Kinktober Day 2: Edizzy - Drowning(Goretober Prompt)\Monsterfucking(Dead Dove prompt)\Clothed Sex (Kinktober prompt). CW for the prompts listed, Trans izzy (use words like hole, cunt), Izzy whump, general ‘stuck under water’ squick, mollusc squick, vaginal tearing, near-death, tentacles, general Dead Dove-ness.
It was ghoulish exaggeration, hyperbole, a way to make sure Izzy knew he was serious, deadly serious. It wasn't real. The mania from which it sprung? That was real, certainly. The scribe tossed in the water, that was real. He was a murderer, a maimer, a menace. All real. But he wasn’t the fucking Kraken.
Sailors talk, they fight, they get drunk, they tell tall tales. No one had ever actually seen the Kraken, not really. Nothing like that really existed. Sure, maybe they’d seen large sea beasts, even Izzy had seen beasts that had made his pulse shoot up, but they were just that: beasts. Sailors had lived with beasts for as long as men had been on the sea, killing squid, shark, and whale alike. There were giants in these seas, no doubt of that, but none of them were mythical fucking creatures. None of them were Edward Teach in disguise.
But he keeps saying it, his hands clammy on Izzy’s skin, his breath a putrid stink, like rot and salt and sea. He won’t give it up. Blackbeard’s dead, only the Kraken now. Izzy isn’t sure what to do, so he does nothing. The crew are terrified of him either way, even the ones they didn’t kidnap, so Izzy just lets it go. Izzy works for the Kraken now, fucking fine, so long as he’s a better pirate than Ed was with Stede fucking Bonnet.
When Ed insists he be the only one allowed above decks for the night watches, Izzy concedes. When he starts locking the crew into their chambers at night, he doesn’t mention it. And when he hears wet noises like great fists hitting the deck, dragging along, he closes his eyes and lies awake, pretending he can’t hear it. But when he hears the unmistakable sound of a body hitting the water an hour before dawn, as he sits fully awake on the edge of his bed, he runs.
He's still dressed, still armed, but he has no time to shed his equipment before he dives off the rail into the inky void, thin ripples of light from a crescent moon bouncing off the choppy waters where Ed might be. The water is cold at night this far north, this time of the year, and it punches Izzy's breath out as he cuts into it. He resurfaces immediately, searching desperately for any sign of his captain.
"Edward!" He's out of breath. "Ed! Fuck, Edward, are you out there?" There's nothing, no sounds outside of the gentle lapping of water against the ship and the creak of its wooden walls. They laid anchor at dusk, and the tide is still light. He's out here, he has to be, Izzy just needs to find him. He dives back down, feeling around with his arms for anything, the light of the moon too faint to see more than a foot below the surface.
Wet as he is, it's impossible to see his frantic tears each time he resurfaces, terror gripping hard into him, shivering from cold and panic. He's in there, Izzy just has to get him out, it's his job, his duty to get him out. He dives back in, arms in front, gripping wildly until his fingers brush against something. It's Ed, has to be, his skin warm in the thick cold of the sea. Izzy swims forward, closing his arms around him, kicking powerfully up to resurface.
He breaks the surface, but it’s all wrong. In his arms is something wet and squirming, something colored a grayed purple, thick as a man’s thigh. It’s not Ed. It can’t be Ed. The thing in his arms wriggles, and Izzy drops his arms away with a shout as it snakes back down into the ocean. It hurt like hell, releasing it, like it had gotten stuck to him. Izzy sees the faint shadow of welts rising on his arms, little round purple bruises. He doesn’t have time for this, for seeing things, he needs to get Ed out. He dives back in.
Same as before, wildly searching with swinging arms, his fingers catch on something. He reaches out to grab it, and it’s in his arms suddenly, as if it had reached out as well. He moves to surface again, but the body in his arms wraps around him, serpentine, in a way no human body should be able to. But it’s Edward, it has to be Edward. Is he panicked, dragging them both down unintentionally? Izzy’s body is heavier now, the salt water slowly soaking his leathers through, making it harder to move, to swim. But he has to. Ed’s gotten confused, he’s drowning, and Izzy has to save them both.
The grip on him loosens, and he swims up with Ed in his arms. And he swims up. And up. And up, but there can’t have been this much water above him, can there? He was only a few feet deep when he grabbed Ed. Did he get turned around while he was pulling them down? He twists around, looking for any sign of light in the sucking emptiness around him, but there’s nothing, nothing. The panic sets in again, and he’s thrashing, out of air, heavy as the sea seeks further into his leathers. And that’s it, isn't it? He’s failed.
A bruising grasp on his waist pulls him with great speed to the surface, water sucking into his mouth and lungs as the crushing weight of it forces the air out of him. Coughing, sputtering, he tries to look for Ed. Brilliant Ed, who surely must have just saved them. But he sees nothing but night sky around him, realizing then that he’s no longer in the water. The ship comes into his view and he’s nearly parallel to the tip of the mast. He closes his eyes then, tries to wake up. It has to be a dream, it’s a dream, it’s just a dream. The tentacle around his waist shakes him, and he looks down, finally, to see it. To see him.
He’s still mostly in the water, all but for three tentacles stretching out of the ocean, groping around the ship, in the water, and around Izzy. He feels the rush of air over his body as he’s pulled back down, back in, and, horribly, back under. He hardly has the presence of mind to take a breath in time, only shallowly filling his lungs before he’s dipped back beneath the water. It’s deeper this time, he’s sure of it; the pressure starts to build around him, and his head begins to dully ache. He’s pulled into something massive, as if he’s been pressed against the hull of the ship. But the mass is supple, squishy and so, so warm.
The tentacle around him holds steady as others begin to move over his skin, prodding him everywhere, feeling over his body. He’s almost out of breath again when they start pulling at his clothes, ripping at them. He lays his hands flat to the surface of the form in front of him, as if begging with the press of his fingers, let me up, please let me up, I still need air, even if you don’t, please. Up he goes, by some miracle, dragged again like a ragdoll to the cold air above. Ed’s mantle surfaces with the rest of him this time, and it’s impossible. It’s a fucking ghost story the old seamen tell the young ones for a laugh, it’s not possible. But he’s there, so much of him in his view, but so much still submerged in that impossible ocean. And he knows those eyes, mollusc or not, terrible red hourglass pupils or not, Izzy could never forget those eyes.
The tentacles suction onto his leathers, ripping the seams at his groin and the back of his vest fully open as they tug at him, feel over him. Then it’s back in, back down, back to be pressed up against Ed’s mantle as he sinks deeper. The tentacles are moving under the fabric now, dipping into his pants, slithering up under his shirt. It feels horrible, warm but overly slick, slimy, mucoid. But it is Ed, isn’t it? If this thing wants to touch him, then Ed wants to touch him. Izzy must do for his captain, he simply must do.
The fabric of his smalls, worn thin from years of use, is easily breached, and the tip of a tentacle flits over his cunt, suction cups sticking on and off errantly. His chest is similarly explored, welts forming across his tender skin as they go. It’s too thick, too big to be prodding at him the way it is, one tentacle now worming its way along his hole, teasing at the opening. But it’s too much, it’s too big, surely Ed won’t put it in him, won’t ruin him so fully. Especially not as he’s running so perilously low on air again. He spears into him, and Izzy feels the rip of his rim as the tentacle forces in and up, too far up. Izzy screams, water flooding fully into his lungs this time.
He wishes it didn’t feel so good, dying like this. It was for Edward, wasn't it? Anything for his captain, right? Anything, anything, anythinganythinganything. He’s up then, flying, floating, oh god, he’s in the air! Sailors do become seabirds after all, he thinks, brain foggy. Then he feels one of his ribs snap under the pulsing crush of the tentacle around his chest, and he’s vomiting up the water inside him, burning as it comes up, coughing and crying. The tentacle inside him pulls out suddenly, ripping him further, and Izzy can feel the blood trickling down his thighs, hot against the bone deep chill of the sea, so deeply steeped in him now.
He’s moved, gently now, and deposited on the deck, bleeding and coughing still, the deep ache in his chest only worsened by his sobs. Curled into himself as he is, Izzy can still see the flickering gold across the horizon as the sun begins to rise. A slow, slopping sound comes from his left, down below from the main deck, and Izzy wonders which Edward might be coming to finish him off, the man or the monster. Izzy wonders what difference it would make. He envisions him as the thing, the Kraken, shrunken down, slithering like a snail over to him.
Two hands, human hands, come to rest on his side, and he can hear Edward’s sobbing, a fine melody to match his own. They stay there as the sun rises, Ed slowly picking Izzy up after the day’s light has fully filled the sky. He holds him like a doll, like a child, like a bride, as he carefully walks him down to the captain’s quarters. He places Izzy on the bed, delicately, as if he hadn’t already broken him apart. Ed shuffles around for a moment, returning with a red robe of gorgeous silk velvet that Izzy is certain he watched Edward throw into the ocean months ago. He wraps it around himself, before curling around Izzy, covering them both in the gentle warmth of the fabric.
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