Whumpmas in July Day 12: Caught
GT July Day 13: Betwixt
Whumperless Whump Day 12: Trapped under rubble / I can't move my legs
combining three different creation events for this one!! since i'm posting this to both my accounts, for non-g/t people who don't know, borrowers are a species of tiny people who secretly live in humans' houses and survive by stealing bits of food and supplies.
-
It had to be someone, eventually.
Cotton just barely kept himself from crying out as the pile of books he’d been climbing toppled over. He tried to grab at his grappling hook, but it was slack. The lack of resistance sent blood rushing through his ears as he fell.
He hit the ground first, and it wasn’t a good thing. The impact was bad enough from a few feet up, but borrowers were sturdy, and he had enough reserves to make it until his family’s next visit. But he certainly wasn’t sturdy enough for what came next.
The tower fell the same way he did, burying him in literature. A hardcover landed harshly on his legs, pinning him to the floor with a crunch he could no longer keep quiet through. Cotton wailed, but more books kept falling, burying him in a dark tomb he was helpless to escape from.
When the only sound that remained was his own crying, Cotton realized that he was still alive.
He tried to wiggle out, but he was utterly caught between the books and the floor, and he couldn’t move his legs. Every time he even tried to drag himself out by the arms, it sent a new wave of agony through him so bad that he had to stop.
Cotton laid there under the rubble and wept, until the worst of the pain subsided and he couldn’t feel his legs at all.
He tried again now that he could bear to, but it was useless. He wasn’t strong enough. A single book was twice his height, and he was buried under countless.
Which meant the human would find him.
The human would get home, see their books strewn about, and find him as they cleaned up. Whether they realized he was aiming to steal away food from their desk or not, they would find him. And he’d be powerless to stop… whatever they decided to do with him. Even more powerless than usual.
He couldn’t be seen. He couldn’t. Mom and Dad and his little siblings lived in the apartment right next door, and it wouldn’t take a human long to start to question where he came from. Every borrower would be in danger if he was found. But Mom and Dad weren’t visiting until next week, and the human would be home today.
It was hours before he heard footsteps, the telltale click of the front door’s lock. Cotton’s heart hammered in his chest.
“Shit,” the human–Özdal, that was their name–muttered, increasingly-loud steps booming over. “I really need to get another bookshelf.”
This was it. He could either make himself known, or wait to be found.
“H-help.”
Özdal froze. “Who said that?”
Cotton shuddered. “Please help. Under the–the books.”
There was only a moment’s hesitation before he heard shuffling up top, books being lifted. “Yeah! Yeah. Holy shit.”
More and more were lifted, the suffocating darkness giving way to the warm light of the apartment and removing the weight on his legs. An enormous figure loomed above him: he’d never been this close to a human before. He wasn’t supposed to ever be this close to a human.
“Oh my god.” Özdal staggered back, a hand over their mouth.
Cotton whimpered. He tried dragging himself away, slow and agonized against the floor.
“No! Don’t, oh my god, don’t move.” Özdal quickly knelt down before him, blocking his path with a massive hand that just barely missed touching him.
“Sorry!” Cotton cried, squeezing his eyes shut.
Özdal seemed to realize they were scaring him, and the hand was gone when Cotton dared to open his eyes. “I’m the one who’s sorry! Your legs! What happened? What are you? What were you doing here? Are you o–I mean, obviously you’re not okay.” The human had tears in their eyes.
“I was climbing, please don’t hurt me, I’m sorry.” Cotton kept his voice quiet, hoping maybe Özdal wouldn’t hear.
“I won’t hurt you!” Özdal’s hands went up again. Cotton would have flinched if he could really move at all. “You need… a doctor. Like an emergency room. I’m not, uh, I can’t help with this.”
No no no no no. This was all going so wrong. More humans, more eyes on him. He was going to be the one to expose borrowers, an entire existence of safe secrecy down the drain. Who knew how many lives would be uprooted, captured, ended, all because of him?
“No! It’s fine! I’ve been injured before, I can handle it, don’t take me to anyone!” Cotton insisted.
Özdal said nothing for a moment. They pulled a ‘phone’, a device a little taller than him out of their pocket, pointed it at him, then turned it around.
Cotton was there on the screen, like a mirror stalled in time. His top half was mostly normal, if not for some bruising, but everything after that was… wrong. His legs were hardly recognizable, smears of blood and bone that he could hardly believe were attached to him.
“I gotta take you to a doctor,” Özdal said softly.
“No, no, it’s fine, I’ll… handle it somehow.” Even if he died, he couldn’t go. It would mean the end of life as they know it for every borrower. “Remove that image. Please.”
“Okay.” They still used that gentle, soft voice, like they were talking to some kind of scared, infant animal. Cotton didn’t like it. Özdal showed him as they tapped a little icon shaped like a trash bin, and the image disappeared. “But I still have to take you to the doctor.”
“No. You don’t understand,” Cotton pleaded.
Özdal looked down at him in all-too-obvious pity, then left the room. Cotton tried to drag himself, but he could barely make it a couple inches before Özdal returned. They carried a rubber spatula in one hand, and a woven basket emblazoned with HAPPY EASTER! and lined with a washcloth in the other.
“Listen. I dunno what you are or why you’re here, but I’m not gonna just sit here and watch you die because I was too lazy to clean my room, okay? I’m sorry. I, uh, really hope this doesn’t hurt.”
“No!” Cotton protested, but he could do nothing as Özdal carefully slid the spatula under him. He screamed as it jostled the only part of his legs he could feel, his upper thighs, eliciting a frantic sorry, sorry! from Özdal.
And then he was lifted.
Cotton clung to the spatula for dear life, gasping as the floor fell out from under him and he plunged up into the open air. Just as fast, he was deposited into the basket.
“Here.” Özdal reached in and folded the washcloth over him, enveloping him in softness. “Just try and, um, rest, okay? We’ll be there soon.”
“No,” Cotton repeated, but it was hollow. He knew it was hopeless at this point. Nothing he said made any difference, and there was nothing he could do to make the human just listen to him. Not without telling them about borrowers, about his family, and that would only put everyone else in even more danger.
Özdal carried him out to their car. Cotton had only seen them from a distance before, terrifying, monstrous things. He never thought he’d end up inside one. It stank of oil and shook like thunder, but Özdal wasn’t deterred.
When the shaking finally stopped, they picked up the basket again. Cotton pulled the washcloth over his head as soon as he saw: humans were everywhere. They would all see him.
He felt the basket being placed down on something.
“Hi, I’m here with an emergency!” Özdal shouted.
They lifted the folded portion of the washcloth.
Cotton stared up, wide-eyed, at the bright-white room. There were more humans than he’d ever seen, and before he could even try to hide, several were already staring right back.
A couple of them pointed their phones at him, just like Özdal had.
Warnings: fire, escape, threat of danger, smoke inhalation, hurt/aftermath, hurt/comfort, caretaker and whumpee
"Jump, Whumpee! It's the only way!" Caretaker called up to Whumpee.
Whumpee stood on the window ledge one story above Caretaker. Whumper had set the building on fire in their attempts to trap Whumpee and Caretaker while they escaped. It had worked for the most part. But Caretaker had still managed to get out of the burning building.
But Whumpee hadn't.
"I'll catch you, I promise!" Caretaker called up.
"Are you sure?" Whumpee sputtered. Soot coated the left side of their face and their eyes were watery. "I don't want to hurt you."
"Trust me! Just jump. Now!" Caretaker could hear the groaning of the beams of the building as the fire raged within.
With a nod, Whumpee leapt into the air. They sailed gracefully towards Caretaker. And Caretaker caught them. "I've got you," Caretaker said as they wrapped Whumpee tightly in their arms.
"Thank," cough, "you," Whumpee said as they dissolved into a coughing fit.
"Let's get you to help. You've inhaled too much smoke." Caretaker gripped Whumpee tightly as they ran towards their car.
Whumpee nodded weakly as they continued to cough. They were safe. Caretaker had them. Whumper had gotten away, but they hadn't died. And neither had Caretaker.
Written for Whumpmas in July @whumpmasinjuly-archive , day 12, Caught.
Content / warnings: Abduction, betrayal, character death, whumper pov, thoughts about noncon, vibes of unhealthy relationship dynamics (m/f).
Had it been up to Frankie to choose the last day of this life, it defined wouldn't have been a Monday. The Hammonds' weekly security briefing was tedious and dull. Especially today. Especially when the sun was shining, especially when his flight to the Caribbean was -
"Frankie." Peter snapped his fingers. "Focus. Look at these photos. Anyone on these shows up near her, you get her away. The Chernovs are pissed because of the boss' latest move, and they won't hold back."
Especially when Frankie knew in detail what - no, who the biggest threat to Dany was today. He had to bite back a smirk.
"The Chernovs won't get to her," Frankie assured, peeking at the clock in the corner. "I'll keep her close."
Josie leaned back and chuckled. "Yeah. We all know just how close she keeps you."
Peter clicked his tongue. "We don't talk about the junior like that, Josie. She's an adult, she's a professional, and so is Francis. When he's listening."
"Yeah. I've got her," Frankie repeated and peeked at the clock on the wall. "And she's going to insufferable when I'm late to pick her up. So. Excuse me."
"Watch out for these guys."
"I will."
He'd been even more attentive than usual, lately, Frankie thought as he jogged towards her office. He knew WRU was scouting them, and he'd clocked some of their agents. Whom he he'd been truly on the lookout for, however, was the principal. The person behind it all. Who paid hundreds of thousands of dollars, to make Danielle Hammond his.
It scratched his professional honor that he couldn't tell. Sure, Stuart Hammond pissed off many powerful players, many of whom would go great length to take it out on his only daughter and designated successor. But none of them would use WRU as a middle man.
And Dany's own surroundings? She certainly came after her Dad, in both business sense and annoying attitude, but Frankie usually managed to keep up with a list of her enemies.
Nobody matched.
Frankie sighed, before he knocked at her door and entered right away.
"You're late," she said, not bothering to turn around from where she stood in front of her cabinet, changing from her elegant business suit into a white summer dress. Frankie was a pragmatic man, but he suspected there was some sort of poetry in that choice on a day like today. "Just in time to zip me up, though."
He stepped in behind her and carefully brushed her blond hair aside, before he reached down for the zipper.
She was gorgeous. Sun tanned, soft skin. The freckles over her shoulders. The fit body, with just the perfect mixture of curves and muscle. His hand rested on her ass just some moments, mapping her shape to keep her in his memories.
All of this would belong to someone else, soon.
"Frankie." She raised a brow at him through the mirror. "We're past this, remember? Focus."
His other hand searched for her hip, too, and he pulled her back against him. She didn't fight it. Fuck. She felt too good, her body pressed to his, just like the many times before. "Come on," he whispered into her hair. "One last time?"
Dany turned her head, and it made him shiver how close she was, how her soft breath caressed his skin. "You don't call the shots, babe," she whispered back, her hand on his cheek. "I do." She twisted her hip out of his grip. "Not today."
He wondered, how it would feel to just take her, right here, in her office. What would happen, if he just grabbed her, hand in that blond locks, tossed her over her own desk and fucked her. She was feisty, but he was stronger than her. Paid to be. He could easily overwhelm her. He'd thought about this, more than once. Never done it. Always let her call the shots. Always let her be in power. What a meek little power that was, though. All deduced, from family, from wealth.
And someone out there was about to do what Frankie couldn't. Strip that off her. That power. That name. That arrogance. All of it. And make her into a submissive little fucktoy.
Oh, he fucking hated them for getting what he longed for.
"Focus," Dany said sharply.
He took a deep breath and nodded. And he did focus. On the smell of her shampoo, on the way her hair tingled over his skin, on the curve of her ass under the zipper.
Focus.
Frankie would become a rich man today. Rich, satisfied, free. He'd just have to make it through this.
"Sorry, babe," he mumbled.
He wasn't.
~
"Why did you say that?" Dany asked, when they were going down in the elevator, looking at him through the huge mirror. "A last time? You usually don't give up that easily."
Frankie had to hide a flinch. "I... Did I really say that?"
She stared at him from honey eyes, eyebrow raised. Expectant. "Yeah."
He hated her. For being gorgeous, for that white dress, for being in charge, for looking right through him. Fifteen minutes. He just needed this to not blow up in his face for fifteen more minutes. Just needed her to trust him for fifteen more minutes. "I... I think we should end this," he said. Improvised. It felt hollow. It sounded real. "It's... It's sort of getting nowhere, right? And I... I think I deserve better."
She paused for a moment, searched his face, before she shrugged. "Okay. Yeah. I guess." She smirked. "It's really been a bit of a cliche, anyway."
The doors slid open towards the lobby, but he couldn't move.
"That's it?" Frankie asked in disbelief. "That's how simple you think this is?"
"Wasn't it always? Come on, Frankie. We fucked. It was fun, it was good, and not gonna lie-" She winked at him. "I did like spanking you. But I mean. It's just sex, right? When it's over, it's over. No hard feelings." She held out an arm to keep the elevator door open for them. "Now. Are we leaving or do you want Peter to cover your shift?"
He really considered it. For a second or two, Frankie imagined going home, having a beer, calling his parents, telling them he'd come back to work in their repair shop. Imagined a life without Dany Hammond.
No.
He'd close this chapter of his life in a much more rewarding way.
"I'm good." He gave her a sharp nod. "Yeah. No hard feelings."
He pushed past her into the lobby, took the room in with a sweeping glance. For a short moment, someone locked eyes with him.
Alex Nadler. That short, awkward WRU client satisfaction manager, dressed just like a businessperson passing by. They weren't awkward now. Their gaze felt like steel.
Frankie shivered.
Move, their lips formed as they tilted their head towards the street.
Focus, Frankie thought.
Focus.
He guided her to the door, just some steps after Alex.
By his side Dany, utterly unfazed by their past conversation, had pulled a stack of index cards from her white purse and skimmed through them, mumbling to herself. She was invited to give a speech at some charity's summer event, just two blocks south.
She wasn't scheduled to arrive.
He walked half a step behind her shoulder, as always, shielded her from behind and towards the street. And as always, his gaze constantly flicked from the surroundings to her. Her long legs, short white dress, perfectly curved ass, blond strands dancing in the wind. People made space for her on instinct, looked at her, jealous, admiring, greedy. And herself - she didn't even notice, deep into her notes, trusting the man behind her to keep her safe.
The man she'd let into her bed, but nowhere else. The man who'd been good enough to guard her, but not to be more than an affair out of dozens. The man she'd led him on, made feel special, and then proved over and over that to her, he was anything but.
A van closed in from behind them. In front, Alex slowed their steps to down to fall back to Dany's side.
Everything was in place.
Dany had no idea.
Frankie smiled grimly.
For someone as savvy as she was, she was pathetically naive.
Then, Alex raised their hand.
~
It happened in seconds. The van slowed by the curb, its door sliding open. Masks. Machine guns.
Dany's index cards silently drifting to the sidewalk. Her white dress still dancing around her thighs, while she stood frozen in shock.
Her first move was for him. A hand, reaching back, to where she knew her protector would be.
Frankie grabbed her waist, a move so familiar he could almost laugh. "I've got you, babe" he mumbled. He could swear that he felt her relax the tiniest bit.
Then he hefted her into the van, right between the armed men.
He jumped in, Alex followed, and the van accelerated, sped off, before Dany had even said a word.
She didn't, still, even when one of the captors took her purse and passed it on to toss it out. Even when another pulled back her wrists and fixed them with zip ties. Even when they forced her to her knees and bound her ankles as well.
Even with a stranger's hand in her hair, a gun to her head, she stayed silent, attentive, aware. Her gaze was on Frankie alone.
And oh. He could drown in those eyes.
When someone touched his wrist, disturbed the image, he angrily flinched. "Sit," a masked man next to him said. "It's getting bumpy."
"I'm -" Frankie grabbed for a hold on the side, just before the van sped around a corner.
"An asshole," Dany said flatly. "I should've known."
Somebody chuckled. But apart from that, nobody spoke.
She didn't say anything more either. Smart girl, he thought. Just as him and the security guys had talked through with her dozens of times. Don't give them anything. Stay calm. Stay alert. Don't fight. Could even have helped, had this been what she probably assumed it to be.
A kidnapping for ransom, for information, for leverage. A kidnapping that matched her worldview. Matched her self image of being the centre of the world.
He idly wondered, what they'd do with that cute white dress. Trash it, probably. Too bad. He'd have liked to fuck her in it.
The van hit a speedbump, another one, and Dany let out a short gasp when the man behind her yanked at her hair trying to keep his footing. The outside noises changed, grew dull, and the van drove into a long, spiraled curve. Parking garage, Frankie thought.
The door slid open, and without spoken commands, their captors emerged into the dark, boots echoing on concrete.
They were alone.
Frankie and Dany, his charge, his lover, his boss. He'd have given his life for her, a long time. Now, he'd sold hers.
She tried to push herself off the ground, get onto her knees again. Under the dim inside light of the van, her dress seemed to emit light. He saw her eyes skim over the inside of the car, the door, back at him, assessing the situation. It was hopeless.
She knew.
"Why?" she whispered. "Why, Frankie?"
"Money," Frankie said with a shrug and crouched down in front of her. "A new life. Seeing you on your knees. Actually, mostly the latter." He reached out and gently traced her cheek. She did flinch now. Cute. "Because you're a bitch, Dany." He grabbed her chin harder. "Because I get paid to see you destroyed."
She stared at him. He wondered if her lip was trembling, or if it was just the light. "It... You know it doesn't make sense, right?" she said.
Frankie pulled back from the kiss he'd just wanted to press on her lips, irritated. "What?"
"That story. You're a loose end. No mobster in their right mind would just let you walk. You betrayed me, you sold me out to be destroyed, but they'll kill you first." She let out a low chuckle. "Oh Frankie. You've always been a fucking idiot."
Fucking bitch tried to belittle him, even at her lowest.
"Oh no, babe." He shook his head. "You have no idea. They're not the mob. They're something else. They just planned to make it look like-"
Dany raised an eyebrow.
Fuck.
Something cold pressed into the back of his neck.
Frankie froze.
"She's right," Alex said behind him, their voice even. "We're professionals. At WRU, we don't leave loose ends."
Dany's gorgeous, brown eyes widened with sudden understanding, her mask of smug confidence finally shattered. "No," she breathed. "No, no, not WRU, not that, not -"
Dany Hammond looked lovely, he thought, when she fell apart.
He held on to that image, as he took his last breath.
---
[Next]
- --
Angel tag list (ask to be added or removed): @whumplr-reader @there-will-always-be-blood @whimpers-and-whumpers @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @risk606
oh, y’all know what time it is by now, don’t you? 😈🥺😈 i stretched the definition of this delightful prompt - @whumpmasinjuly day 12: caught - and it really stirred my creativity! so it's time for morja to sufferrrrrrrrrr...😭😭😭
(sidenote: this training scenario was heavily insp. by this incredible art by @elgrajaz cause it gives such whumperflies 😍)
title insp. by this concept art quote by jenny holzer - "if you're considered useless, no on will feed you anymore."
~
Your job today is to run.
Until, anotèros?
There’s a blister on his ankle already. The friction of the shoe against skin, the rub-rub-rub, burn, burn, heat, sore, heat, foot falling flat against the ground, push off, spring forward, burn.
Until you catch up.
Morja blinks wet into his eyes and it stings, blurs, his feet pound their rhythm still. Can’t wipe it away. Keep going. He knows where he’s going and he doesn’t need to see. Just run.
Chase the buggy. The small white cart and the whine of the wheels as it speeds ahead, the anotèros driving, the anotèros with the stopwatch in his hand, the black glasses, don’t watch his face, just run.
He has caught the buggy before. Dog with rabbit in his teeth. Grab the bar, swing himself into the backseat, stopwatch clicking stop.
But it is so hot.
What is this track made of, anotèros?
His trainer’s eyes had squinted, slitted sideways down at Morja, and the skin of his palms itched.
The burn is all over. Heat. Heat in the legs, the thighs, the feet, the pulse of fire through each foot.
Raw, sharp, prick of fire, as the blister peels. Heat. Blood. Blood in the sock. Bad. Wash later. Run.
Keep going.
Keep going.
The heat is inescapable. It’s the worst part, really, of anything. He’s lived in heat. Used to heat. Born in it, raised in it, put in it day after day and still, it is the most inescapable.
Polyurethane, mostly. Does that answer your question, diathèsimòs?
Morja’s palms itched harder and he squeezed them into balls behind his back.
Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.
Good. Now get out there and run.
Fire jars through his chest with each breath, breath dragging sharp across his lungs, filling up with knives, throat a razor trap, chest a dozen blade tips. Breathing out is an ache but better, better than swallowing the fire of air.
Back straight. Drag air through the nose. Thick, rubber-scented, hot. It’s so hot in the building, foggy, every window had fog on it when he walked in today.
Polly-your-a-thane. Rubber. That’s the smell. Mixed with latex. The stuff that sticks to skin. Poured over asphalt. Bouncy over solid.
Knowing why your shoes stick to the track in the rain, in the heat, in the cold, doesn’t make you faster. It doesn’t help.
Morja sees sweat gleam on his trainer’s head, wrist swiping it away, the stopwatch gleaming bright, pinpoint-sharp, and the lights are bright. Big bulbs in the ceiling that hum against his skin they’re so blue-bright-sharp.
Keep up.
His sides pulse. The pulse has started now and the stabbing will only get stronger. Stitch. A needle pulling air through his body on a barbed thread. Poke. Drag. Poke. Drag.
They haven’t told you to stop.
Morja always has to remind himself his throat isn’t bleeding. It feels like it is. It isn’t. Not like his feet. Those are bleeding.
He can’t even hear the clink of his cuffs, thick leather slick and sticking to his flesh in an itching snick-snick-snick at every jostle. The piston of his elbows at his sides is short and doesn’t yank the chains trailing behind the buggy.
The slow whir of wheels-on-rubber is just a buzz now. Everything is a buzz, ears full of static, only the thudthudthud of blood rushing, water, past his ears, like his head is under the water, don’t think just run.
He won’t catch up to the buggy if he doesn’t run.
(It will outrun him anyway. That’s the point. It has to. Of course it will. It’s a buggy and Morja is on foot. There is no point.)
No. He can catch the buggy. He was told to and he can.
Keep the pace. This track doesn’t end. Run.
Inescapable.
Run.
He is a diathèsimòs and he must keep running.
The thud of his shoes against the track, the springing-then-solid, the reaching out with one hand, no, not close enough to reach and sweat blinds him again. Fuck.
He should have caught them already.
He must catch them.
Every step burns. Every breath burns. The lights burn. The track is a circle and he rounds a corner into a corner into a corner in pursuit.
The length of chain yanks, every step jolts his ribs against the inside of his skin, like every step jolts cuff against wrist, the chain growing tauter, the breaths shorter, harsher, dragging, razorwire, like the lungs being whipped.
The shredded grunt of each breath can’t be coming from him, he doesn’t think, but it must be. It’s so loud in his ears, like his heartbeat, as knife of breathing stabs, stabs, stabs.
The buggy is getting further away, inch by inch, and there is no way his lungs can bleed, like a horse. He is a diathèsimòs and his lungs don’t bleed.
Breathing and seeing are fire.
Hot rubber and hot copper and the itch of sweat is all he can think about. The sting of it in his open blisters. The crawl of it down the waistband of the pants, into the neck of the shirt, in his dry mouth like spit, in his dry eyes like tears.
The track is designed to help you not slip. That’s how running tracks are made. That’s why the rubber smells so strong.
But a stab, too-sharp, too-blinding, doubles him. He jerks against the cuffs and it’s done. The buggy keeps going and Morja doesn’t and his shoes fly out from under him and he hits the track.
Rubber. Asphalt. Body.
All the ragged breath is slammed from his lungs as his chest hits the ground, chin tucked against the fall, and the track burns across every inch, shoulders sharp and shocking at the jarring pull, pull, pull, dragged behind the buggy-
“Stop! Time.”
The burning stops and Morja lays there, heaving, light pulsing with every sharp heartbeat behind his eyelids, and he’s curled up on the ground, arms stretching out with their chains behind the buggy.
Get up.
He can’t.
Then kneel.
Rolling, belly first, then dragging one leg, burning, stabbing, shaking, up beneath him. Another. He does kneel up and his lids, bleary, blink open as the shape of his anotèros floats from the buggy. The squeak of leather as the shape bends to crouch in front of him, a rolling smell as sharp and bright and cold as the overhead bulbs swallows him up, clean scent and sharp corners, holding up a gleaming pinpoint in Morja’s face.
The stopwatch.
The only cold Morja’s felt today stabs into the hollow of his stomach as numbers, bright electric lines, become clear.
Slow.
Fuck.
I was slow.
“Gonna have to work on your speed, diathèsimòs. Guess you didn’t manage to catch up. You know the drill - don’t stop running until we’re caught.”
Morja tastes blood in his mouth. Not from his lungs. Of course not. He takes his teeth out of his cheek and the smell of rubber fills his nose as he bows his head to the ground.
Polyurethane, soft against his skin.
“…Yes, anotèros.”
~
oooh, a little glimpse into morja's training regimen, which is very fair and achievable!! 🥺🥺🥺
The pixie laughed in delight as she zoomed through the night toward the orange glow. It was so beautiful! Like a miniature sun come to earth. And soon it would be hers.
Then, searing pain. Flame spread down her wing, and she tumbled through the air.
A child’s fleshy fingers caught her by her other wing. “See? They’re so stupid they’ll fly right into the flame.” He dropped the lit match into his glass jar.
“My turn! I want to try!” his friends all clamored, as the child dropped the burning pixie in with the match and closed the lid.
Doing so much as escaping from Kaspar's house had been a feat in its own. The windows and doors were routinely barricaded at night, one of the many things Kaspar could freely do without any pesky neighbours getting concerned. Not to mention that damned hound the guy had which never seemed to sleep, and which Rayan could've sworn wasn't actually a dog, but some sort of demonic creature disguised as a cute little Pitbull Terrier. The dishevelled house was difficult to traverse, the floorboards seeming to screech underfoot with every step the captive took.
But when he'd finally managed to rip the barricades off of the back door, he'd sprinted like he'd never before. Despite the exhaustion that plagued his body from days without basic sustenance, adrenaline forced him onwards. Surely civilization wasn't that far from the little clearing Kaspar's cabin was situated; it hadn't been that long of a car ride, although he'd been unconscious for the most of it. He just had to remember which direction civilization was, which was easier said that done.
Hindsight’s vision is 20/20, though. Rayan should've known it was too good to be true, that Kaspar would've planned ahead in case his little captive were to escape. And as a result, as Rayan sprinted on bare, bloodied feet away from that haunted house of a cabin, his foot got caught on something. Before he knew it, he was engulfed and entangled, suspended off of the ground as if he were a fish caught in a net.
Well, one part of that was true; he was trapped in a net, it seemed. He, just, wasn't quite a fish.
Morning couldn't have come any slower. At the very least, the morning sun soothed the chill in Rayan's bones from being hung outside for the majority of the night, mentally berating himself for thinking he could escape so easily. Just when he thought his Immortal body would cave before he could escape the net, he heard the cabin door open with a groan of rusted hinges, and his captor’s amused voice.
“There you are!” crooned Kaspar, arms opened out as if in pursuit of a hug. Rayan met his greeting with a sharp glare, but it didn't seem to make his captors’ cheery demeanour falter. “Knew these things would come in handy someday.”
“Let me down.”
“What was that, unsterblich? I can't hear you from all the way down here, y'know.”
He wasn't even that far away, Rayan wanted to sneer. But he held his tongue, lest he wanted another limb removed. Kaspar seemed to have no restraint when it came to inflicting pain. Instead, in a faltering voice laced with a newfound desperation, he repeated his plea. “Let me down!”
Kaspar hummed in thought, but by the grin on his face, Rayan already knew his decision. “I don't think I want to,” He sighed, feigning boredom as he grabbed a segment of the net, pulled it back and swung. Rayan yelped in surprise as he was swung from the net, to and fro. “Not yet, at least.
“I'll leave you here for.. another couple hours, ja? When you're done with being stubborn and say sorry for escaping, I might even consider cutting you out of it.”
“No! No, no no no, wait,” Rayan pled, grasping the rope and attempting to focus on Kaspar face despite how he was swinging. “I'm sorry. I promise, I swear, I'm sorry. I- I won't try it again. Just let me down, at least.”
“But do you mean it? Are you sure you're sorry, RayRay?”
“Don't call me that.” He spat in reply.
“Hmm. Okay!” With that, shrugging nonchalantly, Kaspar turned on his heel. “I'm gonna go on a walk, while you sit there and think about how your actions have consequences. Oh, also: if you're gonna escape, at least be sneaky. I could hear you panting like a dog, and you could've been quieter getting the barricades off the door.”
As much as Rayan wanted to give a snarky remark in response, he held his tongue, watching with a sneer as Kaspar re-entered the cabin. Within a few minutes, he emerged with his dog, the little devil eager to get out of the house. As Kaspar passed his suspended net, he huffed in amusement and sent it swinging once more.
And so, as Rayan watched the swaying treetops while he waited to reconcile with his captor, his sneering expression couldn't help but soften. “Bastard…”
