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chaotic-orphan · 2 months

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Febuwhump: Day Seventeen

Prompt - hostage situation (#febuwhump)

TW: tied up, ropes, helpless, pirates, intimate Whumper, explosion, fighting, violence, mass killing implied

*~*~*~*~*

The sea was calm. The weather fair, the morning was yawning awake, blue skies rising with the sun, the dark blues disappearing beyond the horizon. It was a cycle of change that lay before his eyes, the fresh dew cast a mist on the water… and yet something, on the wind perhaps, was unsettling Locke as he maintained his chartered course. Something unexpected was turning with the tide, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

His first mate approached him, eyes on the horizon as they sailed at half-speed. “Admiral,” first mate said in greeting, the lilt of a question hanging off the last syllable.

“Do you feel the shift in the dew, first mate?”

First mate followed Locke’s line of sight to the lazily rising sun. “No, Admiral. However, that is not my station.”

“What is your station, mate?”

“To ensure you’re ship shape, Admiral,” said First Mate with a cheeky grin. “I trust your instincts; I would sail into hell if you ordered me too and recruit the best dead sailors of the underworld to navigate us to the living one again.”

Admiral laughed, a smile appearing on his face at Mate’s words.

“And what do your instincts say today, Admiral?” Mate asked.

“That we need to fly at full speed and reach the next port before this ill-begotten wind is at our backs.”

“Sir,” said first mate with a nod. First mate walked promptly down the steps of the ship onto the poop deck and let out an unmerciful commanding shout that could wake the dead. “Make-Ready Men!”

There was a ruckus below deck, a few curses and sudden thumps from the crew waking to the sound of First mate’s bellows.

“Heave the sails to full speed!”

Admiral laughed again when First mate turned to look at him over their shoulder, dark eyes bright with mischief. Then First mate’s eyes widened as they stared passed Locke to something behind him. Locke turned too.

A black ship twice the size of Admiral’s was on them, which had not been there a mere moment before. “Admiral!”

First mate yelled and Admiral heard sudden panicked footsteps run towards him as a chord of rope enveloped him, binding his arms to his sides with one unmerciful pull and lifting him from his own ship. Admiral gasped as the rope closed tighter and tighter around him the more he struggled. His feet left the deck of his ship, his eyes on First Mate who was standing where Locke was not a moment ago, reaching up desperately trying to catch Locke before he was completely out of reach.

First mate’s fingers brushed Locke’s ankle devastatingly close before Locke was hoisted up like one of his sails away from his ship and impossibly high above it like God himself was pulling Locke to the heavens.

Were it not for the chants of “heave! Heave! Heave!” Locke would have thought he was dead. If not for the riotous laughter as Locke was hoisted higher only tightened a knot of anxiety in his gut until he was above the other vessel, black planks below him and a man in a white shirt with red hair grinning up at him deviously.

Locke swallowed as he gazed down at the ship. No uniforms, no colours of their allegiance and the black finish of the deck… Locke had only heard rumours of this monster that haunted the seven seas.

Locke was lowered precariously to the deck of the ship, his legs like jelly under him when they hit the ground. The red-haired man laughed when Locke’s knees buckled and he fell to the deck, unable to catch himself.

“We went fishing lads, yet it seems we caught ourselves a landlubber,” the red-haired man proclaimed. More jeering laughter followed as the red-haired man spread his arms to his adoring crowd, turning his back slightly to Admiral. Admiral grit his teeth as he got a leg under him and pushed himself up.

He didn’t make it to one knee with a sword at his throat. His eyes widened at the glinting metal, the same black as the ship – a metal Locke had never set his eyes on before. The red-haired man’s eyes narrowed into a sharper point than the blade.

“I wouldn’t get brave now, fishbait.”

“Let go of me!” Locke demanded hotly. “Perhaps we can write this off as a misunderstanding.”

“Oh,” the red-haired man hummed, turning his body back to Admiral. “I don’t like threats, especially not ones made aboard my own ship, fishbait.”

“What a coincidence,” said Admiral tightly. “I don’t like being hoisted from my own. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement.”

The ropes tightened harshly around Admiral, stealing the breath from his lungs as the red-haired man stepped in, the captain of this ship no doubt… why was his name eluding Locke right now? He should know the name!

His smile was wicked and reckless. “Aye. Mayhaps we can.”

“Captain!” One of the pirate’s crew called. Captain, so Admiral was right. The red-haired man lifted his head and the pirate continued. “They’re preparing for a fight.”

Captain smiled down at Admiral. “Your men are loyal, Admiral,” Captain said, slightly impressed. Admiral frowned at him as someone grabbed Admiral’s arms and wrestled them behind him, before tying them off behind his back. Admiral pulled at the ropes, but they were so tight he could feel his pulse beating below the ropes.

“We can part peacefully, Captain,” said Admiral diplomatically. “Release me and let me return to my ship and my crew. We have no quarrel with you.”

The red-haired man grinned. Someone handed him the loose rope that was attached to Locke which Captain wrapped tightly around his hand and used it to pull Locke to his feet. Locke’s eyes widened as the Captain gave another harsh tug and yanked Locke closer, stumbling into Captain’s chest.

“Who said there must be a quarrel?” Captain said with a smile as he watched the realisation flood Locke’s face. Then Captain gave his order: “strike their colours, lads!”

Admiral lurched forward, panic seizing his limbs as he let out a sharp: “no!”

“Hush, now, Admiral, and be a good little hostage. I’ll get you accustomed to the mast, shall I?” Admiral fought him the entire way, but the Captain pulled him along anyway, looking over his shoulder to chat idly with him. "I must say, Admiral, it is a good day to see Kings men fight with loyalty for their captain. You'd be surprised how often men readily give up their captain for their lives."

"We can trade, Captain, please, there need not be blood!"

The red-haired man laughed, throwing his head back and mouth open wide staring at the sky with a hearty chuckle.

"Perhaps we are alike, Captain, you and I. We are sharks," said the pirate, yanking Admiral forward with a hand in his shirt and with a twist of his hips he slammed Admiral back against the central mast, knocking the breath from his lungs. "We both smell the blood in the water."

Captain smiled as he handed the rope to someone behind Admiral. Admiral felt the ropes tighten around him, locking his arms even tighter to his sides until there was no leverage at all for him to move. He felt the wood against his hands that were trapped uselessly behind him, and he wanted to curse and scream at the grinning pirate.

Locke froze as the captain placed a hand on the mast and leaned in, smiling at the Admiral, barely an inch between their noses. The pirate didn't smell bad, he smelled like sweet rum and salt water, but Locke scrunched his nose up all the same.

"What is your name, Admiral?” Captain asked with a dashing smile. “Just so I can properly threaten your life to your men."

"I'll tell you once you walk the plank, Captain," Locke snarled, baring his teeth at the pirate. Captain smiled and shrugged.

"Fine,” Captain said as he leaned away from Locke, the glimmer of something mischievous in his eyes. “I guess I’ll just have to wrangle it out of that spiffing first mate of yours instead.”

Admiral jerked forward, but he didn’t get very far, the ropes holding him back to the mast. “Don’t touch them!” Admiral barked.

“Sorry, Admiral,” said Captain with a forced sigh, pulling his revolver from his belt and checking to see if the gunpowder was loaded before drawing the hammer back to the full cocked position. “Loot to plunder, sailors to threaten, I have a busy schedule. Sit tight gorgeous, I’ll be back.”

Captain snapped the into place and offered Admiral a wide smile and a wink before he disappeared. “Captain! Captain wait!”

Admiral screamed after him, but over the sounds of swords clashing and gunpowder his screams just joined the sea of noise. Captain struggled in the ropes, trying to find any leverage to squeeze under or shrug over but it was no use. The rope dug so tight into Locke’s diaphragm that he could barely breathe. He knew there was going to be a ring of bruises there after he got free.

These men… Captain’s men weren’t ordinary pirates, they had an easiness to them, a regiment that reminded Admiral of his own ship’s crews and ranks. Ordinary pirates are usually not worth their salt, and yet… something in the back to Admiral’s mind told him that he knew — or should know — the Captain that currently kept him captive.

The fighting lasted until the sun was above the horizon, shimmering on the waters as the smoke cleared from between the two ships.

Another pirate came to Admiral and cut the ropes tying him to the mast. Before Admiral could ask what they were doing, the pirate yanked him forward, grabbed him by the crook of his elbow and pushed him towards the gangplank between both ships.

“Now then!” Captain said, his mirthful voice carrying over the ships with relaxed ease. “We have your captain, sailors. Your beloved Admiral Locke,” said Captain, sending a flash of his teeth to Locke. Admiral searched the poop deck for his first mate and found them in the arms of two of Captain’s men, blood streaming down their face from their forehead and nose. A bruise crowning on his cheek, his officer jacket tore.

Captain turned to Locke then, still aboard Captain’s ship. Admiral glared down at him. “The choice is yours, Admiral. Your men fought for you, will you fight for your men?”

Admiral frowned. “What?”

“I offer you the choice— would you fight—”

“Yes!” Admiral yelled, taking a step forward but he was yanked back. His heart pounding in his ears.

“Two streams of loyalty,” Captain mused. His boots hitting Locke’s deck towards first mate. Every step resounded in Admiral’s heart thudding in his chest.

“Hey! Get away from them!” Locke growled, struggles renewed as he tried his damned hardest to get to Captain and shove him away from First mate. “Captain! Captain please!”

Captain ran a hand through First Mate’s hair and yanked their head up to face Locke aboard Captain’s ship. Captain smiled, his eyes sharp.

“I offer you the choice, Admiral,” said Captain again. “Your ship and your crew, or First mate.”

Admiral blinked, something horrid settling into his gut as First Mate struggled in the pirates’ hold. The pirates wrestled First mate back into submission, Captain never taking his eyes from Locke.

“What?” Admiral breathed, too quiet for Captain to hear, but it was as if Captain heard, because he continued his torturous ultimatum with a grin.

“Your ship. Your men, your crew, your rank as Admiral, your flag, your country, your uniform,” said Captain, turning to face First mate and grabbing First mate’s chin between his fingers. “Or your first mate.”

“Admiral!” One of the sailors cried. Admiral’s dragged his eyes away from Captain to his navigator, struggling against a pirate. “That would be treason! You can’t!”

“That is my offer,” said Captain nonchalantly, capturing Locke’s attention again. “Treason and love? Or service and duty.”

“Go to hell,” First mate rasped. Captain shook his head and clicked his fingers. One the pirates holding First mate brought a cloth forward and wrestled it between their teeth. Captain waved his finger in front of First mate’s face and booped their nose. “Good little hostages don’t speak, First mate.”

First mate glared at Captain as the gag cut into their cheeks, mumbling incoherent curses at Captain behind it.

Meanwhile Locke was rooted to the spot, stunned at the awful choice that stood in front of them. It wasn’t the choice was difficult, Locke had already decided, the decision was made long ago, but… the ramifications of voicing it seemed too horrible to think.

First mate caught his conflicted eyes and shook their head softly. Admiral’s heart lurched in his chest because they knew, the pair of them knew what way the situation was going to unfold. The guilt before the decision was threatening to overwhelm them both and Locke hadn’t even said a word yet!

Captain noticed too, looking up at Locke. “Will you leave us in suspense, Admiral? Are we but fishes on your hook? Or are you waiting for the next bell to sound, hmm? Tick tock goes the tide, and with it comes the weather.”

Admiral felt all eyes turn on him, the weight of them threatening to drown him out of water.

“Admiral,” Captain hummed and yanked First Mate’s head up by the hair. First mate let out a muffled protest, fighting against him. “Come on, we don’t have all day.”

“First mate,” Admiral whispered.

Captain paused. Then he turned, eyes bright like a cats. “What was that, Admiral?”

Locke cleared his throat and avoided the eyes of his crew. “I choose treason. I choose my first mate.”

“For shame!” His crew cried but Locke didn’t care. His gaze was fixed on First Mate who was shaking like a leaf. Captain released First mate’s hair and clapped his hands together.

“Wonderful!” Captain said. “Please, bring First Mate aboard the Fallen Marauder, lads.”

Admiral stilled.

The Fallen Marauder, there’s no way that Locke was standing on the Fallen Marauder. Aside from the fact that it was a fiction, a fairytale, Admiral should be on his ship with his crew.

“Wait, what? I thought you would let us go.”

Captain grinned, “oh Admiral… how naïve.”

First mate was struggling against the pirates as they dragged them across the gangplank to the Captain’s ship. Admiral turned to First mate, but he was turned again, forced to face forward.

“Wait, Captain! What are you doing?” Admiral demanded as he saw a barrel of gunpowder being scattered over the deck.

“You chose, Admiral,” said Captain, walking across the gangplank after his men and came to stand beside Admiral. “You chose first mate, didn’t you?”

Admiral’s eyes were wide with fear. “Don’t. Don’t do this there are good men on that ship!”

“Good men you abandoned,” said Captain softly. “A ship without a captain is doomed.”

“They can make another captain!” Admiral cried as the Captain’s men pulled the gangplank away from the ship. “Please!”

“What do you care for a King’s ship? You have no country now, no loyalties to this endeavour. Now you are one of us, Admiral…” said Captain, then his head dipped, a conspiratorial smile gracing his face. “Or should I say, more accurately, Locke?”

Locke’s eyes went wide. That… Captain wasn’t wrong but Locke, he didn’t… he— his eyes searched the waters as his ship slipped further and further away from him, his men and crew wailing and crying and screaming.

Captain raised an arm. “Captain please,” Locke begged.

Captain dropped his arm. A cannonball fired and Locke stood frozen as he watched his ship go up in smoke. He sucked in a gasp as the air was ripped from his chest in shock. The planks bent and snapped and flew over the sea in a two metre radius of the ship.

“Welcome aboard the Fallen Marauder,” said Captain with a deep bow, dipping low. He tilted his head up as he introduced himself to the shaking Adm – former admiral. “My name is Captain Marlowe.”

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hufflepuffwritingstuff2 · 7 months

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Hi again, my love!

Can I request something with mermaids?

offers ice cream as well <33

Hi thelazywitchphotographer! Of course! Thanks for requesting this, here you go!

Whumper pushed open the door to their quarters. They were greeted by the quiet cries of Whumpee.

“My darling,” Whumper said, approaching them, “what’s wrong? I would think you would be acclimated to your new life by now…”

Whumpee turned to look at Whumper with tear-filled eyes. Whumper’s own eyes widened at what they saw. Their darling mermaid’s body was littered with deep cuts and angry, purple bruises. Blood trickled down from a nasty gash in their tail, staining the water of their tub with crimson. When Whumper spoke, it was with a fragile, practiced calm.

“Who did this to you?” they asked.

Whumpee sniffled.

“I-I don’t know their name,” they said.

“Describe them to me,” Whumper said gently, “you’re not in any trouble, little fish.”

Whumpee took a deep, shuddering breath, and described their assailant as best they could.

“Crewmate,” Whumper cursed.

Whumper’s hand settled on the handle of their cutlass, they turned to leave when Whumpee’s sniffles brought their attention back.

“Oh,” they said, “forgive me, little Whumpee. Let me treat your wounds first.”

Whumper lifted Whumpee out of the tub in a bridal carry. They deposited them on their bed, then went to a nearby cabinet, fetching medicine and bandages from it. Whumper poured the medicine onto a cloth.

“This might sting, but it’ll help, I promise.”

With that, Whumper dabbed the cloth into the gash in Whumpee’s tail. Their screams made Whumper flinch, but they continued to work anyway. When everything was medicated, Whumper dressed the wounds in soft, white bandages. Whumpee’s screams had died down to pitiful, intermittent sobs by then. Whumper held their mermaid close and ran a hand through their hair.

“Shh, shhh,” they soothed, “you did so wonderful, my little fish. I promise, I won’t let this happen again.”

Whumper grabbed a bottle filled with a strange liquid. They lifted Whumpee’s chin and held the bottle to their lips.

“Drink,” they said, “you need rest. This will help.”

Whumpee knew better than to disobey, so they drank. Whumper smiled softly and helped them into a laying position, covering them with a blanket.

…

Whumpee slept for many hours. When they did wake, it was to the sound of the door opening once again.

“Whumpee,” Whumper said, “come on deck. I need you for something.”

Whumper picked Whumpee up and carried them out on deck. Whumpee shielded their eyes from the bright sun with a bandaged hand. Whumper sat Whumpee down in another tub that had been prepared for them.

“First Mate,” Whumper called.

“Aye, captain?” First Mate asked.

“Bring forward the scum that thought they could touch what’s mine.”

“Very good, captain.”

First Mate dragged Crewmate forward.

“On your knees, filth,” First Mate growled.

Crewmate shakily obliged.

“Whumpee,” Whumper said, “is this the person who hurt you?”

“I-”

“Tell the truth,” Whumper warned, “I will know if you lie.”

“…Yes,” Whumpee said quietly, “it was them.”

Whumper kissed Whumpee on the crown of their head.

“Thank you,” they said, “because you were honest, I’m going to let you choose their punishment.”

Whumpee stared at Crewmate. Even though the pirate had hurt them, they didn’t want anyone else to suffer.

“Um, maybe, put them in the brig?” WHumpee asked uncertainly.

Whumper smiled and nodded.

“A fitting punishment,” they said, “First Mate, throw Crewmate in the brig.”

Whumpee breathed a sigh of relief.

“-After their twenty lashes. Two for each wound I had to treat.”

Whumpee blinked. Not that!

“No! Captain, please!” Crewmate begged.

“Spare me your mewling before I decide to cut your tongue out,” Whumper said coldly.

“Whumper-” Whumpee started.

“They deserve it, my darling,” Whumper interjected, “you’ll understand one day.”

Whumper picked up Whumpee once again.

“I leave them in your capable hands, First Mate,” Whumper said, “my treasure doesn’t need to watch this.”

Whumper turned and carried their darling back to their quarters, just when Crewmate began to scream.

Patreon

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Tags: @mythixmagic @infinityshadows @fishtale88 @thelazywitchphotographer @the-beasts-have-arrived @princessofonwardsworld @surplus-of-sarcasm

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whumpninja · 10 days

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Ask Me About…Pirate Whump!

Ahoy, mateys! This ask game be very late because Jack be a chowder-headed landlubber and forgot to post the scurvy thing! But shiver me timbers, we’re hoisting the black flag anyway, by thunder! Yo ho!

Wow, pirate speak is fun. Anyway! I’m not going to do a new ask game this week; instead I’m going to finally get the signups out for the custom ones and start work on those! But if you have any ideas for genres to do, I’m still accepting those for the poll!

And one more thing- every time I post one of these there’s a couple people that ask me questions from it. That’s so sweet and I appreciate it so much, but for these ask games it isn’t necessary! I usually don’t have OCs that match the genre, these are just for the community that might!

Now hoist the Jolly Roger and plunder these questions for yer piratical OCs, me hearties!

Warnings: these are whumpy questions, so they involve whumpy content!

Taglist: @sleepyiswhumping

QUESTIONS FOR A PIRATE WHUMPER

🏴‍☠️- what’s the name of your ship? Do any of your crew have piratical nicknames?

💰- what was your most successful moment of piracy?

🦈- have you ever encountered a shark/whale/sea monster/siren/other unusual ocean creature?

⚓️- do you believe in any pirate/sailor superstitions?

🥥- do you have a pirate stronghold/fortress/secret island/etc. to hide out at when you’re not on the water?

QUESTIONS FOR A PIRATE WHUMPEE

🗺️- where’s the rest of your crew/ship? Is anyone coming to help you?

🐚- what happened the last time you were hurt?

🐬- do you think piracy is a crime? Do you deserve what’s happening to you because of it?

🌊- where are you right now? If you’re on land, do you miss the sea?

🍌- do you have an escape plan? What is it?

QUESTIONS FOR A NON-PIRATE WHUMPER

⚔️- what’s your general opinion of pirates?

⛵️- what was the first pirate ship you ever encountered?

🥭- if you were captured by pirates, what would you do?

☠️- is there one particular pirate/pirate crew that you consider your archenemy?

🐋- have you ever survived a shipwreck or a storm?

QUESTIONS FOR A NON-PIRATE WHUMPEE

🧜‍♀️- how did you get where you are/how were you captured?

🌬️- what is your opinion of pirates? Has it changed?

🏝️- do you know where you are in relation to the rest of the world? Do you think there’s any chance of escape?

🦑- what’s the most frightening thing that’s happened to you so far?

🍍- who are you most afraid of?

#pirate whump #whump #whump ask game #oc ask game #ask me about project #ask me about #jack be whumpy

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whumpflash · 1 year

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Never: Left

cw: hand whump, gore, brief emeto mention, this one gets kinda graphic so be warned :)

"Pick a hand."

James eyed his captor, sullen and silent. For two days, he'd been a prisoner in the brig of his own ship. No food, no water, no idea if the men still loyal to him were even alive. Kept chained to the wall, bound in a bent position by rough rope.

His body ached, his head was pounding, his mouth felt swollen, and here was Peter, first mate turned mutineer, giving him stupid orders.

"Pick a hand," Peter said again, sounding annoyed.

"Why?" James spat out, his voice rasping. "Why should I do anything you ask of me?"

Peter clicked his tongue. "Well now, you don't sound like someone who wants a drink of water."

James scowled. So this was how it was going to be. He'd have to play Peter's games, cave into his demands, just for the pleasure of keeping himself alive. Fine. His life was worth more to him than his pride.

"Left," he said, and Peter's face broke into a smile.

"There we go!" he said, producing a small flask from his hip and unscrewing the lid. He pressed it to James' lips, and he drank, unable to grasp it himself with his hands tied behind his back. It was taken away too soon.

"Now, you said your left hand?" Peter asked, moving behind him. James tensed as his former first mate cut the hand in question loose in such a way that the other was still tied firmly in place. Traitor or not, Peter was skilled with rope tricks. He gripped his wrist tightly, and James winced as his arm was straightened for the first time in days.

Even with one hand freed, the rest of his body was practically immobilized. Trying to fight back at this point would yield only failure. His best hope was to entertain Peter's wishes until the traitor let his guard down.

"Left hand, left hand. Good choice," Peter said, tracing a finger along James' palm. "Now, will you let me cut it off?"

James clenched his jaw. Even though he'd suspected this was the way things were headed, hearing the words spoken out loud sent a shock through him. "What?"

"I want to cut off your hand," Peter said. "But only if you tell me to. Will you?"

What kind of game was he playing now? "No. Why would I?"

"Okay!" Peter said brightly, releasing his arm. James watched him stride out of the room, flexing his fingers. Was that it? Was Peter just trying to mess with his head?

He took a shaky breath as the other man returned a few moments later, carrying what looked like a small anvil.

Of course not. Peter's games were never so simple.

The anvil was placed a few feet to James' left, and he felt a shudder run through him when he saw the metal cuff welded to the top. He was too weak to pull away when Peter grabbed his hand, and could do nothing as he was dragged from the wall, body stretched as far as his restraints allowed, left wrist locked into the anvil.

"I'm going to ask again," Peter said. "Can I cut off your hand?"

James' heart was pounding in his ears, worsening his headache. Should he just say yes? Get whatever Peter had in store over with? Or would he really be spared if he denied the request? He squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of climbing the rigging, steering the ship, engaging in battle. All things better served with two hands intact.

"No," he said at last.

"Okay then," Peter said cheerfully, drawing a small knife. Its edge was polished, razor-sharp. James felt his blood run cold as Peter brought it down to trace the outline of his hand.

"That means I get to convince you."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Peter started with the ring finger. One long deep cut along the inside of it, a few more around the circumference, and he was able to set to work on removing the skin.

No amount of screaming, begging, or threatening would stop him, James found that out within a few minutes. He'd tried to clench his hand into a fist, but Peter struck him against the knuckles with the hilt of the knife and threatened to take an eye if he made this difficult, so he'd given up on that and took to screaming instead.

"Cut it off, cut it off!" he'd screamed as the finger was reduced to bone and muscle, and then not even that as Peter began to slice away at the tendons.

Peter had responded in a calm, friendly voice as he dug the point into the first joint, began to pry it away,

"It's too late for that. You can only tell me to cut it off when I ask you if you're ready for it to be cut off."

So James could only wail helplessly, straining against the bindings that held him in place until his skin burned and bled wherever the rope touched it. He'd be sick if his stomach had anything to give up.

Peter hummed as he carried on, removing more and more of the finger until it was down to the knuckle. He paused then, looking at the bloody space thoughtfully, and for a moment, James dared to hope he was done.

But then Peter jammed the point of the knife into the wound, and James' vision went white with pain. For a blissful few seconds, he knew nothing, felt nothing. But when the world came back to him, Peter was holding his thumb.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't know how long it took as the process was repeated, the slow filleting of each finger, the piece-by-piece removal of bone. James' consciousness felt like it had melted into the pain, each new excruciating stroke indistinguishable from the next as he faded in and out of consciousness, barely able to do more than whimper as his body shook and his hand was taken from him one cut at a time.

Eventually, he opened his eyes to see everything gone, the remains of his hand sitting amid discarded flesh and gore. Peter was carving the skin off his palm, still humming a carefree tune. James let out a sound that was something between a sob and an animalistic whine, and Peter's gaze flicked down.

"Ah, you're awake!" he lifted the knife, twirling it between two fingers. "Now I hope you remember the rules, because it's your turn again."

James couldn't speak, couldn't even nod. It had to be over. He couldn't take any more of this slow slicing. It had to be over.

"I think you know what I'm going to ask you," Peter continued.

James only stared up at him. His vision was swimming. He had to stay conscious long enough. He had to be able to say the word, just one word.

"Can I cut off your hand?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

next part

#so yeah here's this #another very fun thing to write #i really enjoyed myself #might do more tbh im a sucker for piratey/seaside whump #though i have other projects to work on #whump #whump writing #whumpflash #captive #tw torture #captain hook #villain whump #pirate whump #hand whump #tw graphic #defiant whumpee #begging #this is a peter pan fanfic btw lmao #never/never

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painonthebrain · 19 days

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Writing this down before I forget

Mer whump where the captain of a ship captures a mer (like a spiky pointy deep sea kinda mer) and puts it in a tank/net

Except captain is not only harming the mer but also their crew members

During their journey the captain rarely has anyone feed the mer and it becomes hungry and eventually the crew members get so angry at their captain that they FEED THEM TO THE MER

#elec rambles #whump #whumplr #whump ideas #mer whump #pirate whump #captain whumpee #mer whumpee

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emmettland · 26 days

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Rival pirate captains Logan and Derek and then navy admiral Cassius hunting the bounties on their heads. But once they're captured, perhaps he decides he wants to keep Logan for himself.

HEY NOW...YOU'VE CAUGHT MY INTEREST 👁️👁️

Logan finally gets the advantage over Derek and is so smug to have his rival at his mercy, only for Cassius to take both of them prisoner and take Logan as his personal prisoner.

and Derek's like wait can he do that?? is that legal?? i'm not letting him do that wtf

#emmett answers #firapolemos05 #Pirate AU #emmett ocs #logan oc #derek oc #cassius oc #logius (ship)#dergan (ship)#pirate whump #whump tag #Pirate AU (asks)

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kabie-whump · 2 months

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Whumpee with wind powers being tied to the mast of a ship and forced to use their magic to make it the fastest ship on the sea.

Bonus points if Wumpee's magic is physically and/or mentally draining to use for an extended period of time.

#yes im thinking about ventis #whump tropes #whump community #whumpblr #whump scenario #whump ideas #nonhuman whumpee #magic whump #pirate whump #ventisposting #ventis

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whump-side · 6 months

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Rescue is on the wave way ! Continuation of this

#whump #whump art #underwater whump #pirate whump #rescue #the hair is a paid actor #from now on i wanna draw Whumpees with majestic hair #i mean look at that #it adds so much drama

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cakeinthevoid · 3 months

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Only A Dream

scurries out of the haunted walls of academia and real life responsibilities—coughs this out and scurries away again but my leg is broken

heyyy everyone!! Sooo….. I had this dream. And somehow, I was able to write this neat thing! It’s nearly 3.5k words long… And I did too much research…. I’ll just… leave it there… wait last thing: I’d die for John and Juno. Ok that’s all.

Contains: pirate whump! Hurt comfort! Snarky MC! Angry MC! Female MC! Forced to join! Vague flashbacks to physical and emotional trauma! Gun fighting in the background! Manual labour! (Feel free to send in an ask if you want more deets before opening)

The crew was packing, moving ships to make room for supplies. First mate Juno made sure everyone was doing something useful.

Which is why Delia could not fathom why she was made responsible for labelling crates.

Labelling. Crates.

She still couldn’t believe it, even as she was writing gunpowder on the parchment and sticking it onto the barrel with paste.

She bet half the crew couldn’t even read!

And yet Juno led her to the abandoned smithy where they were holding supplies, handed her a roll of parchment and ink and told her to mark every container. They only said not to write ‘too fancy-like’ and left to go do whatever they needed to do so the crew could leave by noon.

Whatever they were doing, it was certainly leagues more exciting than labelling crates.

Delia moved onto another crate anyway. Before she could peak inside, a clatter at the entrance sounded—someone tripping over the debris lying around and cursing.

Delia wasn’t startled; it was only John and it was already his third or fourth time tripping over that junk.

John made his way over, a crate of something in his arms; only his forehead and cloud of black of hair peaked over its height. He tried setting the box down gently, but it still clanged as it hit the floor.

He wiped his brow and the colourful beaded bracelets he wore jangled against his dark skin. “No ‘hello, John’? Are you okay, John? Thank you John for bringing me another crate?”

Delia rolled her eyes. “Do you expect to hear it every time?”

John made a show of thinking, bringing his hand to his chin and furrowing his brow. “Hmm. Yes, actually,” he said at last. “Some more appreciation around here would be welcome.”

“Tell me about it,” she muttered. “So what’s all this then?”

“Fragile merchandise,” he said, wagging his finger. “Juney wants it labelled as kitchenware.”

“Why doesn’t Juno come in and label it themself then?”

He clicked his tongue. “Little bird, that’s your job.”

“It’s a dumb fucking job.”

John made a noise of disapproval. “A year with pirates has fouled your mouth so? For shame, Cordelia.”

She pressed her lips in a tight line and glared. He’s lucky he didn’t call her your highness or Princess.

John laughed. “Easy now, I come bearing good news! This here is the last crate. Last one I’m bringing, anyway.”

“There’s more?” There had better not be.

“Eh,” he shrugged, “Not sure. Probably not. Most supplies went to the Mayflower.”

The Mayflower. Captain Mor’s latest pirated ship. Erik would be manning it, and Delia would be on his half of the crew—the rest sticking with Captain Mor on whatever new ship was added to their fleet.

It was also the one on which Delia truly became part of the crew. At least she thought so. Hard to tell when she was suddenly demoted to labellor.

“Who labelled the other crates then?” Maybe she wasn’t truly alone in her suffering.

John cringed at that. “Ehm. They weren’t.”

Delia stared at him in silence for a beat.

She tried to keep a level voice: “What do you mean they weren’t.”

“Ah well, they might’ve! They likely were! I just didn’t see. I’m old, you know.”

“You’re like, twenty-five,” she said dryly.

“Older than you,” he amended. Only by three years, she thought, annoyed.

“So basically Juno gave me a fools errand.” She had already suspected, but for it to be true… it hurt a bit, to her surprise.

“No, no of course not!” He reassured. “They do everything for a reason, surely you know that.”

Delia sat and slumped on a crate labeled blankets. “Mhmm.”

“Hey,” he crouched to be at her eye level. He opened his mouth to say something, but an explosion sounded outside.

The both of them startled upright simultaneously, but John got on the move quick.

“Stay here,” he said seriously, halfway to the entrance. “Protect the kitchenware!” And he was gone.

Delia pulled out her pistol, the weight of it comfortable in her hand.

Then she waited.

The ruckus grew outside, and Delia felt stupid hiding away in an old smithy when she was just as good a shot as needed.

She found a small part of her wishing for some of the action to make its way to her. She imagined some hooligan storming in, how she would raise her pistol and—

Bullets came flying in through the walls. Delia dropped for cover behind the blanket crate, pistol in hand and pointed in the direction of gunshots and yelling.

The noise began dying down long minutes later, cries for doctors ringing clearly.

Delia was trying to focus on the sound of footsteps running down the street, getting closer.

She caught glimpses of familiar figures through the new bullet holes in the wall and got up from behind the crate.

Juno stormed in first, their normally composed demeanour full of anger.

“Wesley, Novin, Clive, Kingston, start loading the crates. Aiken, Grace, cover them. Now!” They barked.

Everyone called upon scrambled out, grabbing the nearest crates, whether they were labeled or not.

“Delia!”

“Yessir,” she responded immediately.

“You’re coming with us. The Mayflower had to go off—damn bastards bombing the damned port—“ they cursed almost to themself.

Delia didn’t understand why this warranted a one on one. “Did… was someone-“

Juno shook their head and twirled their gun around their finger, heading back out. “Thank God no—not yet anyway. No, go load the crates, but I don’t want you boarding that ship until I get there, understand?”

“What? Why?”

But they were already gone, rushing back from where they came from.

Delia had half a mind to chase them down, but pulled herself together, going for a crate. Novin was already back to pick up another one, so surely this new boat wasn’t far.

Best get back to work then, she thought and followed Novin out, crate in hand.

——

With the initial bloody chaos from the explosion nearly settled, it wasn’t difficult to make it to the new ship and back.

At least, it wasn’t difficult for the first few rounds.

By her… fifth box maybe? The exertion was getting to her. The lack of the usual crew banter as they prepare for departure made her that much more cognizant of soreness in her arms and the painful way the crate would jut into her stomach.

Juno was running a tight operation. And Juno being stressed was as good an indicator as any that the rest of the crew should be stressed too.

Delia only caught a glimpse of them as she was dropping off yet another crate at the mouth of the dock where Aiken sat twirling his gun. Juno was carrying up a body into the ship.

When Juno caught her staring, he yelled across the docks for her to get back to work. She quickly jumped into action, running back to the smithy to replace the cold dread in her chest with the heat of her lungs burning.

“Where’s the fire?”

Delia whipped around as she neared the smithy. Grace.

“Grace! Juno—body, on the ship,” she panted, out of breath.

Grace looked away. “Right…”

“What?”

She hesitated. “Delia…” she started slowly.

The ice was back in her heart. Time froze.

…and was promptly shattered by Novin, bursting out of the smithy and snapping.

“These crates aren’t lifting themselves! Can we hurry up already? I swear…” He shoved between Grace and Delia, despite the room around them, and headed to the docks.

“I’ll let you get back to it,” Grace said quickly. She disappeared to wherever she found the best view to keep watch before Delia could form words.

Damned Novin. Rascal of a little brother behaviour.

——-

Several crates later, she was dying of thirst.

Not dying, no most definitely not; she had endured far worse. But she was definitely thirsty enough to try her luck with Aiken.

Unsurprisingly, he told her to piss off.

Another few crates later, her vision was growing a little spotty. The sun was rising and she was already sweaty enough from the labour.

After dropping the next box in front of Aiken, she stumbled forward, off kilter. She caught herself on the crate and blinked the spots from her eyes, taking a few breaths.

She looked up to see Aiken staring at her, brown eyes wide under the shade of his hat.

“Can I please have that damned water now?” She said through gritted teeth.

He gave her his canteen.

She took greedy gulps, but left enough in the canteen. You never left someone without water. She handed it back to him without saying anything and turned to go get another blasted crate.

Another several crates later and she thought her arms would fall off. Her neck was sore and her legs were cramping. She pushed herself off the crate she was leaning against only to bump right into Kingston, who was going for a crate to take up to the ship.

“Don’t get up on my account,” his deep voice rumbling with humour. “Wesley, Clive, Novin and Grace are getting the last of the crates. You’re all good.”

Delia slumped back down, very relieved. “Thanks,” she mumbled, closing her eyes.

The heat was unbearable. She had half a mind to jump into the ocean right now.

She looked behind her where Kingston was already at the top of the ship ramp—carrying two boxes no less. It helped that he was the size of a house.

She rested for a while, the sound of Aiken messing around with his gun keeping her company.

It wasn’t long until she was getting annoyed again. She had just realized no one told her to start carrying crate up to the ship deck.

Either she really looked that pathetic right now or Juno had them under the same orders.

She decided to try her luck. Despite her muscles protesting, she picked up a barrel.

“What are you doing?” Aiken snapped, not unkindly.

“Might as well help Kingston with the crates.”

“In your sorry state, you’re gonna fall right off the ramp.”

She scoffed. “Sure. Try and stop me then,” she challenged, walking away with the barrel in arm.

She heard a sign and the patter of shoes hopping off a seat and making their way to her.

“Give me that,” he said, reaching for the barrel.

She angled it away. “No. Why?”

“I’ll take it up if you want someone to help Kingston so bad. You keep watch.”

“What if I wanted to take it up? And you’re a better shot than me.” It pained her to admit, but she needed a point.

“No one’s messing around on this side of the dock anyway, you’ll be fine. Sit back down, girl.”

She dropped the barrel down angrily.

“What’s going on?” She demanded. “Why isn’t anyone telling me anything? Why can’t I go on the damned ship? Are you planning on leaving me here or what?” She fumed, fists clenched and jaw tight. She’s had enough beating around the bush.

Aiken said nothing for a moment. Then he admitted, “First Mate Juno told me to keep you down here. Didn’t tell me why either,” he shrugged. “But I doubt it’s to leave you behind.”

“You only doubt it?”

Aiken shrugged. Mouth stretching in an expression that said I don’t know what you want from me, man.

“Right well, I don’t care.” She moved for the barrel again, but he intercepted.

“I mean it, Delia. I’m not losing Juno’s favour over you.”

They stared off for a few beats, then Delia threw her hands up in the air in exasperation. “Fine! Take it up yourself, then! I’ll be relaxing like a lazy cat until His Majesty Juno deigns to explain what’s going on!” She pivoted on her heel and stormed away.

Once she was settled back on the crates, she risked a look behind her. It seemed Aiken was actually taking the barrel up.

She turned forward at the sound of Grace’s laughter. Normally, Delia revelled in the sound of her laugh, but she was bitter and annoyed and now jealous that someone made her laugh like that.

She waited for the three of them, arms crossed.

“Hey, give us a hand, why don’t you!” Novin called out. Clive shook his head at his antics, white hair stark and gleaming in the sun.

Delia got up anyway. She took the barrel from Novin’s hands, much to his visible surprise, and stacked it on top of another barrel, all without saying anything.

“Sheesh,” he drawled, sticking his hands into his pants pockets.

She ignored him. “Where’s Juno?”

“Likely the Captains Cabin. I’ll fetch him,” Clive responded quickly. Delia wished he spoke more; she quite liked his strong English accent. Reminded her of… good times.

She pushed the thought away before it could fully form.

When it was just Grace and Novin left, Delia rolled her eyes. “What, did Juno forbid you from the ship as well?”

Novin muttered something foul and got to work. Grace frowned and let Novin get ahead.

Out of his earshot, she spoke softly to Delia.

“Juno is trying to help you. And I’m here for you, too. I didn’t agree with his plan, just so you know. So… if you want to go on the ship with me before he gets back…”

A Delia not already pissed and annoyed would have said yes. But this Delia was bitter—irritated that it wasn’t only Juno, but her best friend discussing her behind her back.

Against her better judgment, she said coldly, “I think you have a lot of crates to carry until then,” and turned away to avoid whatever look would appear on her face.

She heard Grace get back to work, but only risked a look back after she counted to 100. Aiken was coming back.

But she had a plan for that. As he approached, Delia occupied herself by lifting crates at random. Naturally, Aiken couldn’t resist inquiry, asking what she was doing.

“Just lifting the boxes. Trying to guess how much they weigh. Not much else to do here,” she muttered under her breath, but just loud enough to be heard.

Aiken just hummed.

Delia lifted another box, one she carried here herself.

“How much do you think this one weighs? We can say the same number on three. If we say the same, we win.”

“My God, you really are bored.”

“Just lift the box,” she said. “Careful though, might be weapons in here.” She handed it to him.

As soon as Aiken grasped the box, Delia pivoted and gunned it to the ship.

She heard Aiken cry out, but he needed to set the box down carefully. It was just the head start she needed for her sore body after carrying dumb crates all day. This time, her body burned with adrenaline.

She skidded on the dock, the ship a blur in her sights, and used her momentum to launch herself up the ship ramp. She caught a glimpse of Aiken not even halfway down the dock. She couldn’t help but laugh.

Finally, a win.

Cackling to herself, she sped up the ramp, landing on the ships deck with a jump.

“Ha ha ha!” She grinned wildly and walked with purpose to the centre of the main deck. To her right, she saw Grace and Clive looking down with alarm from the quarterdeck.

“I mean, seriously, with you guys acting like the guard—“ she snorted, giggling. She let her gaze wander to her left, to the main mast. “I don’t know, maybe there really should have been something… something…”

Her eyes stuck on the main mast. They weren’t parsing the information they saw very well—why did the mast look odd, she knew that mast, she had felt it because was it not—was it not the very same mast—

Running. Cold water. Screaming.

The mast filled her vision.

Pain, pain, PAIN and fear, so much fear. He was gone, she was alone. He was there, there were people surrounding her.

She put a hand on the mast. It had a different texture, like it was sanded or glazed, she couldn’t tell. She could only feel—

Thick ropes. Burlap. Thrown to the ground. Refusing to cry. Crying anyway. Hard wood of the mast. Tied to the mast, tied to the mast, tied and gagged and stripped—

There were hands on her shoulders, pulling her away. She pulled out from under them, gaze skittering around. Suddenly, everything was painfully familiar. The grain of the deck, the details in the guardrail. Every swirl and pattern that she had counted. She was so bored, she needed the distraction—anything. She begged, she remembered begging, please stop, stop stop stop, please I beg of you stop please—

“Stop, stop I—“ she came to herself in an instant, like ice water flooding her mind. “Get away from me! This was where—this is where—“ she stumbled backward as she turned, gesturing. She felt nauseous.

“Delia—“ Grace tried and good Lord it struck her how she was Cordelia once.

“This is why you kept me from boarding?” She looked around wildly, too quickly to properly identify faces but she thought she saw Clive on the stairs coming towards her—but then it was Juno’s voice.

“Calm yourself! You’re going to fall off the damn ship!”

“You… sick bastard! Why didn’t you tell me! You wanted this—it was always mind games with you—getting me to break and—“

“Delia!” Grace cried, affronted.

Grace went on to say something but there was a rushing in her ears and dread was growing in her chest and she felt trapped and contained but she was out on the open air and all she could think to do was dodge Juno and run to the forecastle of the ship, lunging up the stairs. Too many people on main deck—someone was blocking the ramp—

Juno let her, the sane part of her mind realized. Juno needed no effort at all to stop her advance, and yet they let her past.

She was shaking now, shaking with fury and a hidden grief she refused to recognize because it would break her. To realize, to accept, that she had joined the very people who had kidnapped her—literally pirated her.

Cordelia crumpled to the ground. She needed to get her breathing under control. She would not become undone at the mere sight of some—some stupid mast when she had survived the damn thing and more!

“Breathe with me. Come on, hold it in longer. In…”

Grace… Cordelia choked on her breath, shaking her head.

“You can do it. Can I help you? Please, Cordelia…”

In the corner of her vision, she saw Grace gently place her hand out on the ground, right near her own tightly fisted hand.

With great effort she moved to hold it, gripping it tight.

Grace took it as the permission it was to help her fully. Just like old times.

“Come on,” she said softly, moving around Cordelia. She put a hand around her back to help shift her upright, leaning against the balusters of the guard rail.

Cordelia brought up her knees, wrapping her free arm around them. Her other hand was still wound around Grace’s.

“I got you.”

Cordelia shuddered.

“I got you,” she whispered.

Delia leaned into her body, hiding her face in her shoulder. She felt like memories would pull her back any second—

“What’s wrong with her?”

She stiffened, but didn’t pull away. But if Novin dared to come any closer, she couldn’t be held responsible for decking the new kid.

“Oh, nothing to worry about!” Captain Mor’s booming voice travelled across the ship, accompanied by rumbling laughter. “Our Delia here has just gotten a reminder of the last time she walked this ship!”

Delia gripped Grace’s hand tighter. She glided her free hand up and down Delia’s arm.

“Some bad memories I gather!” Captain Mor said in response to something. “Again, worry not, lad! Things are much better now—for starters, we have food!” She laughed. “Isn’t that right, Delia?” She called up.

Her heart was still hammering in her chest, but she managed a small, unconvincing affirmative.

“She says yes, of course, Captain,” Grace said much louder than Delia could’ve at the moment.

Thankfully, the Captain moved on. Just as well.

Delia had no more strength to muster. Exhausted physically and emotionally, she let herself melt into Grace’s arms. She tried not to think too much, hoping that her body and mind would shut off without fuss.

She hadn’t wished for that in a while.

But maybe she could just pretend, that if not the past several long, long years of her life, if not this whole adventure, that this one day could be a dream. Only a dream.

If only she was that lucky.

—*—

#my cake #pirate whump #one shot #manual labour #original characters #OS Cordelia #OS Delia #OS Grace #OS Juno #OS John #only a dream #female whumpee #hurt comfort #let me know what else I should tag :P #hope y’all enjoyed!!! In the process of writing I actually have soooo much looooore #feel free to send in asks if you’re curious #I prolly won’t be writing for this ever again otherwise :P

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whump-mania · 2 years

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ok ok pirate whump ideas

-whipping

-left out on the deck tied to a pole in the sun or rain

-prisoners/hostages

-seasickness

-stowaways being found out

-dressing wounds in an old timey way

-stabbing <3

-romance??????

#whump blog #whump #whump community #whump writing #whump scenario #pirate whump #tw stabbing #tw whipping #tw sickness #just watch ofmd it’s so good

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whumpwillow · 2 years

Note

Do you have any pirate whump?

here's a list of suggestions!

whipping (as always, a classic)

throwing salt water in the whip wounds

honestly just salt water in wounds because they're out on the open ocean and there's a lot of it, it's bound to get everywhere

bound to the mast

bound to the front of the ship, being half-drowned as it gets splashed by the waves

thrown overboard

mutiny

forced to swab the decks

forced to row for hours, even days, under a hot sun

scurvy

shipwreck

sea storm

keeping guard / watch for days on end, the exhaustion setting in

ropeburn, plus the addition of salt water being soaked into the ropes and hurting even worse

bandages / cloth soaked with saltwater and dried out, then set atop fresh wounds

#pirate whump #pirate whump pirate whump pirate whump #whump #whump prompt #willow answers #answered asks #whump prompts #whump tropes #whumpee #whump scenarios #whump scenario #whump scenes #whump idea #whump inspiration #whump ideas

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cryptidwritings · 27 days

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Dark Water

Chapter 43 : L.A.S.T

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cw: drinking, manhandling, restraining, descriptions of gutting a fish, threats with a knife, light asphyxiation, use of a knife, hand whump, description of wounds, gore, environment whump, hastily tending to open wounds, desperate whumpee, angry whumpee, sadistic whumper

By month four of him being under Jacobsen, Isidro was no longer afraid of shadows under the door. By month five he had memorized their footsteps, the way they would grab the door, and their touch in the dead of night.

It was Reid’s footsteps that woke him, but there was something about the pirate’s gait that made Isidro sit up rather than pretend to be asleep.

The key scratched against the padlock. The removal was loud and sloppy, scraping and banging against the wood. Then Reid stumbled in; the smell of liquor was so strong, as if an open barrel was underneath Isidro’s nose.

Isidro watched as he took unsteady steps forward. The movement of his head was enough to set him swaying. Reid was a man of vices.

“A bit late ta be up, ain’it?”

“Where’s Moss?”

“He’s safe. Gonna be ‘sleep fer a while,” Reid stepped forward, reaching into his pocket, “I been givin’ him doses 'a this.”

He held a small corked jar, half-full of white powder. Isidro had seen it before; tasteless, best when taken with water on an empty stomach.

“He begged me for it,” Reid smiled, “can't imagine what else he would do. Aye?”

Isidro grit his teeth. “You could kill him.”

The pirate shrugged. “Risk, reward. He’s grateful I gave ‘im any at all after yest’rday,” he chuckled. “I would’a let the croc have him if I didn’t have other plans for the stupid sod.”

Isidro's jaw tightened as Reid’s smile curled more at the ends, meeting his eyes with teasing fascination.

“Oh don’t act so concerned. Ye haven't been very honest with him, have ye, Duncan?” he said the fake name caustically. “I'm guessin’ ye have ten ‘a those in ye back pocket, aye? Tried it on like a new pair ‘a trousers.”

The humidity disappeared and suddenly it was only him and the silhouette towering over him as he sat bound, back against stone. It wasn’t the first time, but if his gut had been right about everything else it was likely right about this being the very last.

“Or, I'm wrong and he's ye partner.”

“No.” Isidro defended. “Assassins don’t have partners.”

“Ye word ain’t exactly trustworthy-”

“Ask him.” Isidro challenged, “He doesn’t know anything.”

Reid stilled; arms crossed. “Then why is he here?”

Isidro said nothing. Reid’s expression told him he didn’t have to, and he was right. It didn’t matter why, only how, and that was obvious enough.

When Reid forced him out of the shed, all he could do was try to keep up. Besides the usual noise, there was Isidro's own stuttering footsteps that randomly dragged along the ground while Reid held him up, aggravating the welts on his skin that was sticky with sweat, beat down further by the humidity that siphoned out what little energy he had left.

The sun was stuck behind the trees, helped along by the light of a lantern over the dock that Reid dumped Isidro onto. He sucked in quick breaths and blinked away black spots, rolling to his side to see Reid at the end of the dock, hoisting a net from the water.

He turned towards the table, stopping suddenly when he noticed a foot beyond a set of iron bars.

“Moss?” Isidro called; still catching his breath. He grabbed onto the table’s leg and pulled himself forward, revealing the lad, slumped against the wall.

Then, hands grabbed at his shirt, pulling him upright. “What? Ye don’t trust me? Look.”

Reid yanked him toward the cell. Moss was fast asleep; his head cradled in the nook of the walls with his jaw slack, with a cup barely grasped in his hand.

“Told ye he begged me for it.” Reid said. “Think ye will, too?”

Reid tossed Isidro onto the table, pulling the rope over his head. The two metal tongues squeezed between his hands and the ropes, making them unbearably tight.

"Ye like these? Invented ‘em myself." Reid grunt, pushing a long bolt through the holes.

Isidro swallowed; looking at the reflection of the sky on the water. The sun was rising.

Reid moved the chair to the middle of the dock where he had abandoned the net. Fish flopped around inside, until he grabbed them and pushed his knife in.

He scraped the scales. They fell off with a click, followed by the unmistakable ting of the side of a knife’s blade lifting from a surface. The smell of raw fish was overwhelming. Isidro could hear the knife tear through the fish’s stomach, followed by it’s spine being ripped out.

How long was he going to make him lie there? If anything would make him go crazy, it was the waiting—the pull between knowing of his impending agony versus the hope that maybe it wouldn’t be right now.

“Ach!” Reid scoffed with disappointment. “Damn crocs... won’t have enough now.”

Isidro tensed against the restraints as Reid stood. His eye snapped open when he felt his grip like a vice on his left hand. The pirate was looking down at him with a soft smile on his face, but the rage of burning mischief in his eyes.

“Care to spare some bait?”

Isidro’s eye flashed toward the knife that quickly found his pinky. He didn’t have time to blink before the pain seared into his hand. His whole body tensed; his neck bulging, spine arching. His mind disconnected, and in a moment he was no longer in his body but somewhere else—outside, beneath—but in a millisecond he was slapped back together and a scream erupted from his mouth, tearing his throat apart.

“A-!”

His scream—his release—was suddenly corked by a thick hand over his nose and mouth. His eye snapped opened. Reid was looking down at him, watching his eye blur as his body shook with desperation.

“Shh, don’t want to wake up Moss, do ye? Think he’d enjoy seein’ ye like this?”

Isidro’s hand trembled from the feeling of blood gathering in his palm, and air hitting where it shouldn’t; igniting the overwhelming feeling of something being wrong.

The pressure released, and Isidro took a desperate breath as a tear fell from his eye. Reid’s finger caught it, swiping over his bubbled skin.

Isidro pulled his chin away from the gentle touch. “W-why don’t you just t-turn me in?”

Reid chuckled, “Ye would just do the meter jig. Where’s the fun in that?”

Isidro let out an involuntary whimper. Between deep breaths, he heard Reid's voice.

“I'll give ye the courtesy ye victims never got," he smiled. "Time."

The prospect made Isidro’s heart drop into his already tumultuous stomach. He shouldn’t even be here; he should be at home with his family, taking care of Ghost and the farm. This wasn’t supposed to be his life. He didn’t want any of it!

“GAH!! g-GOD NO!” Isidro screamed as the knife plunged into his knuckle, hitting bone with a horrendous burn, then a crack that made him gasp back, pulling his spit into his lungs. He coughed, blinking back the white-hot pin-pricks of pain that splashed across his vision. He heard a rattle, like an earthquake, quieting only when Reid adjusted the hold on his wrists.

Then Reid held something in front of him. The bottom flesh was torn and ragged; stretched as if pulled to separation. Blood leaked from where the freshly cut bone was still pink and dripping. Isidro’s eye widened. That was his finger.

“What a beauty.”

Isidro retched; his body trembling from the onslaught of disgust as bile erupted into his nose and down the back of his throat.

“Oh, I know what I’m gonna do.” Reid muttered to himself, “Luh...” he twisted the fingers on Isidro’s other hand. “Ah...s...tuh.”

The pirate chuckled like he had discovered something clever while Isidro was willing every fiber of his being to not break down sobbing. His throat was already raw from screaming, now coated with the acid from his stomach it felt like he had swallowed a torch.

“Last. That’s what that says, aye?” Reid nodded, pleased, “I’ll be the last face ye see before the crocs.”

Isidro realized the river sound he heard wasn’t actually the river itself, but the splashing of crocs attracted to his blood and flesh as Reid tossed his freshly carved finger in the middle of all of them.

“I think they like the taste.”

He bit back another scream when he felt the blade’s tip hit his adjacent finger; wanting so badly for Reid to plunge it deep in his chest instead.

...

When the metal tongues were loosened, it was early evening. A chilling cold had set in over the swamp; the fog thicker than usual. Isidro was lift from the table, his arms and legs like rubber; his head cottony and body pillaged of strength and stamina. His scream came as an exhausted whimper even as he was dropped on the ground.

His body twisted to find familiarity, but found none.

He reached out his arms to feel the wall, instead catching the sight of his mangled hand under a flash of lightning. One finger remained on his left, and a deep gash on the first of his right—the last remaining before spelling out Reid’s curse between red, swollen flesh that coated his hands and the rope in dark copper.

An iron door slammed shut. Isidro’s limited vision couldn’t pin-point where, though as he attempted to stretch he could feel his foot slip between two bars. They felt freezing against his hot skin, sending a shiver up his leg and spine, and he was suddenly taken back to years ago with the question on the tip of his tongue. Why? Though now he knew better than to ask.

More lightning flashed above, bringing with it the smell of rain.

Isidro opened his eye as another gust of wind blew. Reid was crouched, gripping the bars with one hand while the other sat upon his knee, loosely holding the bloodied knife. The willows blew behind him, picking up speed as the sun was blotted out with the looming darkness of angry clouds. More thunder struck, quickly followed by a clap, then Reid stood as the light from the lantern snuffed.

“Sleep tight, fish bait. I’ll see ye when the storm clears.”

Reid’s boots descended, disappearing in the torrent that whipped over the trees and rattled the ground. Isidro curled in on himself as he shied away from the door, listening to the rain approach like a tidal wave. Starting far off; large drops on calm water consuming everything in it’s path, until the swamp descended into the chaos of a summer storm.

A sheet of water flooded the deck, dispersing into Isidro’s cell. Within minutes he was drenched, with his knees to his chest as he shivered violently.

Lightning struck, slicing into a nearby tree with a horrendous crack. Splintering wood fell with a splash into the river. Isidro shut his eyes and shoved the heels of his hand on his ear, feeling every muscle twitch in the nubs of his severed fingers, involuntarily pulling them to curl; burning when there was nothing there to move.

The wound needed to be kept clean and upright; anything to stall him from bleeding out. Just a little longer.

He reached under his shirt with shivering fingers and moved it up, wiggling it from underneath him like a snake shedding skin. The rain pelted his bare torso, and by the time he had the shirt over his head, he was exhausted.

He pulled the right sleeve down with his teeth, freeing his hand, then draped the cloth over his left.

The blood took to the wet fabric, turning it pink, then dark red where his fingers once were. He took a few preparing breaths, pressing his head to the wall, just for a second, before wrapping his hand tight. He screamed once; tears fell from his eyes until the anguish melted with the pressure. It felt secure; better than exposed to the elements.

Better, but it still sucked. He kept breathing. There wasn’t enough air in the world to make him feel like he had enough.

His shaking hand reached for the bars as he tucked the other to his chest. With grit teeth, he pulled himself closer, then adjusted his grip up, blinking back the rain as he prepared for another burst of effort.

“Okay...” he huffed, counting in his head. Down from... three—no, five.

Five. His gut twisted with the thought of moving more, but he had to. Four. His stomach growled, sending shockwaves through his body as if he was eating himself alive. He was so damn hungry, but the thought of eating mixed with the pain made him sick. Three. Wait- Two-

Suddenly, there was a crack, and a stream of water pelted him from the poorly made roof of the cell that sent him to the ground, crushing his hand beneath him.

Someone had chiseled their way into his bones and was mining his marrow with dynamite. His vision went white as he screamed and jostled his body, slamming his bare back against the wall again, and again, and again to break up the agony.

He screamed to the sky. To the earth. To the sea. He screamed to his father buried in the briney deep, cursing the day he was born. His words were swallowed by the storm—echoed back with thunder and wind until he slumped back, panting, staring at the view completely changed by the storm that still raged.

He ended on his side, shivering intermittently between pangs of pain that melted with the cold that ate at his extremities. It was a kindness, much like that of his brain to allow his misery to fade just enough to disconnect.

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

#pirate whump #hand whump #environmental whump #manhandling #sadistic whumper #cold whump #physical whump #whump series #captivity whump #whump community #tw restraints #tw gore #tw asphyxiation #dark water by jovi

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