out of his throat.

He landed against the floor roughly, thrashing in blind panic. The rest of the world faded away as the pain dug into his skull and chest, whiting out his vision. It hurt.

It hurt

it hurt

it hurt so much—

And then it was over, the pain receding. Dion heaved, the dry air rough against his throat. His pelvic fins were pinned under him—Dion rolled onto his side, only to wince at the way the fabric of his shirt caught on his thoracic gills. His tail ached. His everything ached.

“Gorgeous.” Gristol breathed. “Powerful.” He folded his hands behind his back. “It’s not as wondrous as Maligula was,” he amended, “But to finally have a mer in my grasp…”

Dion hissed, his stripes flashing in warning. The man’s words were coming out garbled, distorted against Dion’s ears by the lack of water and the loss of the magic. He had no idea what was being said, but he was certain he wouldn’t like it regardless.

Gristol turned to the first man, the one who had been in the warehouse from the start. Dion turned a tired ear to what was being said, but he couldn’t make heads or tails of it. Gisu’s spell was well and truly broken.

Gristol spoke again—

Hands! Hands on Dion, dry calloused hands rough against his scales as the ropes were pulled away. He squirmed, snapping at them all to let him go, but they grabbed onto his shoulders and arms and shirt, which had been shredded by the emergence of his dorsal fin. It was yanked off roughly, Dion hissing as it rubbed against his gills. Hands grabbed his tail just above the fin, lifting it into the air despite Dion’s protests.

Get off get off get off—

His skirt slid off with some resistance, and then Dion’s tail was dropped back onto the floor. He growled, trying to ignore the way his gills were aching. It was so hard to breathe, and his scales were starting to dry—

The hands pulled back as water splashed over him. Dion’s scales drank it in gleefully, even as his hair stuck to his face. His gills gasped, but no more water was forthcoming.

Gristol’s boots splashed in the puddle as he stepped in front of Dion. He leaned down, his hand reaching out towards Dion’s hair—

Dion planted his palms flat against the floor and pushed, lunging at Gristol with teeth bared—

A net was thrown over him, stopping him in his tracks. Dion thrashed, moving to cut at the cords with his claws—

Weight pressed down on him, someone’s knees digging into Dion’s tail. His arms were grabbed and wrenched back. He thrashed, his stripes flashing rapidly in warning, snarling let go let go let go! even as the sound burned in his throat.

The net tightened around him. It dug into his scales, pinning his fins against him. The dry air grated against him, the water already starting to dry out.

Dion stared up at Gristol, teeth bared. Hate hate hate let me go let me go let me go—

He snapped his fingers, and Dion was lifted up into the air. He tried to thrash, but the net and the exhaustion reduced it to hardly a wiggle.

The man carrying him started moving. Dion could do nothing to stop it, gasping in too-dry air.

Dion had been right. The surface was evil.

Being right had never been less satisfying.

+=+=+=+=+

Gristol watched as the mer was dropped into the tank.

It had taken a few detours to get his prize to his ship unseen, but it was well worth the effort—Gristol watched as water flowed through the mer’s gills. Its teeth glinted as it opened and closed its mouth, breathing in the water greedily.

It was truly a gorgeous creature. His father’s tales hadn’t done it justice at all! It stared at him through the glass, luminous blue eyes like rare jewels. Even its scales had a beautiful shine to them, stripes lighting up in meaningless, but still pretty, patterns. Gristol watched its claws dig into the sand at the bottom of the tank—those would have to be trimmed at some point. And something would need to be done about those teeth…

“You don’t know it yet, but you’re about to be part of something big.” Gristol promised. “Something that will put the Maliks back on the map!” Finally, Gristol could take his destiny back into his own hands. Not even Truman’s silly little “Explorer Corps” would be able to stop him!

He stared at the mer for a moment longer, drinking in the victory on the horizon. The mer slapped a webbed hand against the glass, warbling and clicking at him—

The ship’s captain walked in through the door. “Your orders, sir?”

Gristol growled. Couldn’t this idiot see that he was having a moment? Whatever. He turned back to the woman. “Get this ship ready to move by sundown!” He demanded. “And let the rest of the fleet know, too!”

A cabin boy passed them by as the captain left to fulfill her orders. “You!” Gristol grabbed the boy by the shoulders. “Go find someone who can clip nails.” He shook his hand to wave the boy off. “Well? Go!”

The boy skittered off with a “Yes, sir.” Oh, what a pleasant sound. It was always better when people listened to his orders—he was simply built to lead, and everyone else was a sheep built to follow. It was just the way of things.

The ship was bustling with activity by the time Gristol made it to the deck. He watched in satisfaction as everyone ran around fulfilling his orders.

It felt good to be on top.

And after this, he’d be on top of the world itself.

+=+=+=+=+

Dion growled.

The tank had been a brief respite from the net—emphasis on brief. Dry air grated against him once again, his gills burning.

The bowl of water in front of his face helped, but not by much. It was better than nothing, though, as embarrassing as it was to have to shove his face into it just to get water in his gills. It wasn’t enough to reach his thoracic gills, which continued to burn against the too-dry air, but it sluiced through his cervical gills, allowing him to breathe more freely—strained as it still was.

Snip. Snip.

Dion hissed. The bowl wasn’t the only humiliation he was being forced to endure—his tail was tied down with metal chains, and his wrists were pinned down at the edge of the table, his hand held still as all of his claws were cut one by one. He carefully maintained claws! Being taken away!

Snip. Snip snip.

His left hand had already been clipped down to nothing, to blunted claws that looked more like useless human nails. No matter how hard Dion thrashed, the human taking away his claws didn’t even flinch, just calmly clipping away.

Snip.

And with that, the last of Dion’s claws were gone. He snarled, his stripes flashing out a string of curses—that were wholly ignored.

The human pulled out a flat piece of metal, and started rubbing it over Dion’s clipped claws. It took Dion a moment to realize what they were doing—they were blunting the stumps!

“There we go,” They hummed something that might have been meant to comfort—Dion still didn’t understand what was being said. Gisu would have, because she had actually learned the language, instead of relying on her spell—

But Gisu wasn’t here. It was just Dion, unable to do anything as he was subjected to surface evils that not even his worst nightmares had come up with.

Gristol appeared in the doorway. Dion cursed.

The man ignored him, walking over and grabbing his hands for inspection. He said something that sounded approving, and the other human tittered something back. Gristol nodded, letting go of Dion’s hand before snapping out something imperative. The claw-clipping human left, and more humans came in behind them.

Oh, what now? Dion asked. The flash of his stripes and the clicks in his throat were ignored.

Hands grasped at his arms, pinning them down as the straps over his wrists were undone. Dion snarled, but he didn’t have the energy to thrash. He just let the humans lift him up and haul him down the haul, up some stairs onto the deck. He was dropped on the wood, hissing reflexively—his tail was too heavy to move, though. Dion didn’t have the energy to swing it around. A bucket was brought over to him—

Water! Glorious, glorious water! More buckets were dumped out, and Dion’s body drank it in greedily.

It didn’t last long, though—a long wooden box was brought over, and as one, the humans lifted Dion up to it and over the edge.

Absolutely not! Dion squirmed, but it was for naught—he was shoved down into the box. The lid came down soon after, and despite his efforts Dion couldn’t push it off—the humans must have locked it in place, somehow.

The scent of salt was overpowering, stinging against Dion’s nose. Which made sense—he was laying atop a small layer of salt, rough and dry and awful.

The box was just long enough for Dion to lie straight, but too low down and too narrow for Dion to squirm. His dorsal fin wasn’t quite pinned against him—but it wasn’t fully up, either, the spines pushed back. The rest of his fins were much the same. At least his arms weren’t pinned to his sides. Dion dragged his blunted claws against the wood, but it didn’t do anything. He was just as helpless as before.

Sunlight filtered in through holes in the top of the box. The salt beneath him was starting to really hurt.

Realization settled in. Oh gods. They were trying to dry him out! Dion folded his arms in front of himself, resting his head on them. They were trying to dry him out, and there was nothing he could do but wait and let it happen.

Dion had known that the surface was awful. Had known that mer weren't built for land, had known that humans were just as capable of being awful as mer.

But this was worse. This was so much worse.

Dion had known that the surface was awful. He'd had no idea how awful it truly was.

#whumptober2023 #no.11 #captivity #psychonauts #zaz writes #kidnapping tw #dehumanization tw #dehydration tw #torture tw #manhandling tw #degradation tw #boy oh boy this sure is a piece to introduce an au with #pearl & seaglass au #dion aquato #gisu nerumen #gristol malik #okay okay so. little mermaid au. raz goes to sruface with gisu's help (he kind of blackmailed her (he was bluffing))#dion and gisu go to surface to chase after him. dion has never been to the surface. shenanigans ensue #this will not be the last that you see of this au btw!! i've got three more pieces for it lined up this year

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i-can-even-burn-salad · 1 year

Text

Doubts

Undeserved

Warnings: Captivity, manhandling

This is part of a series. You can find the start here at Day 1.

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“And another signature here, please.”

The guard lifted one of the sheets on the clipboard to reveal yet another empty line, waiting to be filled. Riordan had lost count of how many there had been. Those stuck up nobles and their fucking paperwork.

“Get out,” someone behind him said. Others laughed.

If that wasn’t the last signature, he would stick the quill up—

A heavy thump made him flinch, ruining the last stroke of the ‘Finnley’ he had just put down. He turned around, looking at the cart blocking his view. He couldn’t see what was happening, but he had no doubts that it wasn’t something good.

“Are we done?” he snapped at the guard.

Well, that hadn’t been very polite, but at least the man nodded. Riordan left him standing with his fucking clipboard, and the quill politely shoved into his hand instead of the alternative.

When Riordan rounded the wagon, he found the prisoner lying on the ground. What the fuck. He left them alone for one minute and they couldn’t keep their hands off him. He was sure the man had done nothing to provoke them. There had been no fight left in him since the day they had cut off his hand. Half of the time when Riordan had checked in on him, he had seemed barely lucid, staring off into the distance or crying quietly.

The guard looming over the prisoner pointed at one of Riordan’s men.

“Hey, you, help me with him.”

Riordan stepped in front of him.

“I’ll do it.”

He didn’t give them time to object, reaching for the prisoner’s right arm. The man’s shirt hung in bloody tatters over the stump, hiding it from sight. Riordan took care to grab his arm as far away from the wound as possible as he started to pull him up, but he had to put the arm around his shoulder somehow.

The guard taking the other arm was less careful. He hoisted the prisoner up and started to walk immediately. Riordan had no choice but to keep up, trying his best to support the listless body. The man didn’t try to walk, not even as they dragged him down the endless stairs into the dungeon. His feet dragged along the ground, his head lolling from side to side. If not for the way his eyelids fluttered, Riordan would have thought he had lost consciousness.

A second guard was waiting for them at the end of the stairs, a large keyring in one hand, a lantern in the other.

“Follow me. I have a nice cozy room prepared for our guest.”

The other guard laughed, and Riordan’s gaze darkened. They walked through a dimly lit tunnel, past closed cell doors on each side. Most of them were empty.

“Here we are.”

The guard unlocked one of the doors, gesturing for them to enter. As soon as they were inside the cell, the other guard let go of the prisoner. Riordan didn’t. He bit back a curse as the full weight rested on him, shoving the man a bit further, and then lowering him to the floor as gently as possible.

He hated to leave him on the cold stone, but the scraps of straw would barely have been enough to cover half of the space he occupied, even if they hadn’t been strewn all across the cell. Riordan raised his head, looking around, trying to see if there was anything he could use to help. His gaze darkened further when he saw the rest of the cell. They couldn’t be fucking serious about this. It was dark, with only one small slit of a window, high above the floor. Moss grew on one wall, and rusty chains hung from various equally rusty rings in the wall. It looked more like a drawing in a story book than a place to keep an actual person.

Some kind of rag lay in one corner. Riordan went to pick it up, trying his best not to wonder what the fabric had once been. He folded it, as pointless as it was, and placed it under the man’s head. Then he straightened the man’s legs and put the stump on his chest, as if that would do anything to keep it away from the filth.

If, by a miracle, it wasn’t infected yet, it would soon be. Riordan raised his hand to the man’s forehead, finding it too warm to the touch.

“If you want him to live until the trial, give him water.”

Fuck, as if water would be enough. That man needed a healer, and something to keep him warm, and a chance to rest—and he wouldn’t get any of it. All that was waiting for him was death, one way or another.

Riordan would have liked to find some comforting words, but the guard at the door already jingled the keys in a clear display of impatience. Besides, what comfort was there to give if the man wasn’t going to live to see another week? Riordan got up, lingering a moment longer, before he turned to leave. He tried his best to ignore the twist in his stomach as the cell door clanked shut behind him.

The guards started to walk next to each other, one of them gesturing in the direction of the cell.

“Did you see the tears? Pathetic.”

“You think he’ll be crying for his mommy when they’ll lead him to the gallows?”

Riordan fell a step behind them, balling his hands into fists. They hadn’t even waited until they were out of earshot. He tried his best to ignore their continued slander, but it became harder and harder. By the time he emerged from the building, he was so fucking done. When the guards bid him farewell, nodded mutely so he wouldn’t say anything wrong. He just had to grab his bag, then he’d be out of here.

On his way to the cart, his boot hit something. When Riordan looked down, he found the waterskin half shoved behind a wheel. He picked it up, turning it in his hand. It was empty, the blood stains long dried and covered with dirt.

“Hey, Finnley! Drinks at the bowl tonight?”

Riordan turned around, managing to give Robert a look that was neither murderous nor incredulous. Regretful was too much effort, though, so he had to settle for neutral.

“Nah. Gonna visit family. It’s been too long.”

He was going to visit his family, but even if that hadn’t been the case, he wouldn’t have come along. If he was honest, he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to see him again; him and the others. No matter what the Nightmare had done, Riordan couldn’t understand how they were able to see him suffer and cry, and enjoy it. How instead of showing a bit of sympathy, they decided to torment him further.

“See ya,” Riordan said in no particular direction. He had found his bag and slung it over his shoulder, walking out of there as quickly as he could.

Half an hour later, his anger had made room for weariness. He was standing in front of his family’s home, his fingertips tracing a wreath of dried flowers on the front door. He opened the door—never locked during the day, when people were home—and called out.

“It’s me! I’m home!”

The smell of freshly baked bread filled the air, mixing with the scent of dried flowers on the sideboard in the entrance hallway. Riordan put his pack down, and the waterskin. He wasn’t even sure what he had kept it for, there was no way he’d ever use it. All he knew was that it had felt wrong to leave it there.

“In the kitchen, honey.”

Hearing his mama’s voice made him smile. Gods, it felt so good to be home. Riordan took off his dusty boots before he followed the sounds coming out of the kitchen.

The fire was burning brightly in the hearth, a casserole form lined with dough standing next to it. His mama was wearing a colorful apron, her graying hair up in a bun. With his hands propped on the counter he watched her prepare something in a bowl, the wooden spoon knocking against it in a steady rhythm.

“How have you been?” she asked while emptying the contents of a measuring cup into whatever she was stirring.

Riordan told her about the jobs he had taken since the last time he had been in Caldeia. He kept it to descriptions of foreign cultures and beautiful landscapes, losing no word about what had brought him back. He loved her, but she wasn’t the one he wanted to talk to about it.

“Will mom be home for dinner?” he asked once he was done describing the city of Gorin, from where he had set out escorting the ambassador across the steppe.

“Yes. The last few weeks have been slow, luckily.”

A bright squeak made Riordan spin around. Eveline stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a bright grin on her face. Her hands were flying as she ran towards him. “Big brother!”

Riordan caught her, lifting her up. She wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on as he carried her into the living room. The place looked like it always had. Mismatched furniture, colorful fabric, sunlit windows and little trinkets all over the place. This time, there was an unusually large amount of crystals. One of the twins must have taken up a new hobby.

Riordan took a deep breath. It smelled like home. There was no other way to put it.

Eveline tapped his shoulder. “You look sad,” she signed as he looked at her.

Riordan propped her onto his hip, so he could hold her with one arm for a moment. “I am sad,” he admitted.

“Why?”

She was getting too tall to hold her like this for long, so instead of answering, he grabbed her with both hands, swirling her around. Her laughter was music in his ears, and by the time he set her down, his frown was gone.

“Grown up things,” he signed as soon as he had his hands free.

Eveline scrunched her nose. “If grown up things make you sad, being a grown up is stupid.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“I’m here now, so I won’t be sad much longer. You have to tell me everything that has happened since the last time I was here. But first, I’m gonna have to take a bath. I’m sooo,” he signed, drawing out the word, “stinky.” Riordan grabbed his sleeve, pulling it towards his nose, and grimaced.

Eveline laughed, following him as he left the living room, to poke his head into the kitchen.

“Mama?” he called.

When she turned around, he signed, “I’m gonna take a bath and change. Tomorrow, I’ll do my laundry.”

His mama dropped the spoon into the bowl to sign, not wanting to exclude her daughter from the conversation. “You’re staying for longer?” she asked.

“Yeah. I think I’ll stay for a while. I have some things to think about.”

Riordan sat on the low wall surrounding the back porch, a cup of hot chocolate in his hands, his mom next to him. It had always been like that, since a time when his legs had been too short to reach the ground, and his mom had still been his dad.

“So you’re… angry at them?” his mom asked.

“I don’t know. I think I was angry, but now?” He looked up, staring at nothing in particular. “I’m disappointed. I thought I knew them. I thought they were good men.”

And he hated the part of him still clinging to that assessment, whispering to him that they had only been this cruel to a criminal. To a man who had done so much worse, who deserved it.

“I hurt him too, you know?” he said. “When we caught him, and he was so…” Riordan trailed off. Back then, he had assumed the Nightmare had tried to attack him out of anger, but fuck. The man must have been in agony, if not in shock from the injury, not to mention terrified to be in the hands of his enemies. Not that he had been wrong to be terrified, had he?

“He tried to bite me, so I kicked him and put him into a cage like a fucking animal.” In the grand scheme of things, it might have been one of the Nightmare’s least problems. That didn’t make it any better. “Perhaps if I had set a better example.”

It was a futile thought. He couldn’t change what had happened, and if he was honest, he didn’t think it would have changed anything about the way his men had treated the captive. The captive. The man. The Nightmare.

“I don’t even know his name,” Riordan mumbled. “He didn’t tell me.”

He could have found out now. Fuck, it had probably been written somewhere on those papers the guard had made him sign. It almost made him wish he had actually read them. Almost. It didn’t matter anymore.

“Do you regret it? Bringing him here?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Riordan took a sip of his no-longer-quite-as-hot chocolate. “He’s done terrible things, and he tried to kill the ambassador. He needs to be brought to justice.” His voice was merely a whisper as he added, “I’m just not so sure anymore how justice looks.”

[ID: The top image is a banner showing blurry, green glass shards on a dark surface. Across it is written the title of the story, Undeserved, in a bright to dark blue gradient with a white outline. All other images in this post are purely ornamental lines. End ID.]

I had this idea since the first time I wrote a chapter in his pov, and now that I wrapped up Undeserved, I finally decided to write it. Can you believe Fancy Boots wasn’t supposed a named char, let alone main char?? Me neither.

That really is the last one now, though :) And don’t forget, you can also download it in a handy ebook format :D

Tagging: @dont-touch-my-soup @whump-in-the-moonlight @teamwhump @kixngiggles @starlit-hopes-and-dreams

#Undeserved #whump #fantasy whump #manhandling tw #captivity tw #my writing

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whumpy-writings · 2 years

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The Reaping

Blood of Magic Masterlist

Whumptober 2022 Masterlist

Day 2: Nowhere to run, Confrontation

Takes place ten years before Power

CW: Alcohol mention, manhandling, dehumanization, restraints, threats, knife

The tavern was busy tonight. Theo rushed about, taking orders and delivering drinks and food to patrons. He loved his job. He chatted with the regulars and listened to those just passing through tell stories of their travels.

"Theo! Table seventeen needs a refill," Mark, the barkeep called.

"On it!" Theo called back. He hurried over to the table of off-duty soldiers and picked up their tankards.

"Another round of ale?" he asked.

"Aye, lad," a red bearded, rough looking soldier said. Theo set off back to the bar and filled up the tankards. As he was setting them down in front of the patrons, the hairs on the back of his neck starting to prickle. Like someone was watching him. Theo looked around the room, but he didn't see anyone staring at him. He shrugged and got back to work.

Twenty minutes later, he noticed a man in a dark cloak seated at one of the tables. He hadn't been served yet. Theo cursed internally then made his way through the crowd of people to the table.

"Welcome to the Crooked River, what can I get started for you?" he asked.

"Ale," the man said shortly. Theo pursed his lips at the rudeness but nodded.

"Of course, I'll have that right up." Theo set off back to the bar and filled up a tankard.

"Hey Theo, when you're done with that I'm going to need you to go in the back and see if we have any more of that wine," Mark said.

"I'll get right on that," Theo replied. He hurried through the throng of people to give the rude man his ale. The man was still seated alone at the table despite the room being packed. Probably because he's a prick, Theo thought with a snort.

Theo was just reaching over to set the tankard of ale in front of the man when without warning the man reached out and grabbed his arm. Theo gave a shout of surprise.

"What are you doing?" Theo asked angrily as he tried to pull his arm away. The man didn't answer, and he didn't let go of him. Instead, he brought his nose down to Theo's arm and... sniffed him. Theo stared at him with shock and not a small bit of fear.

"You reek," the man murmured.

"Excuse me?" Theo said, offended. Who did this man think he was, coming in here and insulting him?

"You reek of magic," the man clarified. Theo's heart skipped a beat.

"That's impossible," he said.

Suddenly, the man was on his feet, pinning Theo's body against the table and twisting his arm painfully behind his back. Theo yelled.

"Let go of him," someone said. The tavern had quieted and tension permeated the room. Theo's heart was going to beat out of his chest. He tried to squirm out of the man's grasp but he was too strong. His fingers were digging into Theo's shoulder so roughly that Theo was sure he would have bruises later.

"I am Simeon De Nav, Reaper," the man said. Theo 's stomach dropped. Reapers were the ones who could sense magic, whose job it was to bring anyone with magic in their blood to the authorities. "This creature is an unregistered Mage. I will be taking it into my custody as stipulated under the Law of Blood."

Theo was hardly breathing. That couldn't be right. He wasn't a Mage. He would know if he was. Wouldn't he?

Mark spoke up. "What are you going on about? Theo's eighteen, he's been tested twice just like everyone else and both times it came up negative."

The Reaper, Simeon, dug his fingers a bit more firmly into Theo's shoulder. Like he was trying to control his temper.

"Rarely, the stench of magic manifests itself later. Now, I will be taking this creature, and you will not stop me," Simeon said.

Simeon painfully pulled Theo's other arm behind his back and secured them together with coarse ropes.

"Please, there must be some mistake," Theo said desperately. "I'm not a Mage, please just let me go."

"I don't make mistakes," Simeon said. "Now shut up before I gag you."

He dragged Theo upright, one hand on his arms and the other on the back of his neck. He started walking him towards the door.

Theo was on the edge of panic. He wasn't a Mage, he wasn't a monster. This was wrong.

"Help!" he screamed. "Please, someone help me!"

But the taverngoers were looking at him with fear. The people he had known for years were staring at him like he was a stranger.

"Mark!" Theo yelled, meeting the barkeep's eyes. Mark's face was wrinkled with sadness and disgust and he made a gesture to ward of evil. Theo started sobbing then.

"No," he said. "No, this isn't right, this isn't right."

Simeon pushed open the doors and led Theo out into the street. Ice cold panic flooded Theo's system. He had to get away. In a burst of strength he twisted out of Simeon's grip and bolted down the street. Simeon cursed but Theo just kept running. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears and he ducked down one alley, then another. Crooked River wasn't a large town, but it had plenty of places to hide.

Theo crouched down behind a barrel, catching his breath. He couldn't hear Simeon behind him. He must have lost him.

All at once, the enormity of what had happened hit him. He was a Mage. One of the monsters who was able to harness the power of Vessels to wreak unnatural destruction of the world. What was he supposed to do now?

He couldn't stay here, in this town. Not when half the population had seen the Reaper accuse him of being a monster. He would have to run, find a new home. Somewhere where he would not run into another Reaper who would be able to smell him.

He would go north, he decided. The towns were few and far between, and it would be easy for him to disappear up there. Theo flexed his hands, the ropes digging roughly into his flesh.

First thing first, he had to get these restraints off. Theo slowly got to his feet, preparing to make his way to his friend's house. They would help, he knew they would.

A hand wrapped around his body and a sharp, metal blade pressed against his throat.

"You aren't going to lose me that easily," Simeon growled in his ear. "Now, come with me without incident or I will hurt you. You won't be able to run with a broken leg."

Theo's heart sank. He was trapped.

"I won't fight," he whispered in defeat.

"Good boy," Simeon said. He marched Theo down the street and led him to the stables behind the tavern. He helped Theo onto a horse, and then mounted another one. Theo stared down at the saddle, tears blurring his vision as Simeon led him out of the world he knew and into the unknown.

Taglist: @thecyrulik @whump-cravings @teamwhump @ceph-the-writing-spook @whumpsday @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whumpcreations @whumpworld

#whumptober2022 #no.2 #nowhere to run #confrontation #oc #fic #manhandling tw #dehumanization tw #restraints tw #threats tw #knife tw #alcohol mention #blood of magic #theo the mage #simeon the reaper #fantasy whump #whump

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hurtthemgently · 2 years

Text

Whumper pressing whumpee to the ground. They turn their head, struggling to get away, to do anything. Panicked and furious, they kick, and manage to get a knee at whumper

Whumper grabs their hair and slams their head to the ground, hard. They see spots, the jarring pain spreads through their skull, to the point where they can taste it

They’re still kicking, but can’t land any more hits. They’re getting weaker, and all whumper has to do is keep holding them down

#non con touching tw #manhandling tw #whump prompts #whump prompt #defiant whumpee

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ziptiesnfries · 2 years

Text

Discovered

(Part 5 of the Business Trip Arc)

Previous - Masterpost

Content warnings: pet whump, manhandling, police violence, dehumanization

Lynx wakes blearily to sunlight streaming through the window, and it takes them a second to remember where they are. Right. They stayed over with Colby and friends. They’re surprised they even stayed the whole night, but then again, this couch is a lot more comfortable than the floor of their crate. They actually slept well, for once.

They roll off the couch and head into the kitchen, where Colby and Shannon are already rummaging around. Colby’s face brightens when they walk in. “Good morning! I’m making toast, do you want any?”

“Oh, um, sure.” They sit down at the little kitchen table, still trying to figure out how to leave. They don’t want to pass up free food, even if they feel guilty about taking it—they have no idea when they’ll be able to eat next. But they’ve already stayed too long.

They’d hoped this little unplanned stay would give them time to figure out a plan, but they still don’t have one. They’ll just keep moving, they guess. That’s the only thing they can do. Maybe along the way somewhere, they’ll figure something out.

Brett and Jason stumble in while Lynx is eating their toast. The two boys grab some food from the kitchen and then slump next to each other on the couch, still groggy as they idly scroll through their phones. Lynx looks over just in time to see Jason glancing away from them—he’d been staring. He nudges Brett, showing him something on his phone.

A cold feeling washes over Lynx, and they stand abruptly. “Uh, thanks for letting me stay with you guys, but I should get going—”

Brett and Jason exchange a glance as they stand up. “Hey, wait a second,” says Jason.

Lynx starts towards the door, but before they can get there, Jason steps into their path, uncomfortably close. They back away, glancing towards the back door, but Brett’s already standing in front of it.

Lynx’s heart starts pounding. “Listen,” they say, their voice hardening, “I have to go.”

Shannon stands by the counter, her eyes darting between the two boys. Colby steps forward as his eyes narrow. “Jason, what are you—”

Jason makes a grab for Lynx. They try to dodge him, but his hand wraps around their arm, and he pushes them against the kitchen table. Before they can even process it, he’s yanking down the collar of their sweatshirt, exposing their designation number tattoo.

They gasp, trying to squirm away, as Jason leans back to show the others. “See? I told you!”

“Get off me!” Lynx snaps, their nails digging into Jason’s arm as they try to wrench him away.

He lets go. Lynx stumbles, pulling up the collar of their shirt to hide the tattoo. But Colby and Shannon are both staring at Lynx with wide eyes—they saw it.

Lynx backs up against the wall as Jason pulls out his phone. “I saw this post about a missing pet in the area,” he explains, “and it looks exactly like them! Look! The number matches up, too. They’re a pet.”

Colby’s eyes dart over to Lynx, confusion and betrayal evident on his face. “Lynx?” he asks quietly.

“We should call their owner,” Brett says.

“No!” All eyes turn towards Lynx as they press back against the wall, their eyes darting between the others as they try to find a way out. “You can’t—he’ll fucking kill me for this.”

“Maybe we should call the cops,” Shannon suggests, looking worried. But she’s looking at the others, not Lynx—as if they’re not worth addressing anymore. “What if the owner thinks we stole them or something? We should have a chance to explain, so that we don’t get accused of anything.”

“Good idea,” says Jason, already on his phone.

Lynx opens their mouth to protest, but Brett cuts them off. “And what the fuck is going on here, anyway? Aren’t pets supposed to be, like, obedient?” He turns to Lynx, confusion and disgust evident on his face. “Why were you pretending to be a human?”

They wince, guilt and shame rushing through them. He clearly doesn’t know anything about pets, so his opinion shouldn’t matter, but it still stings. At the same time, though, they’re bitterly furious. Why was I pretending to be human? Shit, I don’t know, maybe it’s because I have an owner who will fucking kill me for misbehaving?

They shake their head, gritting their teeth. “Just—just let me go. No one has to know about this.”

“We can’t just let a pet loose on the streets,” Jason cuts back in, looking up from his phone. “Some of my relatives have pets, and those things can’t do anything for themselves—they wouldn’t survive a day on their own.”

The way he called the pets things isn’t lost on Lynx, but they don’t have time to worry about that. “Well, I already did,” Lynx snaps, “so I think I’ll be fucking fine.”

Jason stares at them doubtfully for a moment. Then he taps his screen and raises the phone to his ear. “Uh, yeah, I found someone’s lost pet—”

Lynx lunges for him, jabbing a bony elbow into his side as they attempt to push past. He yells, and Shannon shrieks as she stumbles back to avoid Lynx. Jason’s fingers hook on the collar of Lynx’s shirt, and the fabric nearly chokes them as he hauls them backwards.

Arms wrap around them from behind, lifting them off their feet and pinning their arms to their sides. “Quit squirming,” Brett snaps in their ear.

Lynx kicks at his shins, struggling in his grip. “Get off me!” they yell. “Let me go!”

As Brett stumbles backwards with them, they hear Jason still on the phone. “Yeah, it’s being aggressive—do you guys have, like, animal control for these things?”

Lynx’s breaths come in short, panicked gasps as Brett carries them towards one of the bedrooms. “Colby—a little help, here?” he asks.

Colby has been standing silently by the counter, watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. Lynx catches his gaze. They almost want to plead with him, beg for his help. He looks conflicted—maybe he would try to help them.

But his expression turns neutral as he shakes his head, like he’s trying to rid himself of any wayward thoughts. “Yeah, of course.”

Lynx’s struggles slow for a moment as they feel a weight drop in their chest. But what were they expecting? He’d never help them. They shouldn’t have hoped for it.

Brett kicks open the bedroom door, with Colby following closely behind. Lynx continues kicking and writhing, even as Brett’s grip tightens. “Get the closet,” he says.

Colby obeys, his movements almost robotic as he opens a narrower door to a small, dark space. Lynx shakes their head rapidly. “No, don’t, p—” The word please almost slips out, to their horror, but they’re cut off as Brett drops them unceremoniously and shoves them inside.

They stumble into the back wall, just barely catching themself, and the door slams behind them. They whirl around, the door rattling as they bang their fists against it. “Let me out!” they cry, frantically turning the knob. They didn’t see a lock, but the shadow at the bottom of the frame tells them that Brett’s weight is holding it closed.

Brett scoffs. “Not a chance. Now why don’t you be a good, quiet little pet while we wait for the cops to get here?”

“Fuck you!” Lynx’s fists pound against the door a few extra times before their breath hitches, and they let their arms fall. They rest their forehead against the wood and squeeze their eyes shut. They shouldn’t have accepted Colby’s offer. They should have just walked away and kept to themself instead of getting into this mess.

They shouldn’t have tried to escape from Kennedy’s hotel room, either, but they can’t bring themself to regret that part.

It’s not long before they hear sirens wailing in the distance. They grit their teeth, pressing back against the wall as they listen to the heavy footfalls moving through the house, the serious, authoritative voices giving directions, asking questions. Brett’s shadow in front of the door is replaced with several others. Lynx tenses.

The door flings open, flooding the dark closet with sudden light. There’s nowhere for Lynx to escape the heavy, gloved hands descending upon them, pulling them out into the open. A boot kicks the backs of their legs, and they crash to their knees. Their arms are wrenched behind their back, cuffs snapping around their wrists. A cheap, nylon collar digs into their throat, fastened too tight.

They hiss in pain as a gloved hand grabs their hair, wrenching their head back. They can’t hold back the whimper that escapes when they see the muzzle descending over their face. Strands of hair get caught in the straps, pulling painfully as the buckles lock into place.

Someone yanks them to their feet, two sets of hands gripping their skinny arms as they’re dragged out of the bedroom. Out in the kitchen, the cops are talking to everyone separately. Lynx barely registers what’s being said around them, only catching snippets of conversation. Shannon looks almost scared as Lynx passes by, and an officer puts a hand on her arm, reassuring her that Lynx is harmless now. Jason and Brett both glare, but Jason is the one who hisses the word freak at them.

Lynx’s struggles are half-hearted now, their head hanging. They practically let the officers take them from the house. But their head snaps up when they see Colby talking to a cop near the front door. He meets their gaze, his eyes widening as he takes in the muzzle, the collar, the handcuffs.

He bites his lip and looks away.

Lynx’s face flushes with humiliation, and they’re distracted enough to stumble on the threshold. One of the officers irritably yanks at their collar, dragging them down the steps. The front door slams shut behind them.

#whump writing #whump #pet whump #violence tw #police violence tw #manhandling tw #dehumanization tw #recapture #zipwrites #oc: lynx #box bastards

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cryptidwritings · 1 month

Text

Dark Water

Chapter 41 : The Sated Beak

prev | next | masterlist

cw: controlling whumper, creepy whumper, possessive whumper, noncon touch (sfw), whumper pov, whumper gets a little more unhinged, light lady whump, fantasizing of choking, reference to past choking, light manhandling, the use of money to manipulate

Rowing was a relaxing, leisurely thing. Reid took in the scenery as his muscles tightened with each row, navigating through the reeds and fallen trees with ease. The trip along the water was slow, but there was a beauty among the decay that he had grown to appreciate.

He maneuvered underneath the branches of familiar trees, adjusting the boat towards the symbol of a bird's head carved into a willow’s trunk.

He smiled, feeling excitement bubble up from his core. He had been holding back; to preserve the name and keep the mob away. You kill one too many people, steal too many livestock, or abduct one too many people to suit yourself and suddenly you wake up to a gun in your face. Kam was too stupid to understand that, which is why he was dead, and Reid was going to get everything he ever wanted.

Echoes of the throngs of pirate crews faded like ghostly wails into the deserted structure, bouncing off the upturned chairs. Reid stepped foot inside, taking a long breath in as he glanced above the front door; a sign with the same birds head branded onto a discarded ship’s plank along with other symbols that likely formed the name of the place: The Sated Beak.

He remembered the day that plaque was raised. It was the same day that he and Theodora had sat beneath the willow, and the day he fell in love.

Reid lingered at the bar and pulled out his pipe as he took a seat.

“Theodora!” He called.

A thud came from above, then a pause, followed by careful footsteps. Reid looked up as she appeared, cracking a smile. Her hair was a mess; undone, not like her, and the dark circles under her eyes set off the deep brown that bore holes through him.

“What do ye want?” Her voice crackled like a dwindling fire.

“That's no way to treat a customer,” He said around the stem of the pipe.

He pulled out a coin and placed it on the counter. “Serve me.”

It wasn't a request. Theodora rolled up her sleeves, revealing small bruises along her skin. Reid kept an eye on them, wondering how she would react if he put pressure on them; if her eyes would spark to life again rather than regard him with a cold and bitter contempt.

“All I got left is potatoes and an egg.”

“That sounds just fine.”

She gathered the supplies, turning away from Reid to light the fire.

“Do ye mind?” He asked.

She stood up again, then approached with the matchstick, placing the flame into the bowl of his pipe. He took a few puffs, dragging the heat inside as the tobacco ignited, glowing a bright red under her shaking fingertips. Satisfied, he sat back, and watched her wave the matchstick before snuffing the smoke with her boot.

“How are ye?” Reid asked, letting in the pause as he took a puff and blew it into the air. “Slept well?”

“Like a damn baby.”

His smile brightened at the response. She flipped the potatoes and egg, sprinkling her seasoning and tossing the hot butter over the top to cook it evenly before she took it off the heat; snatching a plate and dumping the food onto it as she turned and pushed it across the counter with deft dexterity.

“So,” Reid settled back on the stool, “did ye get someone to fix the stairs?”

Theodora was already at the wash basin. His grip tightened on the pipe when she didn’t answer.

“Oy. I asked ye a que-”

“-I ‘aven't gotten ‘round to it.”

Reid shrugged, glancing at the banister. “I could help ye.”

She whipped around, “Stop wastin' my time,” Her hand was so tight around the spatula’s handle that it squeaked as her skin wrung around the wood. “What do ye want?”

Reid's smile faded quickly, turning to ice again. “How about a fork for starters?”

A second later the cutlery clattered toward him. He replaced the pipe with it and cut the pancake and egg into fourths, skewering two slices of each before shoving them into his mouth.

“Mmm,” he licked his lips free of the runny yolk. “I could eat ye cooking every day of my life, Theodora.”

Her back was to him again. Ignoring him. He reached into his pocket and pressed another gold coin onto the countertop, smirking when she turned to look at the sound.

“For the excellent service.”

Her fingers wrapped around it, and Reid’s grip tightened, staring at her when she realized he wasn’t going to let go.

“And,” he pointed behind her, “that room. Indefinitely.”

Theodora let go. “I can’t do that.”

“Sure ye can,” he stood up. “No one’s using it.”

“Aye. I won't do it, then.”

“Why ye so hell-bent on making everything difficult, Theodora?”

He hunched as he neared. “Ye will do it. Ye forget who I have back at home?”

Theodora's nostrils flared, startling a bit as her hip hit the counter. She was cornered. Reid drew closer still, noticing her swallow nervously.

“I don’t care about ‘im as much as ye think I do. The man was a good worker, nothin’ more.”

His body lightly pressed against her, draping over as she attempted to lean back to achieve some space.

“Ye don’t like him?” he flashed his golden teeth. “Not even a little bit?”

Her nostrils flared as she came back with that look; the one that made her eyes wrinkle as she subdued her worry. It told him she was trying to keep something away from him— something important, something real.

“I want the room. Clean. With a bed and a trunk. This,” he held up the coin again, “is more than enough.”

Her eye snapped to his, and through trembling lips she said, “Then do it ye self.”

“Tsk, tsk, so stubborn,” he shook his head with a playful smile. Then, his ankle swept at hers, and he shoved her down onto the bar-top quicker than she could scream.

His hand pressed on her sternum as he leaned over her. She stretched her neck away, closing her eyes, as if that was enough to make him disappear.

“Unfortunate, isn’t it?” He whispered, catching the stutter in her breath as he leaned closer to her, “about what he is, aye? Thought he could keep it a secret while twisting ye around his finger. But don’t worry, I’ll take care of him for ye. I’ll make it all go away and all I want in exchange is that little room.”

Theodora clamped her eyes as he shifted above her. Her heart was thundering in her rib cage, and her skin flushed with a feint deep red blush on her cheeks and down underneath the collar of her shirt, meeting the markings of his fingers around her neck.

He could do it again, now. There was no one to stop him. The thought sent shivers down his spine.

No. Not yet.

She scrambled down from the counter as he rounded the bar, smiling like a hyena.

“I'll be back to see it. Don't disappoint me, Savvy?” He winked, tossing the coin at her feet, then left out the back door.

taglist: @sparrowsage @kixngiggles @honey-is-mesi @annablogsposts

#pirate whump #whump series #whumper pov #creepy whumper #manipulative whumper #indentured servitude #indebted whumpee #lady whump #(very lightly but still)#manhandling tw #reference to past choking #tw bruises #whump community #dark water by jovi

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a-series-of-whumpy-events · 2 years

Text

Summer of Whump prompt fill two out of four! This one was also very well-received when I first posted it, so I’m excited to have it back!

Warnings: manhandling, force-feeding

Taglist: @rat-father @whump-it @whump-me-all-night-long @tears-and-lilies @cupcakes-and-pain @hearse-song @sola-whumping @caspia-writes @cursedandtired @oswaldinator3000

Summer of Whump- Thrall: Force-Feeding

Devin leaned forward and rubbed his fingers together, making a rough rustling sound. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” he whispered.

One of the cats, gray with a torn ear, trotted towards him, arching its back and rubbing up against his hand. Devin chuckled, stroking the cat’s furry head. “Sure, and you just want food, don’t you?” He held out the chunk of bread Ilka had given him. “Sorry, this is all I have.”

The cat sniffed delicately at the bread, then abruptly bolted, vanishing into the shadows. Devin frowned. What scared you off, then?

Someone grabbed the neckline of his tunic. The bread fell from his hand as the assailant pulled him up and slammed him against the longhouse wall. Devin’s chest tightened with an abrupt fear.

There were two of them, and neither one was Mikkel. He didn’t recognize either of them. Where had they come from, and what did they even want with him?

A low laugh in the twilight, and then Mikkel moved into the feeble glow of the torches. The strangers released Devin, letting him fall. His heart pounded in his chest. The two other Vikings stepped to the sides, surrounding Devin.

“Thank you, friends,” Mikkel said to the two strangers, his predatory grin matching theirs. He locked eyes with Devin, chuckling lightly. “You needn’t look so frightened, boy. I’m not going to hurt you.” He stepped forward again, the toe of his boot hitting the chunk of bread. He bent down to pick it up, and a quizzical look replaced his smirk. “What’s this? Bread? Ah, I see. This is yours.”

Mikkel came closer then, too close. Devin’s back pressed against the longhouse wall, and Mikkel’s friends guarded each side. There was nowhere to run, if he even dared try it.

Mikkel rolled his eyes. “For Thor’s sake, boy, stop cowering like that. You look like a cornered rabbit.” He held out the bread. “I’m not going to take it away from you. Here.”

What is he doing? This had to be a trap of some kind, but for the life of him Devin couldn’t think of what game Mikkel could possibly be playing. Alarm bells clanged furiously in his head, but he didn’t know why.

Cautiously, he stepped forward, closer to Mikkel, keeping his eyes down. If this wasn’t a trick, then it had to go right. Devin knew Mikkel- he was volatile, and the smallest thing could set him off. He could not risk making Mikkel angry, not now.

“Here,” Mikkel said again. “You can have it.”

Devin took another careful step, close enough now that he could have touched Mikkel. Slowly, he reached for the bread.

“I’ll even help you finish it,” Mikkel added.

Before Devin could even register the words, Mikkel lunged, knocking him back against the longhouse wall. The two others grabbed him, pinning him to the wall.

Mikkel’s hand curled around the back of Devin’s head, holding him still. The young Viking’s eyes glittered darkly as he held the chunk of bread next to Devin’s face. “Eat, boy. Come on, eat. Scrawny little whelp, I know you want it.”

Devin struggled, but held in the grip of three men who were quite a bit stronger than him, he didn’t have much of a chance.

Mikkel’s hand moved to his jaw. Devin fought him, trying to turn his head away. “Stop,” he managed to say, “stop it.”

Mikkel was laughing. And it wasn’t even his usual mocking laughter. It was just laughing, as if someone had told him a joke he found particularly funny.

He forced Devin’s mouth open and shoved the bread between his teeth. Devin choked, his hands flying up instinctively to push Mikkel back. But Mikkel was stronger than he was, and Devin could do nothing against him. He still tried, panicked, barely able to breathe. Mikkel pushed the bread further into his mouth, cutting off his air. Devin thrashed in the Viking’s grip, trying desperately to free himself.

And finally, he pushed Mikkel’s hands away. The other two Vikings let him fall again. Devin crumpled to the ground, coughing, his breaths panicked as if his lungs weren’t sure they could breathe again. His eyes watered, tears streaming down his face.

Mikkel was still laughing.

———————————————————————

Read the previous part here!

Read the next part here!

#piper writes whump #whump #historical whump #whump writing #viking whump #manhandling #manhandling tw #force-feeding #force-feeding tw #devin o’ceallaigh #mikkel haldorsson #thrall

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rinhaler · 2 months

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Thinking about plug! Sukuna saying "tell me you want this princess" and "say you fucking need me bitch" desperately when you don't respond :/

I can't write him anymore in this AU bc every time they fuck I want to tell him we love him but we CAN'TTTTTTT

warnings: 18+ MDNI, fem!reader, dubcon, smoking weed (implied), cheating, manhandling, size difference, slight pining, spanking, degradation, dry humping, vaginal sex, pet names (princess), hair pulling, he slaps u 🫶🏽 ++ squirting !

words: 1.5k

“What are you doing here?” you ask, attempting to close the door before he can come in. He smirks, managing to stick his foot between the door and the frame before you can shut it. “You can’t be here, Sukuna.”

He rolls his eyes, pushing his way inside and making himself at home. You lock the door quickly after him, standing with your arms folded as you watch him investigate your apartment. You can’t tell if he’s amused or disgusted, and it makes you wonder why he’s here at all.

“You really are a trust fund baby. Aren’t ya?” he smirks. “Here.”

Your eyes never leave him as he approaches your kitchen table, tossing a bag of weed down onto it. You stare, long enough for him to scoff as if insulted. And then you look at him, looking right back at you. There’s an expression of his face that you can’t quite read, and the silence between you builds and builds.

“What is this?” you ask.

“Weed. I thought you’d know that by now, you smoke enough of mine.” he says, it’s casual but not quite playful enough to be sincere. So you huff, folding your arms across your chest as you consider what to say next. “Don’t worry,” he starts.

“Well I am worried because you always want something from me when you give me weed.” you sigh. “Like a kiss or—”

“Heard you and Yuuji were arguing.” he interrupts you. “Thought you might need something to relax. I don’t have a motive… just trying to—”

“Trying to get your dick wet again, I’m not stupid.” you interrupt him right back. He looks at you, and this time you can read his expression clearly. There’s annoyance across his features plain as day, but you see traces of hurt, too.

Is it possible? Is it really possible for him to extend a kindness to you with no ulterior motive? It’s hard to believe. It’s hard to take seriously when you know the type of person he is. You don’t even really like each other. You’ve gone from hating each other to tolerating each other for Yuuji’s sake.

And still, you feel sorry for him.

He came all of this way, and you’ve hardly been a good host thus far. You sigh, sitting at the kitchen table. The weed must be his idea of a peace offering, so you shrug. He moves from leaning against the table to sitting on the seat opposite to you, watching you carefully as you decide what your next move is.

“I— I don’t even know how to roll.” you confess.

“… I can do it for you.”

Your laughter is infectious enough to make Sukuna laugh too. You’ve been watching old episodes of SpongeBob for an hour, and you can’t believe how long it’s been since you watched it. You always thought it was funny as a kid. But you hadn’t expected it to be even funnier as an adult.

But maybe you’re just high.

“Sukuna?” you say, it’s quiet in comparison to your laugh. But he hears it clear enough, looking down to where your head is rested in his lap. He nods to tell you to continue, but looking up at his harsh red eyes and chiselled jaw makes you nervous. “Why did you really come over?”

He clears his throat, taking a final drag of his blunt before stubbing it out in the nearby ashtray. His eyes can barely meet yours as he searches for the confidence to tell you the truth.

“I just wanted to see you.” he confesses.

You turn off the TV and sit upright. You’re sitting beside him, and now, he can’t take his eyes off you. A squeak leaves you as he dares to pull you closer to him, so close that you’re straddling him.

You hate yourself.

You want to kiss him.

He smirks at the little internal conflict that’s plastering itself across your face. His hands smooth up your sides, one travelling further to take a firm grasp of the back of your neck. His hold is strong, but not forceful. Just enough to keep you in place and maybe bring you closer to him and he leans in to kiss you.

And you let him.

Your lips lock and you moan as he helps you grind down onto his growing bulge. He smiles against your lips as your mouth opens just enough for him to slip you some tongue. A primal growl rips through him as he feels your warm, clothed cunt rub against him just right.

“Tell me you want this, princess.” he says quietly before kissing you again.

You don’t respond, focusing on kissing him back and getting yourself off like a horny teenager. Your hands cup his face, and you continue to roll your hips against him pathetically. Heavy breaths and wanton moans leave you as you proceed to chase the feeling and carry on giving Sukuna what he wants just as desperately.

You do want this.

Your pitiful display can attest to that.

His hands wander again to squeeze your ass, Sukuna’s own moaning at the mere feeling of your pussy soaking his sweats should be enough to make him feel ashamed. He doesn’t care, though. Not when your lips are on his and your entrance is just two layers of fabric away.

He rests his head on the back of the couch, allowing you the time to tell him. Really tell him how much you crave him.

But you don’t.

Not a single word.

His eyes grow darker, more impatient. Could he be wrong? The way you’re using him tells him otherwise, but he wants you to tell him. He needs you to. A hand spanks hard against your ass cheek before he moves it to slap you across the face.

And it shocks you.

His other hand wraps around your hair and forces you closer to him again. Noses almost touch as he looks at you like a meal to be devoured by an animal in the wild.

“Say you fucking need me, bitch.” he demands.

You can’t tell if you’re nodding on your own or if he’s doing it himself with your hair. But you crumble, for him. Spilling your desire and crumbling under his stare, admitting your deepest shame.

“I n-need you, Sukuna,” you bite your lip. “Please.”

He reaches under your skirt to move your panties aside. His patience is thin, he just wants to feel you. He quickly pulls his cock out from beneath his sweats, lining his thick tip up with your dripping hole.

“Fuck.” you gasp, eyes watering as he repeatedly dips in and out of you.

You screech as he forces you down on his length, and he grunts at the sensation of your cunt forcing itself to accommodate his girth. He’s loud, and he doesn’t care in the slightest. This is what he wanted all along.

This is always what he wants.

He helps you ride him, even fucking up into you shallowly to help hit the spongy spot deep inside that always makes you delirious. The spot only he can hit. Not some random guy. Not his little brother. Just him.

“That’s it, princess,” he praises you, noting by your pretty face and spasming cunt that you’re nearing your demise. He’s not much better, either, ready to coat your insides at any given second. He’s holding off, though. He needs you to cum first. “Let go, make a mess for daddy. Go on.”

“C-Can’t—” you tell him. The stretch is glorious and the feeling of his pretty tip battering your g-spot is perfection personified. But it’s too much. It’s too much to focus on and ground yourself to really enjoy and let yourself go. You’re struggling to take him. You can’t give him what he wants and—

He forces your little crop top up to rest beneath your collarbones, quickly sucking and kissing your nipples between his soft lips. His tongue laps at them. And God he’s wasted being a fucking drug dealer.

He should be a porn star.

He pulls away as you clamp around him, throwing your head back from the blissful feeling as your cunt soaks him. Your squirt all over him, turning light grey sweats dark as you almost scream through the feeling of your release.

The sight is more than enough to make him finish. His balls tighten and cum coats your insides as he finishes with you fully seated on his cock. Sukuna’s arms hug tightly around your waist, pulling you flush against him as he empties himself in your womb.

He slowly continues to make out with your tits when it’s over. His energy spent but still desperate to feel you, please you, hear you in any capacity. The overstimulation drives you wild, you do all you can do wriggle away but it’s hopeless.

Sukuna is stronger than you’ll ever be, and you’ve given him full control of your body.

#💌 — luxe mail #📨 — requests #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x reader #sukuna smut #sukuna ryomen x reader #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu #jjk x fem!reader #tw cheating #tw degradation #tw hair pulling #tw manhandling #tw size difference

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spanishsenpai · 7 months

Text

Whumptober 2023 - Day 5

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3 - Chapter 4 - Chapter 5

This chapter isn't my favorite but I hope y'all enjoy anyway.

Read it on AO3 if you'd rather! :D

There wasn’t a window in Aitor’s room/cell. There wasn’t a clock either. He was pretty sure he was getting three meals a day though so it had likely been only a week since he’d been brought here.

It took Waltz another day of starving him and giving him an injection to determine that he wasn’t about to keel over and die. After that, he got a new room, the one he was currently in. There was a mattress with a few blankets and his very own bathroom.

Such luxury. It pissed him off.

Apparently he was doing better than Waltz had hoped for though since he’d attached a heart monitor to him, the kind that he’d been forced to wear like a necklace. If it dipped too low or high Waltz would come in to make sure he wasn’t trying to kill himself.

He’d tried to take it off once, sick of being treated like a child. Waltz had nearly broken his hand and withheld his next few meals. For some reason, he felt it was related to whatever these injections were, he could hardly stand being hungry for as long as he knew he could handle. A day without food felt like triple the time. Not to mention the random headaches he would get now. Waltz never answered any questions about it when Aitor tried to ask.

The marks on his arm were growing in number turning his forearm into an ugly sight of what he assumed was the infection. Even worse, it was all over his rank tattoo. If he got out of here there would be no hiding it. It was all so frustrating and if he thought about it too long, his heart would race and Waltz would barge in to make sure he was alive.

His other arm wasn’t spared either. A couple days ago, Waltz had begun drawing blood from him. Lots of it. Multiple times a day. He could hardly pace around his room before he felt lightheaded and had to sit down which further aggravated the headaches. The food he was given wasn’t really the right kind to replenish the lost blood, not that there was much beef or orange juice left in the apocalypse.

He sighed, trying not to get worked up about it. There was nothing to do but think though. He was so used to being active: patrolling, training, making repairs. There was so much restless energy in him now. Even being forced to lie down lest he pass out, he was tapping his foot on the cold ground.

Hopefully his boredom would be relieved soon. There should be some food coming around this time, if Aitor’s stomach could be trusted with that sort of thing. Maybe he’d stop feeling woozy enough to do some sit ups or squats. He was avoiding arm workouts since the injections on his left arm made the muscles incredibly sore.

Aitor sat up as the doorknob clicked. He made sure to have a glare set on his face as Waltz came into the room. The glare deepened when the man lacked a plate of food in his hand.

“What’s this then?” He snapped, standing up on his mattress. “You’ll take all this blood and then starve me?”

Aitor hated that Waltz seemed pleased when he argued with him. “It’s time to get ready for your next dose. Luck for you, I’ll be lessening the time you need to go without food for it. You’re finally adjusting. Soon enough, your body will be able to fight off the added infection without needing to be starved.”

Aitor scoffed. He didn’t want to be here that long.

“You should be pleased. Most of my subjects don’t make it this long, especially not with as much functionality as you.”

“And what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

As usual, Waltz didn’t answer. Aitor threw his hands up, frustrated. “So what? You came all the way here to tell me that?”

“We’ll be making repairs to the generators, so you will stay outside until the repairs are done.”

Outside? Aitor’s eyes widened. He hadn’t imagined being able to see it again so soon. He wasn’t about to complain though.

“Well? Let’s go,” Waltz called.

Aitor was too eager to see the sun to be annoyed. The fresh air would hopefully help curb his jittery nerves. As he approached the door, Waltz grabbed the back of his shirt before leading him away. Aitor bit down the insults he wanted to bark, not wanting to lose this opportunity, besides Waltz wouldn’t be affected by any attempt he made to get away.

He was led down several flights of stairs. All the hallways were empty which surprised him a bit. Where were all the Renegades he’d heard outside his room?

The thought was wiped from his mind as they approached a set of double doors with sunlight shining through them. As he stepped outside, he had to cover his eyes as he was blinded for a minute. It didn’t take long for him to recover and take a deep breath of fresh air. There was a slight sour smell he didn’t recognize but it didn’t matter.

They could fix that generator forever in his opinion.

His earlier question about the Renegades was answered now though. Quite a few of them were out here, patrolling and talking around a fire. It was then he realized this was a bandit camp. He looked at the surroundings, finding he didn’t recognize these buildings. Where the hell had they taken him?

Waltz was still pulling him along. Aitor, to his endless frustration, was getting tired. He was still recovering from the latest blood drawing. He kept questions to himself though. There would be time to curse Waltz out later and he’d walk as far as he needed to to stay out here longer.

Where they ended up almost made him want to turn around and go back to his cell. He’d been led down a set of stairs to a garden rooftop that was about 5 meters shorter than the surrounding ones. It wasn’t very big and the top was covered in chicken wire. The only entrance or exit was the set of stairs they’d taken to get down here, which was blockaded by metal doors they had installed.

It was a glorified cage. He bristled as he looked up and saw some Renegades had already gathered to stare down at him from above.

“You will stay here. Try to escape and they,” Waltz gestured above them, “will tranquilize you.”

“I’m not a fucking zoo animal!” He finally snarled.

Waltz stared down at him. “We can always skip this part and go right to the tranquilizers.”

Aitor choked down the reply he wanted to give. This was fucking demeaning but at least he was able to experience being outside. He scoffed, crossing his arms, and glared at Waltz.

The man had the audacity to look pleased. “Thought so. I’ll collect you before dark.”

He left then, locking the metal doors behind him. This was ridiculous. With all these Renegades around, where would he go? Did Waltz really think he was capable of escaping after struggling down the stairs?

Whatever. He was here now. He set to exploring this little garden. The ground was mostly dry dirt and weeds but there were occasional patches of flowers and a bench to sit on. The surrounding buildings were also tall enough to see from here so he was able to watch the small amounts of movement from the infected in them. There was more to entertain him here than his room at the least.

He sat down next to a patch of long grass and plucked pieces of it to tie together. He was too shaky to run laps around this area but he’d seen some of the Bazaar folk weaving grass and thought he could remember enough to make something.

His stomach growled after sitting there long enough to have made a small grass square. He rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t feel this hungry yet.

In reality, being hungry wasn’t what was really bothering him. Not when he was faced with having to take another injection. The hours leading up to it, he was tired and weak and after, his body was so sore and every vein seemed to feel like hot lava racing through him. He glanced at the marks on his arm again before tugging both of his sleeves down. He didn’t have to look at it. Maybe the less he did so, the better he’d feel.

When he’d made a grass pad barely big enough to sit on, one that was a little ugly and bumpy, he set it on some dirt and laid back on the ground to use it as a sort of pillow. His arms rested behind his head so he could see the few tall buildings around and clouds passing by.

Aitor sighed. This was almost peaceful. If he could block out the Renegades’ noise he could pretend he was somewhere else taking a quiet moment for himself. He should probably count himself lucky since they seemed to not be interested in him at the moment.

He’d started to zone out while staring at the sky, the occasional bird or one of the Renegades above would have his eyes darting to the movement but it didn’t last. The thing that caught his attention this time though was something much larger than a bird. It almost looked like a human gliding on one of those paragliders the people at the Fish Eye sometimes had. Peacekeeper armor was too heavy to consider trying to adapt to the mode of transportation.

His eyebrows rose as the figure landed on a building and began running on the outside scaffolding. They would glide and climb and run until Aitor realized their destination must be the camp. They jumped to a building right next to the bandit camp and crouched, clearly trying not to be spotted. Aitor wasn’t surprised the Renegades hadn’t seen the figure. They didn’t look up a lot and sounded like they were busy having some kind of brawl.

Aitor squinted up at the person, trying to make out if he knew them. He bolted upright, eyes wide as he began to recognize features. Was that… was that Aiden?

He’d thought Aiden had died with the rest of his squad, an event he had done his best not to think about. That was definitely the Pilgrim up there though. He had his binoculars out and was scouting the camp’s surface.

Surely he wasn't thinking about raiding it? Not by himself?

A small part of Aitor hoped that, yes, he was. He’d seen Aiden do impossible things. He hated Waltz as well so surely there would be an opportunity to escape.

Jesus Christ, Aitor thought, anxious with the potential of freedom being so close. Look here Pilgrim.

He almost stood up, but didn’t want to draw attention to Aiden’s position. He should probably stop staring at him like a kid who’d just seen his first mall Santa. It physically pained him to tear his gaze away though. If he wasn’t watching Aiden then how could he be sure the other was still there?

He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply as he brought his knees under his elbows. He needed to calm down. His heart was racing so fast Waltz might-

“What are you doing?” A Renegade screeched, slamming the door closed behind him.

Aitor tensed but didn’t turn around, feigning aloofness. “What the hell does it look like I’m doing?” He snapped.

Multiple footsteps came closer to him until a hand was suddenly snatching his upper arm and pulling him up to his feet. Aitor would forever deny that it made him dizzy to stand so quickly.

“What the hell?” He shouted instead.

“Boss said to make sure you weren’t killing yourself.” The Renegade who’d grabbed him shoved him back to the ground, snickering out how easily Aitor went down.

A growl escaped his throat. As the Renegade reached for him again, Aitor kicked out, catching him in the side of the knee. Quickly he got to his feet as the other yelped and fell.

“Bastard,” Aitor grumbled, dusting off his pants.

The Renegade recovered quickly, standing and pulling out his weapon, his buddy doing the same. Aitor could practically hear them steaming behind their masks.

“I’ll fucking show you,” he screamed, lunging at Aitor with a bat covered in barbed wire.

Eyes widening, Aitor threw himself to the side, just barely dodging as he hit the ground. The Renegade whirled on him again as Aitor scrambled to get to his feet. Fuck, his head. The world spun as he moved.

“Get back here!”

Aitor cried out as the bat made contact with his back, shoving him forward enough that he fell again. The barbed wire tore at his shirt, nicking the skin underneath. There was warmth seeping into his shirt and he was already breathing harder. He couldn’t keep dodging.

Weight appeared on his back before he could form a full thought, shoving his chest into the dirt. He wheezed out a breath, feet kicking against the dirt ground in a sad attempt to get back up. He could tell there was a pair of boots on his back keeping him down. Damn it, he was at the mercy of the two Renegades.

He tried to twist around to get on his back but another boot from the other Renegade landed on the back of his knee, keeping him pinned. Aitor snarled, panic starting to settle in his chest. Even with the soreness in his arms, he tried to lift his torso up, even with the Renegade on him. The needle marks stung as his aching muscles screamed. It didn’t last long though as the Renegade only had to do a small jump to get him to collapse again. Aitor coughed, choking on the dry dust now floating around his face.

“Are you a couple of idiots? Waltz will kill you!” Aitor seethed, finding a little difficulty in getting the words out with the full weight of a grown man on his chest..

Raspy chuckling was his reply. “Fucker thinks he’s untouchable!”

The one not standing on his back slammed his weapon hard into his side. Aitor tensed but bit his tongue to keep any cry from escaping other than a grunt. “Peacekeepers don’t make the rules around here fucker..”

Shit, he should be able to get up! His body was so shaky from Waltz’s fucked up experiments though that Aitor felt as helpless as a lone private in the middle of a hoard. There was no one to help him. No squad. No back up.

He looked at the mask of the Renegade above him from the corner of his eye. Immediately, he clenched it shut to brace as he saw the bat swinging up, ready to come down on him.

The door slammed open.

“Idiots!” Another Renegade shouted. “The boss’ll rip you apart if you break his science project!”

The Renegade above him paused, staring at the one at the door. “The fucker tripped me!”

“And Waltz will take off your legs. Leave him!”

There was a scoff but after a minute, the Renegades climbed off him. Aitor immediately set to getting up, pushing himself away from the group as fast as he could. His arms were trembling from exertion, infuriating him but he knew there was nothing he could win here by attacking.

He coughed as the one he’d kicked pushed him back against the wall, arm pressed against his throat. “Next time i won’t be so easy to get rid of fucker,” he hissed before heading for the exit.

Aitor waited until they’d left to rub his throat, wincing when curling his left hand caused pain to pulse all around the injection sites. He slid to the ground, as the world began to spin, breathing heavily through his nose to try and keep from passing out.

He got off lucky with the appearance of the only smart Renegade. He was so fucking helpless here. He needed to get out.

His eyebrows rose, head snapping up to look at where Aiden had been but the spot was empty now.

Aitor sighed, placing his head back between his knees.

#whumptober2023 #no.5 #Pinned down #dying light 2 #dying light #dying light aitor #dl2 aitor #fanfiction #fic #manhandling tw #cursing tw #needle tw #whump #waltz is here too

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