pro tip âhe freed his erectionâ is the most useful phrase in any smut writerâs arsenal because it means never having to figure out a dudeâs pants situation. how did he do it? were there zippers? buttons? some kind of bizarre lacing situation? maybe he cut off his pants with scissors. maybe it was a wizard. maybe it busted out like the hulk busts out of his shirts. no one knows. no one cares. his dick is out now and that is all that matters. thank you helpful dick wizard.
CW: Langdon is 15. CWs include slavery, referenced collars, referenced abuse, and dreams of murder most foul
Langdon is fifteen years old when they take the inhaler out of his hand and put a gun in it instead.
"It's okay," Brewster says, with a slight, friendly smile, patting him on the back. Brewster's older than he is by more than a decade, if only just. They look sort of the same, most of the staff does, with curly dark hair and eyes a little too big for their face.
Plus, the black leather collars, white button-ups, and plain black pants all staff wears for every waking hour. He got his first work uniform, all three pieces, at four, like everybody does.
Not all the staff looks exactly alike, though. Some of them, like Vander, have almost unsettlingly bright blue eyes, too. Runs in the master's family, which means it runs in the staff family, even though no one talks about it. Langdon's are blue. Brewster's are a color like a stormcloud in some lights. Something about both your parents having blue eye genes, but since Langdon's never been to school, all he knows about genes is what he's seen on TV when it's his night to pick a show.
Greg, his sister's husband, came to live with them from another house when he was three years old. His eyes are brown. His hair is stick-straight, lighter in color. His smile doesn't have the same sort of lilt to it.
Greg doesn't have Marcoset blood poisoning him, not like Vander - whose nerves are broken and don't feel pain, leaving him scarred and forcing Brewster to be his shadow all the time to keep him from hurting himself. Not like Langdon himself, who can barely work outside for half an hour without his inhaler close at hand. Not like Rita, who hardly ever leaves the bed, or Henry, who was born deaf and is probably going blind, too. Too much toxic blood in just about everybody.
The medic thinks he and Brewster are both the master's. Anyone who said that out loud where the master might hear would be whipped.
Personally, Langdon thinks Brewster is too happy to be Isaac Marcoset's son. Isaac Marcoset has a library of scowls and glares for any occasion, and only one or two smiles.
Brewster turns him to face the targets, breaking him from his thoughts. They're just wooden cutouts in vaguely human shapes that have had crude faces with horrible Os of surprise painted under their little dot-eyes. "We're just testing you out. Take the shots, see if you hit the targets. These two guys here, and if you hit those, those bottles I lined up on the tree trunks over there."
"I don't want to do this," Langdon says, voice low, a little airy. Even with his inhaler, his lungs fight whenever he's scared, or if he works too hard. The inhaler just holds off the worst of it. He hates the heavy weight of the handgun he's holding. Hates how good it feels. "Brewster, I-I don't want-"
"I know." Brewster keeps a hand on his shoulder, his bright smile dimming a little with sympathy. "I know, Lan. But we don't have much of a fucking choice, yeah? Boss says you learn to shoot, you learn to shoot. Van and I learned when we were like... ten or eleven. We started going on jobs around your age, so... You got a few years to wait that we didn't, right? That's some luck. Kept you safe as long as we could."
"Right." His chest hitches as he stares at the targets. Big black circle-eyes, bigger black circle-mouth. "Lucky."
His breath is thin. His lungs protest every movement he makes, but Brewster's right - there's no choice. If Isaac Marcoset wants another trigger on hand, Langdon is fifteen and that's as old as Van and Brewster were the first time they killed someone.
He aims. Brewster slides something like a heavy headphone set over his head, the noise of the birds suddenly silent. Langdon bites his lower lip.
Just like Brewster taught him. Safety off only when you're ready. No finger on the trigger til it's time.
If he thinks of Isaac Marcoset instead of the wooden target when he fires, that's his own business.
He hears, dimly, the sound of Brewster yelling but ignores it as he fires at the next target - Miss Delia and all her cruelties the image he holds this time. Then the bottles, one by one by one. The gun kicks a little but it feels good, too.
At the end, he missed more than half the bottles.
But the targets, Isaac and Delia Marcoset in his mind, have been shot right through the center.
Brewster takes the headphones off and hugs him, but Langdon can't take his eyes off the holes he just shot through the wood.
Leaving the estate for the first time in his life, taking off his collar and wearing other clothes, making choices for himself... It could all be as easy as two shots, aimed right.
"... Can I keep practicing?" His voice is hoarse. His lungs catch but he ignores the way his head goes light.
"I knew you'd like it once you tried," Brewster says cheerfully. "Let me reload for you, show you how to do it. You did fucking awesome, little man. You're going to be as good a shot as me one day, I can already tell."
Langdon thinks of red spreading over Miss Delia's stupid pristine tablecloth, she and her husband slumped over the table while Langdon walks away. Gets in a car, maybe. Goes somewhere, anywhere else.
"I hope so," He says softly, and gives Brewster a smile. "Show me how to reload."
child whumpee who desperately wants to be left alone when it comes to... what happens at home. last time a teacher had gotten a little too curious after they burst into tears during class, they were the one who had to pay for it.
so they try their best to put on a normal act. and it works. but all it takes for it to come crumbling down is when a well-intentioned tutor notices something amissâ and wants to clarify with the child's guardians.
but it sends whumpee spiralling, as they try to convince their teacherâ it's okay, I'm okay with that, or they're fine with it, they know, or I deserved itâ every new justification only serving to further cement the grim look on the other's face.
A handler bring their kid at work because they were no babysitter. But they have a something important to do so the only one available to keep an eyes on the kid is the most loyal whumpee.
âThe child innocently asking if they are a friend of their parent
âpointing out LW's scars and asking how they got them
âLW wondering if they ever were that small and weak
âBeing protective of the kid because they know how cruel those working here can be
ânot having a single pop culture reference but enjoying just having a conversation
âBeing gifted a drawing and trying to hide it from their handlers (and possibly being punished if they found out)
âBeing recompense for taking good care of the kid (or the opposite)
âmonths later LW daring to ask handler how is their child doing
âor becoming the official babysitter
âthe now adult child rebelling against their parent and breaking free LW (who might not even recognize them...)
Whumpee that's been so brainwashed that they believe the abuse is love,
Getting jealous when whumper hurts/threatens/preys upon someone else,
Getting anxious and worried when whumper hasn't tormented them in a while because what if whumper is falling out of love with them,
Hearing another whumpee talk about their own torment and getting jealous and sad because their whumper doesn't love them like whumpee #2's whumper loves them,
Feeling unloved and unwanted with care giver because they don't "love" them like whumper did
I really need people in the whump community to get used to saying the word rape. I'm so sick of "noncon" and characters "getting nonconned". it's called rape. this is the torture fandom. are you gonna say your character was nearly unalived? that they were contemplating sewer slide? just say rape
#i like noncon for tags and in a more general sense? #more than just sex can be nonconsentual #touching #bathing #medical treatments #i do agree that it shouldn't just be a stand in for rape
no exactly, like, "non-consensual touching" or "non-consensual body modification" are actually useful phrases because they describe something specific as clearly and concisely as possible.
but when people just say "noncon", it's like. okay. non-consensual what? sex? we already have a word for non-consensual sex. rape is a short word that everyone knows. "noncon" doesn't describe it more clearly, it obfuscates it
I really need people in the whump community to get used to saying the word rape. I'm so sick of "noncon" and characters "getting nonconned". it's called rape. this is the torture fandom. are you gonna say your character was nearly unalived? that they were contemplating sewer slide? just say rape
Sure, they were hurt. Horrifically, even. There's no denying the scars. But the things they describe? There's just no way someone could do such horrific things to a person, and there's no way a person could walk away from that. There must be embellishments, hyperbole, some misremembering.
Villain doesn't even need to restrain Hero. Hero is unable to defeat them and if they left, well. They wouldn't forgive themselves if Villain started killing, would they? Kept in villain's home, relatively obedient all because of that threat. Sure. They can leave - the door's right there and open.
If they accept that Villain will take someone else, and again when that person dies. And again.
Sometimes Villain locks them in their room to have fun with someone else and is always so delighted to hear Hero beg to be the one to get hurt instead.
it's not even about hurting them, really, more about seeing how much pain it takes for hero to be able to live with the guilt.
Whumpee who's captured again.. and they just give up. It's a new Whumper, they might not even know what whumpee's been through. Maybe they're not even as awful as the original whumper, but whumpee has already given up. Because last time, they never managed to get out on their own, and they know for sure no one is coming now. So they fall back into everything they had to do under Whumper no.1.
And the new whumper? Well, they're delighted that whumpee is already trained.
I love it when whumpee is in some kind of horrific distress, or mid-torture and whumper is hanging out doing something casual at the same time. Flipping through their dayplanner, playing office golf, fixing their makeup or their hair, taking a normal phone call...
(TW): Human experimentation, child imprisonment, institutional abuse and neglect, severe trauma/PTSD, self-harm, disordered eating/food refusal, violence, death, isolation, dehumanization, and references to suicidal behavior.
This afternoon, the last chapter ended under that same cold humming vent.
Anne read the final lines softly, then let the words settle. Her fingers stayed on the page for a moment before she closed the book with a quiet papery thump.
âThere,â she said, smiling a little at the cover in her lap. âThatâs the end.â
On the other side of the glass, Ellie moved.
Anneâs eyes lifted immediately.
The girl had been lying on her cot under the thin blanket as usual, but now she pushed herself upright in one slow motion, blinking as though surfacing from somewhere deep. It was the most Anne had seen her move during one of these visits. Usually she stayed half-curled on the bed, listening without seeming to listen. Now she sat with her knees bent, hair falling into her face, looking at Anne with a focus that was almost unnerving in its directness.
âOh,â Anne said, caught a little off guard. âUm.â
Ellie looked at the book.
Anne glanced down at it too, then back up. âDid you like this one?â
No answer.
But Ellie kept watching her.
âI do have the second one,â Anne added. âI just didnât bring it with me today.â
That seemed to hold something. Not quite disappointment, but a pause that felt different from the others. Ellieâs gaze dropped briefly, then she stood.
Anne went very still.
There was no sudden tension in the girlâs body, no warning sharpness, none of the coiled energy Anne had been told to watch for. She just crossed the room barefoot and quiet, took the blanket from the bed with both hands, and wrapped it around herself like a shawl. Then she lowered herself to the floor directly in front of the glass.
Not close enough to touch, of course. There was still the barrier, the several feet of empty space, all the rules of the place humming invisibly between them.
But she came as close as she could.
Anne felt something in her chest pull tight.
Ellie sat cross-legged on the floor with the blanket gathered around her shoulders, her back against the side of the cot, face tipped up just enough to keep Anne in view. Her expression was the same strange blankness it often was, but Anne was starting to learn that Ellieâs stillness was not emptiness. It was caution. It was listening. It was all the things she did instead of speaking.
Anne rested her hands on the closed book. âWell,â she said gently, âIâm glad you came closer.â
Ellieâs eyes flickered, but that was all.
Anne thought for a second. âI have a little speaker with me, if youâd rather listen to something for a bit.â
A pause.
Then, faintly, Ellie nodded.
Anne blinked. âOh. Okay.â
She tried not to sound too startled by the fact of it. She set the book aside carefully and reached into her bag, making each movement slow and visible. The small speaker had already been cleared by staff, along with a short approved playlist sheâd made the night before after standing in her kitchen debating songs far longer than was probably reasonable. Nothing too loud, nothing too heavy, nothing obviously childish. Just gentle guitar, soft drums, voices that sounded young without sounding polished to death.
She set the speaker on the floor beside her chair and turned the volume low.
The first song drifted into the room, all warm strings and a mellow voice, thin through the little device but still enough to soften the edges of the space.
Ellie didnât react right away.
She just sat there wrapped in the blanket, watching Anne for a moment longer as if making sure this new thing was real, then slowly turned her head toward the sound.
The music filled the cold room in a way words never quite had. It slipped into the sterile spaces, settled against the glass, pushed back at the hum of the vent. Anne leaned back a little in her chair and let it play without trying to fill every second.
After the second song, Ellie shifted.
Not away. Just enough to tuck her cold feet beneath the blanket.
Anne pretended not to notice. She had already learned that some moments only stayed if you didnât grab at them.
So they listened.
A soft, wistful song about summer and growing up too fast.
Another with a steady rhythm and a chorus that sounded like driving with the windows down.
One that made Anne think of rainy afternoons and overfull bookstores.
Ellie never spoke. But once, during a song with a brighter melody, her eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds, and Anne could not tell whether she was tired or simply letting herself sit in it.
Either way, it felt like trust.
The time passed too quickly.
Eventually Anne had to lean forward and lower the volume, then turn the speaker off entirely. The room seemed sharper the second the music stopped.
âWell,â she said softly, already regretting it, âI should head out.â
Ellieâs eyes opened fully again.
Anne packed her things with careful slowness, slipping the speaker back into her bag, tucking the finished book beneath it. She stood, smoothing her skirt with one hand.
On the other side of the glass, Ellie rose too.
It was so immediate Anne almost looked behind herself, as if someone else must have moved and Ellie had merely reacted. But no. The girl was standing now with the blanket still wrapped around her shoulders, facing Anne head-on.
The gesture was small enough that no one else in the building would likely have thought anything of it.
Anne did.
Because by now she understood that Ellie measured herself carefully. What she gave, she gave in scraps. A glance. A nod. Sitting near the glass instead of the bed. Standing when Anne stood, as though some part of her had decided leaving should not happen while she remained curled on the floor like something being abandoned.
Anneâs expression softened.
âUm,â she said, suddenly not wanting to say goodbye in the brisk, thoughtless way adults so often did around children who had learned not to expect them back. âIâll see you tomorrow.â
Ellie did not nod this time, but she stayed where she was.
Anne adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. âAnd I can bring the second book.â
A beat.
Then Ellieâs fingers tightened, just slightly, in the edge of the blanket.
It was not much.
It was enough.
Anne smiled, small and real. âAll right. Tomorrow, then.â
Tag list: @dyke-terra @hurt-people-hurt-people @fuckclimatechange @hikari
okay but defiant whumpee holding their breath so whumper can't put a gag in, but instead of waiting, whumper simply pins their nose shut and grabs a strip of duct tape to put over their mouth as a way to teach whumpee to just let themselves be gagged next time
whumpee learning the consequences of their actions my beloved <333
the fear in whumpee's eyes as they struggle to breathe, whumper's firm, unrelenting grip.
im very partial to whumper waiting for them to calm down, gently tilting their chin up with a "Next time you'll be good for me, hmm?"
or angry whumper waiting until they have to tear the duct tape off to go "Hopefully that'll teach you."
thank you anon i love imagining scared whimpering whumpees looking at whumper with wide tearful eyes <3
Weapon stood in the shower, listening to the low hum of the bathroom fan beneath the heavy stream of water. They had scrubbed their skin raw, washing away every trace of blood and grime every piece of evidence of their betrayal.
The dark blue shower curtain was drawn shut, encircling them in a cave of fabric, but they knew Caregiver was on the other side, waiting patiently for Weapon to finally step out.
Past the sound of the water, past the white noise of the bathroom fan, Caregiver softly sang to himself. He had insisted on staying close, worried Weapon might collapse from exhaustion.
A few more minutes passed before Weapon was finally ready to turn off the shower. He hesitated for a split second before reaching up to his bruised throat. It was the only visible injury besides his split knuckles.
A sick part of him wanted to savor that moment. He still felt the triumph of it. The lifeless weight of Whumperâs broken neck;He had always wanted to kill him.
Weapon finally shut off the water, but Caregiver didnât stop singing. He simply waited until Weapon slowly drew back the curtain so he could hand him a towel.
âDry off. Iâll get your clothes,â he hummed before leaving Weapon with a little more privacy.
Caregiver seemed much more relaxed now that Weapon was one step closer to bed, as he liked to put it.
When Caregiver returned, Weapon had fully drawn back the curtain, a towel wrapped securely around his waist. Like a practiced physician, Caregiverâs eyes swept over Weaponâs body before settling on the dark bruises around his throat.
âNothing much I have to patch up, then,â he murmured, mostly to himself rather than to Weapon.
There it was again that awful feeling of being examined like a deer carcass.
The sensation faded almost as quickly as it had come when Caregiver seemed to realize he had been speaking only to himself. He gestured toward Weaponâs throat.
âAny other injuries Iâm not seeing? Donât talk just nod, please. Your throat looks painful.â
Weapon slowly shook his head before pointing to his throat. The bruising on his hands was visible enough, but there was nothing else hidden.
âVery well,â Caregiver said with a gentle smile.
⸝
Weapon now sat on the edge of the bed while Caregiver pulled over a chair and settled in front of him. Leaning forward, he carefully applied ointment to Weaponâs throat.
The feel of Caregiverâs thin fingers against his neck made it difficult to hide the occasional nervous swallow. Even with clothes on, Weapon felt completely exposed. Though Caregiverâs attention never left the bruises on his throat, Weapon could almost hear him quietly cataloging every failed attempt to remain perfectly still.
Caregiver applied an occlusive dressing before humming softly to himself again.
âAlmost done, big guy,â he said, sounding quietly pleased. âYouâll have to avoid talking until I can get a better look later, but so far it seems like the worst of the swelling has gone down.â
When Caregiver finally finished, he rested a hand on Weaponâs shoulder.
It stayed there as though it belonged there, Weapon thought.
Weapon couldnât shake the feeling that ownership was simply changing hands. A dead Whumper meant nothing more than a temporarily vacant position for someone else to fill. Caregiver had stepped into that empty space with alarming ease, and Weapon had no words certainly none in his undereducated vocabulary to describe the transition from caged, rabid animal to patient.
Caregiver rubbed absentminded circles over Weaponâs shoulder.
âWhereâd your mind wander off to?â
Weaponâs eyes immediately dropped to the floor.
âDoes me touching you bother you?â Caregiver asked, withdrawing his hand.
Weapon didnât answer.
Caregiver took the silence as answer enough. He made a mental note to ask permission or at least give warning before touching Weapon again. He was an affectionate person by nature, especially when comforting people he noticed were in distress.
He had read Weaponâs file.
He had even read Whumperâs notes.
He should have known to be more careful.
But days without proper sleep and far too much coffee could dull even someone like him.
Unfortunately, there was one thing Caregiver wasnât too tired to notice.
Weapon responded to commands before questions.
The realization slid neatly into place, and suddenly every other concern was pushed aside.
Whatâs pirate au Elliotâs worst memory from before being captured? What about after?
Thank you so much for this ask!! This was a lot of fun to write and I hope you enjoy it!!
It's a long one though, so brace yourselves. 5.4k words
Worthless Pirate AU - Memories
Masterlist
Content: slavery whump, branding, threat of noncon, mention of prostitution, homelessness minor character death, minor gore, very brief suicidal ideation
If I missed any content warnings, please let me know!
-
Pre-captivity
The tight, bruising grip around Elliotâs bicep fell away, only for a quick shove between his shoulder blades to send him tumbling down the porch stairs. He landed on his hands and knees in the thick, viscous mud as the pouring rain pelted him and soaked through his worn, moth-eaten clothing.
ââBout fucking time I was rid of you, boy!â came a voice from behind him. Elliot peered over his shoulder at the woman in the doorway. Her long, gray hair was twisted into a thick knot at the top of her head, held back by her loosely-tied nighttime bonnet. She was clad in a stained, yellowing shift that reached to her knees and in her left hand was a lit candle, which she was careful to shield from the rain. Her wrinkled features were twisted into a scowl as she stared at the drenched, muddied boy sheâd just pulled out of bed. âBeen waitinâ for this day for eighteen long years!â
Elliotâs eyes widened and he quickly scrambled to face her as she began to close the rickety door behind her. âMadam Sibella, wait, please!â The woman paused and glared down at him. âPlease, I-I don't understand. What am I being p-punished for?â
Madam Sibella scoffed and Elliot caught a glimpse of her rotting teeth in the flickering candlelight. âThis ain't a fucking punishment, you stupid dog!â Elliot flinched. No matter how many times she used that nickname, it never got any easier to hear. âAs of about forty minutes ago, you ain't me fucking problem anymore!â
Forty minutes ago? What was she talking about? Confusion clouded Elliot's features. He wrapped his arms around himself in an attempt to shield his exposed flesh from the cold and tears pricked the corners of his eyes. He didn't understand. One moment, he was sound asleep atop his wooden mattress, and the next, he was being shoved out the door and into the rain.
Elliot opened his mouth to speak again, but that's when the realization hit him. His eyes went round as saucers and his frantic breathing ceased for a beat. âN-No,â he mumbled. âNo, no, no, please! You can't do this!â
Madam Sibella smirked at the sight of his panic. âYer eighteen now, boy. The law say you ain't mine anymore and I won't have you taintinâ this house any longer.â
âBut that's not fair!â Elliot shouted, several stray tears mixing with the rainwater on his face. He crawled a couple steps forward until he was nearly at the porch again, desperate for a reprieve from the relentless rainfall. âFletcher's twenty-one and you let him stay as long as he wants!â
Madam Sibella's smirk fell and her eyes darkened. An icy shiver scurried down Elliot's spine and he couldn't tell if it was from the rain or his former guardian's frosty glare. âFletcher's worth his weight!â She shouted. Elliot flinched again, a soft whimper slipping past his lips. âHe's got a job that helps pay for the rest of you wee brats! He helps to carry me heavy shipments in! Fletcher's earned his keep!â
Elliot was trembling now, the frigid rainwater soaking him to the bone as his tears fell free. âP-Please, Madam Sibella. I-I can w-work t-too. Just-Just give me a chance, please!â He begged.
Madam Sibella cackled at that, her heavy laughter flickering the candle's flame. âYou?â She exclaimed, eyeing his small, emaciated form. âWhat could you do?â
Despite the cold night air, a heat crawled up Elliot's neck and onto his cheeks. âI-I could c-clean. I could help entertain the-the younger boys. P-Please, just-just have mercy. I have n-nothing. You can't l-leave me out here. Wh-What am I s-supposed to do?â
âNot me problem, boy. Get a fucking job, why don't you? The brothel's always lookinâ for new whores, I hear.â
Elliot gasped. His trembling lips were parted in shock and he wound his arms tighter around himself in an attempt to shield his shivering body from view. âYou-You canât s-say that to me.â
âAin't like yer good for anything else! Now get the fuck off me property!â Madam Sibella shouted.
Elliot flinched, but he didn't move. âMadam S-Sibella, I-I'm b-begging youââ
âFletcher!â Sibella shouted into the house. Elliot gasped. âThere's a rat on me porch!â
Elliot scuttled backwards a little, but not before a large, hulking man appeared in the doorway. The man was shirtless and his blond hair was cropped all the way to the scalp. He had a nasty scar trailing from his eyebrow to his chin and his icy blue eyes zeroed in on Elliot instantly. His lips curled up into an ugly, crooked grin, flashing his missing teeth in full display.
âGet rid of it for me, would you?â Madam Sibella said. Without sparing Elliot a second glance, she maneuvered around Fletcher and disappeared into the house.
Elliot's stomach twisted into a knot. He scrambled to his feet and attempted to run, but the slick mud sent him tumbling back onto his hands and knees before he could make it three steps. Elliot whimpered and sobbed as a large hand tangled itself in his sandy-blond locks and hauled him to his feet. The boy whined in pain as Fletcher dragged him into an empty alleyway not far from Madam Sibella's.
âP-Please!â He begged as Fletcher shoved him against a stone wall. âP-Please, Fletcher. I-I'm s-sorry. I justââ
âQuiet, mutt!â Fletcher's booming voice commanded as he pushed Elliot to his knees. Elliot wept. Fletcher harshly shook Elliot's head from side to side with the hand tangled in his hair, laughing as he did so. âYou're fucking lucky Sibella ain't selling you, CĂłrdova. She could make good money off a pretty face like yours.â He tightened his grip on Elliot's hair, bringing the smaller man's face ever closer to his groin, despite the boy's struggling.
Elliot whimpered and thrashed against the tight grip in his hair.. âP-Please, n-no! Please don't!â
Fletcher chuckled as he pinned Elliot's head against his thigh and carded his fingers through the boy's rain-soaked hair. Elliot sobbed, squirming and punching while Fletcher laughed. âYou poor thing,â Fletcher mocked. âTell you what, mate. I'll come by and visit you at the whore house someday. Maybe then I'll give you the honor of letting you swallow my cock.â Fletcher roughly threw Elliot to the ground and pressed a foot to his back to keep him there. Elliot whined. âBut until then,â he continued. âDon't show your pretty face here again, mutt. Or I'll sell you to one of the merchant crews at my dock. They're always in the market for a pretty little thing to join them.â
Elliot sobbed, his shoulders shaking. The boot between his shoulder blades kept his face pressed firmly into the mud.
When Fletcher finally removed his foot from Elliot's back, it was only to deliver a swift kick to his ribs instead. Elliot yelped and curled in on himself, shielding his head with his arms while the rest of his body trembled and shivered. He didn't know how long he lay there, but by the time he finally looked up from the protective cage his arms had created, Fletcher was gone.
Elliot sniffled and pushed himself into a sitting position against the stone wall at his back. He hugged his knees to his chest in order to fully conceal himself beneath the overhang of the building behind him. It did little to shelter him from the rain, but it was enough.
As Elliot sat there, eyes fixated on the muddy ground, the full reality of his situation started to catch up with him.
It was his eighteenth birthday.
He was homeless, penniless, and without any friends or family to turn to. He had nothing but the torn, muddy clothes on his back.
Elliot hugged himself a little tighter. Madam Sibella's home for boys had never been kind to him, but it gave him a roof over his head. It gave him consistent meals, as lackluster as they were. Now he had nothing.
Elliot couldn't help the burning rage that boiled over in the pit of his stomach. Fuck Madam Sibella! Fuck Fletcher! Fuck Port Iryss for treating him like this, for leaving him orphaned and unwanted.
Hot, angry tears welled in his swollen eyes. He was cold, tired, hungry, and completely alone. There was no place in the world that wanted him and no person that cared enough to remember his name. As far as the world was concerned, Elliot CĂłrdova was nothing but a ghost.
âŚ
In Captivity
âLooking good, mutt,â a deep voice commented, followed by a quick slap to Elliot's raised backside. Elliot flinched and suppressed a whimper. The slave was on his hands and knees, vigorously scrubbing the gun deck in an attempt to rid it of the leftover gunpowder residue. He hated the fact that he was starting to recognize the voices of the crew. He hated how familiar he was growing with his buoyant prison.
Elliot didn't even have to look at the man to know who'd spoken. It was the ship's navigator, Hess. Elliot's face burned red-hot and he wordlessly returned to his scrubbing. That was, apparently, the wrong choice, as Hess's fist tangled itself in Elliot's hair and wrenched his head back. Elliot squeaked, his neck straining against the angle at which Hess held him.
âI'm payin' you a compliment, rat! What say you?â Hess growled, his long salt and pepper hair threatening to brush against Elliot's face. In any other circumstance, the navigator may have been considered attractive. But his grimy skin, stringy hair, and overgrown scruff took away from his more desirable features.
Elliot choked on the air in his lungs. His scalp was burning and his eyes began to water. âTh-Thank you, S-Sir,â he choked out.
Hess grinned and released the slave. Elliot's head fell forward and he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to catch his breath. âGood boy,â Hess praised before moving on to continue his duties.
Elliot bit down hard on his tongue until he tasted blood. He hated this. He didn't know just how long he'd been aboard the Serpent's Wrath, but he hated every inch of this ship. He hated every slimy member of the crew, every degrading nickname they called him, every little touch. He hated all of it. He wanted off of this ship, away from these revolting pirates. He wanted to go home.
Elliot lifted his eyes just enough to peer at the open ocean through the gun ports. There was longing in his eyes and a deep ache in his chest as he watched the sun glint off the tips of the waves. He wondered how long it stretched, if it truly was as endless as it looked. He wondered if the sea could hear his screams, if it pitied him. He wondered if the ocean would welcome him, wrap him in its arms as it drew the breath from his lungs and lulled him into a tranquil slumber. He wondered if the sea would spare him. Or grant him the mercy of a peaceful escape.
That's when he saw it, a sliver of hope cresting over the horizon. An island. He didn't know if it was a hallucination borne of his exhaustion, but the lightest glimmer of hope ignited in his chest.
The gun port was about one square meter wide, and Elliot was sure his small frame could easily slip through. All he would have to do is swim to that island and he'd finally be free of this place.
The sound of wood banging against wood stirred him back into reality. Elliot flinched and turned his gaze over to the other end of the gun deck, where Hess was swiftly slamming each gun port shut. Elliot's heart began to race as his eyes returned to the port in front of him. His opportunity was slipping. He had to get out of here, even if it meant he'd never get home. But he was terrified. He didn't know what would come after, if he would survive or if darkness would swallow him instantly. He just needed to escape, however that would look. He couldn't take it anymore. He didn't want to be a slave anymore. Freedom was right there. All he had to do wasâ
âWho the fuck said you could stop working, slave?â Hess shouted.
Elliot flinched again, his eyes finally lifting to meet the navigator's. Hess stood only a few feet away, in front of the gun port directly beside Elliot's. The boy was out of time. If he didn't do this now, he'd never taste freedom again.
Despite his emaciated state and the chains around his wrists, Elliot had always been fast due to his small stature. It didn't even register in his mind that he'd started moving until he had maneuvered around the cannon and dove into the water.
The warm air falling back to allow the frigid ocean to wrap around him was a shock to Elliot's system. The bright, vibrant light of the sun broke beneath the surface of the water, the shards dancing in tandem with the gentle ocean waves. The sound of Hess's panicked screaming was snuffed out, replaced with the gentle hum of the open sea.
Elliot felt weightless. Every move he made was in slow motion. His long braided hair danced with the current, as did his torn poet's blouse and maroon petticoatâhis former barmaid's uniform. Even his heavy iron shackles, which normally served to remind him of gravity's constant presence, offered absolutely no resistance beneath the surface.
Elliot had never been a strong swimmer and it wasn't until he attempted to kick back up to the surface for air that he realized his grievous error. The chains around his wrists didn't allow for much movement, which made maneuvering through the water that much more difficult.
When his head breached the surface, chaos assaulted his senses.
âThere he is!â Someone shouted from above. Elliot craned his neck to peer upwards, using his bound hand to block the ruthless sun. Dozens of crew members were leaning over the side of the ship, pointing and staring at him with expressions that Elliot couldn't see.
âTo the longboat!â
Elliot gasped. He didn't have long. He peered over his shoulder at the stretch of land that suddenly looked much further away. He didn't have a choice.
Elliot kicked and paddled as best he could, his chains yanking relentlessly at his wrists. He dove beneath the surface, hoping to hide his location from his pursuers, but he could only do so for so long. He forced himself to remain submerged until his lungs ached and his head began to swim. Gasping desperately for breath as he surfaced, Elliot kept his gaze firmly planted on the island, which, to his dismay, didn't look any closer. He dove again.
Each muscle in his limbs was on fire and still the island looked no closer than when he started. But he knew he had no other choice than to carry on, lest he face the punishment of a lifetime. He continued his routine of diving beneath the waves, swimming until he could feel his consciousness slipping, and coming back up for air. Over and over and over for what felt like hours. Elliot couldn't make out any shapes beneath the ocean, just the endless blue abyss and the blurry refractions of light splitting at the surface. The next time his head broke the surface, a fist tangled into his dripping locks and wrenched his head to the side, tearing a yelp from the boy's throat.
âGoing somewhere, slave?â Hess hissed through clenched teeth. Elliot blinked the stinging sea water out of his eyes, giving way for a longboat captained by two serpents to seemingly materialize beside him. Hess glowered at him.
Elliot didn't have time to respond before the second pirate grabbed him by the arms and attempted to haul him into the longboat. Elliot screamed and thrashed, fighting with all his strength to break free, but the sea had sapped all of his energy. From the piratesâ perspectives, the boy's desperate attempt to free himself was nothing more than a pathetic wriggle at best.
Without issue, the pirates hauled their prize out of the water and into the longboat where Hess made quick work of restraining him while the other man rowed back to the ship. Once the adrenaline of his escape started to wear off, Elliot's exhaustion crashed into him like a wave against jagged rocks. All he could do was stare at the gargantuan ship that, to his horror, was no more than a dozen or so meters away.
As the longboat began its short journey back to its mother ship, a devastating realization brought burning tears to Elliot's eyes.
Escape was never a possibility. The ocean had toyed with him. It had taken his greatest hope and presented it to him just out of reach. It was close enough to see, but still much too far. He never had a chance. This was always going to be the outcome.
âŚ
Elliot whimpered as he was unceremoniously deposited back on the deck of the ship in a sopping heap. His drenched, translucent clothes clung to his skin and shivers wracked his small body.
âWell, well, well,â an unfamiliar voice said. Elliot's head snapped up, eyes wide as he gazed upon the stranger towering over him. It was a woman, which confused Elliot more than anything thus far. In the few days he'd been aboard the ship, he had never seen this woman before. In fact, he hadn't seen any women since his final shift at the tavern. He'd assumed the crew was made up entirely of men. Then again, he'd hadn't seen much of anyone since they left Port Iryss. He'd been spending an awful lot of time in the brig lately.
The woman was tall, though that could've been attributed to her heeled boots and the fact that Elliot was kneeling at her feet. Her hair was the color of the sea and it lay in a pattern of long, wavy strands and tightly woven box braids. She had two thick braids framing her face that were adorned with silver jewelry, a stark contrast to her midnight hair and skin the color of oak. Her left eye was a warm, deep brown and her right resembled that of the sky, though it was impossible to tell if that was natural or simply due to the large, jagged scar running through it.
Elliot froze, terror seizing control of his heart. Was he on the right ship?
The woman smirked and chuckled at the way his face paled, but she didn't say a word to him. Instead, she shifted her gaze over to the men stepping out of the longboat. âFetch me the captain,â she instructed.
âAye,â one man said before scurrying off to the captain's quarters, leaving Hess to linger behind the slave.
The woman looked back down at Elliot. Her gaze was like ice. If Elliot wasn't already shivering, her gaze alone would send chills down his spine. He tore his eyes away from hers, desperate to escape them, but to no avail. He could still feel the weight and the chill of her gaze on him.
The woman lowered herself onto one knee, the other acting as an armrest while she took in the sight of him. âYou must be Whitlock's latest acquisition,â she said, her voice like soft leather. âI've heard much about you.â When Elliot didn't respond, she scoffed. âScrawny little thing, ain't you? You've a name, boy?â Elliot still didn't speak, which would normally earn him a good backhand, but the woman simply waited for his answer. Elliot still had no intention of giving one, and Christian's sudden entrance gave him the excuse he needed not to.
âHess!â The captain shouted, footsteps reverberating through every plank of wood on the ship. Elliot flinched in tandem with the planks as the captain grew closer.
Hess stepped out from behind the slave and approached the furious captain. âAye, Captââ a sharp smack rang through the air as the captain's fist collided with Hess's face, sending the navigator tumbling to the ground.
âYou let my slave escape on your watch?â
Hess clutched his nose as he righted himself. âAye, Captain, but I got him backââ
âI gave you one job, Hess! One!â the captain interrupted. âAnd you couldn't even do that. What use have I for you if you can't keep an eye on one little slave?â
Hess was speechless, but the way his face blanched betrayed his fear.
âCalloway?â the captain said. The woman stood to her feet and brandished a blade from her hip. The captain said nothing as the woman twirled the blade between her fingers before slicing cleanly across Hess's throat. The navigator wobbled backwards, hands clutching the oozing slit across his neck. Blood spurted out of the gash, dripping down Hess's lips and between his fingers as he stumbled on shaking legs over the side of the ship. Choked gargles and gasps were cut off by a sudden splash as the ocean accepted her gift, dragging Hess's body to the depths in the wake of a trail of red.
Elliot couldn't breathe. It had happened so quickly and there was no processing what he'd just witnessed.
When Elliot finally shifted his gaze from the droplets of Hess's blood on the deck, he found the captain's eyes searing through his skull. If the woman's gaze was like ice, the captain's was fire, and Elliot couldn't shake the feeling that he'd be joining Hess in a matter of moments.
The captain's glare shifted from his slave to the gathered crew. âSeems our guest hasn't quite grasped his role here.â Christian's voice was deceptively calm, given the way his face contorted with rage. After gracing each pirate with a single glance, his gaze landed on the woman. âRemind him of his place. And make sure he doesn't forget this time.â
The woman smirked and Elliot's blood ran cold. âAye, Captain.â The captain spared one last glance at his slave before he turned on his heel and disappeared into the captain's quarters. The woman's gaze fell upon the shivering slave at her feet. There was a hunger in her eyes that Elliot was far too familiar with, a level of bloodlust that sent icy tendrils down his back. She didn't take her eyes off of him as she said, âTie him to the mast.â
Hands wrapped around Elliot's upper arms, curling beneath his armpits and around his waist, one even tangling in his hair, in order to drag him from his puddle and haul him over to the mast. Elliot screamed, fighting with all his strength to avoid whatever was about to happen to him, but exhaustion had already settled over his body once the adrenaline had worn off. His limbs were practically useless.
Why Whitlock wasn't overseeing his punishment, Elliot didn't know. But this woman, whoever she was, terrified him. She'd killed Hess in less than a second without hesitation. If the bloodlust in her eyes was any indication, Elliot wouldn't be walking away from this in one piece.
âI don't believe we've been formally introduced,â the woman said as she began her slow saunter over to Elliot. His hands were quickly relieved of their shackles, only to be wrenched behind his back, coarse rope wound tightly around his wrists. Elliot sobbed, heart pounding relentlessly against his ribcage. âName's Na'Krisha Calloway. But you, little thing, will refer to me as Sir and nothinâ else. Savvy?â
Elliot could barely hear her over the pounding of his own heart. He hadn't registered that she'd asked him a question until her blade was at his throat. Elliot gasped, neck straining to avoid the dagger still dripping with Hess's blood. âI asked you a question there, darling. You ain't ignorinâ me, are you?â
Elliot shook his head as much as he was physically able, tears steadily trickling down his face.
Calloway smirked, but her eyes narrowed. âI'm gonna need a verbal answer from you there, love. Show me that you heard what I said.â
Elliot gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing against the sharp blade. âN-No, S-Sir. I-I'm not ignoring you, I-I s-swear.â
She dug the blade in deeper, drawing a sharp hiss from the slave. She leaned in so close their foreheads were nearly touching. Elliot could feel her steady breath against his cheek as she whispered. âThe captain may be your master, but I am his first mate.â Elliot's stomach dropped. âYou will treat me with the same respect you show him, slave. Savvy?â
Elliot whimpered, tears stinging his bloodshot eyes. âY-Yes, S-Sir.â
Calloway's amused smirk shifted into a pleased grin. Elliot's heart slowed ever-so-slightly as she retracted her blade, only to trace it down his collarbone, bringing it to rest just over his chest. Elliot squeaked. He braced himself, tensing every muscle and squeezing his eyes shut as he awaited the pressure of the blade plunging into his heart. Instead, the dagger fell away, slicing cleanly through his shirt instead and exposing his chest for all to see.
Elliot whimpered and curled up as tight as he could to maintain any semblance of dignity, but to no avail. With his hands so tightly bound, he had no means of protecting himself from the prying, hungry eyes of the crew.
Na'Krisha grinned at the way his cheeks reddened and the soft quivering of his lower lip. She could see why Whitlock had chosen this one. He really was a precious little thing.
Elliot gasped at the feeling of Calloway's cold touch near the base of his hips. She traced lines across his bare skin, a trail of goosebumps rising in her wake. Elliot's skin tingled wherever she touched him, and despite her gentleness, there was an anxious twitch to her fingers, like the urge to tear him apart was becoming more difficult to suppress. She drew shapes into his skin, trailing upwards until she reached a spot directly over his heart. She tapped it once, twice, and drew a circle around it with her finger. âRight there,â she whispered, meeting Elliot's eyes with a look of pure, unsullied bloodlust. âLight the iron,â she commanded, her eyes staying locked on her victim's.
As the crew scrambled to obey her instruction, Elliot's stomach shriveled. He still didn't understand what was going on, but the excitement in the woman's eyes wrought fear into his own. âP-Please,â he mumbled, because he had nothing else to do but beg. âPlease, h-have m-mercy.â
Calloway chuckled and raised her hand to gently cup his tear-streaked face. Elliot flinched, but the touch was so gentle that the boy couldn't help but lean into it, which only made the woman smile wider. âYou poor, sweet, stupid thing,â she said in a voice that, under any other circumstances, would almost sound comforting. âThis is for your own good. This way, you won't ever forget who you belong to.â
Elliot didn't understand. They had tied him the wrong direction to be whipped. If they were planning to slice him up, she wouldn't have put her dagger away. He didn't know what light the iron meant. What was about to happen to him?
That was the question he'd meant to ask, but fortunately or unfortunately, he didn't have to. A pirate he'd come to know as Paxton entered his field of view, carrying a long, glowing branding iron.
Elliot's mind went white.
The glowing image at the end of the iron was that of the serpentsâ insignia; a human skull flanked by two hissing snakes.
Elliot screamed and thrashed against his restraints as Paxton happily handed the branding iron over to Calloway. âSir, please don't do this!â He shouted. Though his pleas seemed to go unheard, Elliot didn't stop. âPlease, I'm begging you! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!â
Calloway inspected the iron as she sauntered back over to the bound slave, looking wildly entertained.
Elliot sobbed, his sore muscles straining against the coarse ropes as she brought the iron closer. âP-Please, Sir! I-I'm sorry. I've learned my lesson, I-I swear! I-I'm just a s-stupid slave. I wasn't thinking. Please!â
Calloway took a moment to look him over, as though genuinely considering his pleas, before drawing a circle with her finger on the spot over his heart. âStay still, pet. If you mess this up, we'll have to cut off the skin and try again.â
Elliot wept, his knees struggling to hold his weight. There was no escaping this. She was going to brand him like cattle, burn the serpentsâ insignia into his skin so no one would ever question who he belongs to. After this was done, he would well and truly be owned.
Elliot squirmed and thrashed, though he knew there was no chance of escape. Calloway was directly in front of him, the deck was crawling with pirates. Even if he did somehow slip his bonds, he had nowhere to go from there. Despite that, he couldn't stop.
NaâKrisha giggled at the boyâs pathetic attempt at resistance. As entertaining as he was, the iron was cooling quickly and she didn't have another second to waste. âPaxton, Reynolds, hold him still.â
âAye, Sir,â the two men said in unison. Each of them took hold of one of the boy's arms and wrestled him still, though the poor thing continued to cry and wiggle, as though he had any chance of escaping. It was adorable.
Once Elliot was sufficiently immobilized, Calloway hovered the iron over the spot she'd chosen. âReady, slave?â She asked.
Elliot violently shook his head. âN-No, pleaseââ Paxton's hand clamped over the boy's mouth, keeping his head pressed flush against the mast as Calloway leveled the iron. Elliot whimpered and moaned against Paxton's palm, brutally awaiting the agony that was only seconds away.
As if on command, Calloway pressed the glowing iron squarely over Elliotâs heart, pushing in as deep as she could, as though trying to puncture a hole in the boy's chest.
Elliot was deaf to his own screams, the intensity of the white-hot pain replacing each of his other senses. His skin sizzled and seared, nerve-endings burning alive as his skin formed around the shape of the insignia. The pain was worse than he could've ever imagined, overloading his senses and shutting down every other part of his brain until all that was left was pain. Burning, agonizing, relentless pain.
The iron was pulled away after no more than five seconds, but the slave screamed for at least ten before his body went limp.
Na'Krisha's eyes roamed over the flawless insignia seared into the boy's chest. The skin was glossy and an angry shade of red, but the image was beautiful. She examined the artwork she'd created for another few seconds until the slave began to stir.
Na'Krisha grinned, a sense of pride swelling in her chest as she stepped back and motioned for the semi-unconscious boy to be relieved of his bonds. Almost as soon as he was untied, the boy's knees buckled, sending him tumbling directly into Reynolds's waiting arms.
âTake him to the med bay,â Na'Krisha commanded. âHe will remain there until he's healed, or until the captain requires some stress relief. Until then, should any of you lay a hand on him, you'll be returninâ home without it. Savvy?â
A chorus of affirmative grunts rose from the gathered crew as Reynolds and Paxton both worked to haul Elliot's limp body down to the med bay. Na'Krisha watched until the boy disappeared below deck.
In all the years she'd known Whitlock, she had never before been on board with his desire to possess a slave. In her mind, they were dirty and useless and nothing but cargo that needed to be fed. She couldn't control the captain, unfortunately. So when he told her he'd picked up a slave from that tiny coastal village they'd stopped at for a booze restock, Na'Krisha had been more than pissed off. A slave was an investment that the crew simply couldn't afford.
But after seeing the boy for the first time, drenched, shivering, and kneeling submissively at her feet, she couldn't deny the slave's appeal. He was tiny and adorable, and the sight of him triggered something within her, something that longed to tear him to pieces and watch him helplessly writhe in pain.
Needless to say, she couldn't wait to play with him again.
-
I will be posting picrews of Na'Krisha Calloway soon. I'm a little bit in love with her.
I hope you enjoyed this!! This ended up way longer than I expected it to be, but it changed directions like three times while I was writing it. I'm pretty happy with the end result though! My next chapter will be a post-rescue chapter. So those of you that have been itching for some comfort for my boy, don't worry. Its coming.
If anyone else has any requests for things they'd like to see in my pirate au, feel free to send me an ask!
