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turn-the-tables-on-them · 4 months ago

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After Hours

cw: aftermath of noncon, referenced/implied abuse, caring for an abuser, referenced fantasy slavery

Doomed T$$ AUs

× × ×

Sahota concludes the night shift with a pit in his stomach.

It shouldn't be there. He shouldn't feel any different than he usually does. Regardless of who waits behind each door, there are still five hosts shaking off the night's work down the hall. Still five people trapped here. It's no different than any other night.

But Kiv is standing in for Hunter. Has been for the last three days. And usually, Sahota could move past that. Usually, he'd leave it to the day guards to let Kiv out once his term was up, because Kiv has a way of lashing out when he feels small. Hurting when he's been hurt. It's not a fire Sahota enjoys being caught in.

Usually, he can avoid it. Usually, Kiv can be someone else's problem. Not tonight.

Too many visitors had come for Kiv tonight.

Customers came and went with a telling smile, regulars somehow knew Kiv was on the roster before Sahota could be prompted to tell them. People had come in just for him. It was the first time he'd seen it happen, but it was also Kiv's first time spending more than one night on the dark side of Midnight.

Word had gotten out. He never had a chance. Leaving him for the day guards to find, leaving him for even just a few more hours, feels wrong.

Sahota stares at the door leading to the guest suites for a long time before he can make himself move. Checking up on the hosts is part of his closing routine. At a surface level, it's no different from any other night. Bits of dread always find their way back to him, no matter how many times he repeats this task. A numb concern sits at the back of his mind, worrying at what state he'll open each door to.

He's not supposed to do much for the hosts. Not allowed to escort them to the showers or the kitchen. Not allowed to do much more than bring them water, remove leftover restraints, clean wounds that aren't deemed bad enough to warrant a trip to the healing pod.

Sometimes he carries them to the infirmary. He's allowed that much.

The routine leaves him feeling gray inside. Can't offer words of comfort that aren't true. Can't let himself care any more than he already does when there's nothing he can do. Sahota makes his rounds, stepping through quiet doors to face quiet hosts. It's been an average night for most. Not good, but not the worst he's seen. He leaves them with bottled water and a hand on a shoulder; consoling as he dares.

Door by door it goes, the sixth and final room getting closer with every host he leaves behind. He can't put it off forever. Kiv can be shitty, but he doesn't deserve to be abandoned, doesn't deserve to be left to the guards' whims after three days of this.

Some nights he pauses, having seen the glint in a customer's eye on their departure, knowing exactly the sort of thing they'd done, afraid to see the state of the host when he came back to transport them to the infirmary.

He pauses now, frozen for a moment outside Kiv’s door. The last two nights, he didn't even get this far. Thought of it, of at least cracking the door to get a look at him, but in the end thought better and turned around. The morning shift would make the same rounds. Let hosts out to shower and use the facilities. They'd take care of Kiv. He didn't need to put himself in that room, in the path of Kiv's fists and insults, he shouldn't have to.

Why should he have to now?

The thought almost has him turning his back again, but something holds him there. And just like he always does when he's afraid to see what's on the other side, he steels himself, and breathes, and opens the door.

Kiv is the first thing Sahota's eyes land on. Body twisted into what might be called a kneel: knees on the floor, arms knotted together by a length of rope that winds from his wrists to the headboard, shoulders straining. He flinches away from the sound of the door, and Sahota takes in the tangle of hair that mats together in some spots, the blindfold, the gag keeping his mouth stretched open.

They just left him here.

Sahota tries not to think about for how long. The guards would've cut him loose if they found him like this, right? But he knows what they think of Kiv. Could he count on them to do even that much?

Kiv squirms weakly when he kneels beside him, hoarse pleas distorted by the gag. Sahota reaches for the rope on his wrists first, loosening the knot and letting Kiv fall in on himself, pulling his knees into the chest with shaking arms.

He tries to pull away when Sahota’s fingers brush the gag.

“I'm taking it off.”

It's the first thing he's said since opening the door, but Kiv at least understands his intent, going still as Sahota unfastens the strap, eases out the ring, lifts the blindfold. Dried spit and cum are crusted over his face, splattering down his throat, his chest. He realizes with a wave of revulsion that there's some on his torso too, flaking white layered over lash marks that cross Kiv's back. Dried blood, the mottled red of new bruises.

There's a moment's breath between them, a moment where Kiv's gaze is pulled to the ground, eyes glazed with tears, hand numbly massaging the divets the gag left in his cheek. Then his eyes suddenly snap up to Sahota, like he's remembering he's not alone. His body tenses, feet scraping against the ground as he pushes himself further into the bedframe.

“G’ the fuck away from me,” he rasps, one hand fumbling with something behind him, something he's sitting on— fuck.

Sahota suddenly becomes aware of the buzzing.

He should walk away, he's done all that's necessary to get Kiv on his feet, yet he can't keep himself from taking a half step forward, hands cautiously outstretched.

Kiv jerks like he's been shot when Sahota moves, scrambling backwards on trembling arms and legs until he hits the wall, collapsing in on himself, one hand scrabbling at the toy between his legs. His eyes never leave Sahota, wide like a cornered animal’s.

Fuck, he should leave, but Kiv can't seem to get a grip on the toy and it looks like it's driving him to hysteria, his breaths sharpening, shaking, a hoarse cry ripping through him as his arm gives out and he crumples onto his side.

“Kiv.” He doesn't deserve to be left like this.

“Go away,” he says, but his voice breaks on the second word, hands abandoning the struggle and coming up to shield his face. Sahota approaches him slowly, once again dropping to a silent kneel.

“Please don't—”

“Let me help.”

One shining eye stares at him from a gap in Kiv's forearms, and after a long moment, he's given a jerky nod. Sahota turns towards the man’s hips, a distance growing between him and his body as he moves closer, hardly feeling the way the chill of the room has seeped into Kiv's skin when he lays a hand on his thigh, hardly feeling the rigid base of the toy as he switches it off and eases it out.

Kiv pulls away from him as soon as the thing is discarded, shakily propping himself up on his hands and knees, hair hanging in a limp curtain around his face.

“Can you stand?”

He tries. Even with the support of the wall, his legs shake too badly to hold him. He attempts to adopt a casual pose after his third attempt, and in his state, it looks ridiculous.

“You can go now,” he says in a tone that sounds like it's meant to be snide. “You’ve done your charity for the day.”

He's not surprised that's Kiv's take on this. It's not like they're anything close to friends. “I can help you get to the showers,” Sahota offers. “Or the infirmary.”

“I don't need your help, I don't—” He swallows the rest of his words, eyes shining with fresh tears, refusing to meet Sahota's.

He could probably make it on his own. Sahota could leave this behind, refuse to take another step forward on this unsteady ground, go back to his room and get some sleep.

“Someone needs to clean up your back,” he says instead, and Kiv's eyes screw shut, his knees tucking into his chest. At first Sahota assumes it's a new wave of pain, but then the silence is broken by a sob.

The sound leaves him unsteady. Usually it means it's time to make an exit, that Kiv is about to lash out, but the man on the ground doesn't move. Sahota's walked in on him like this before. Bleeding and crying, usually drunk. Angry that he's been seen, but right now he looks too drained to have room for that sort of feeling.

“Kiv…”

“I can't— I can't do this anymore. They all hate me so much, th-they do what Vic does and I can't stop it.”

Fuck. He doesn't know how to respond. How can he comfort him? He barely knows how to comfort anyone anymore. A hand laid over a hand, extra food or painkillers. How can he do that for Kiv? Kiv doesn't seem like he'd ever accept it, he's too much like—

He's not Vic.

“It kept… it didn't stop," Kiv carries on breathlessly. "I couldn't even say anything to them. They didn't stop.” The sentence fades to a whimper. “When you came in, I thought— why wouldn't you? What could I do? Y-you never… never do that, but no one's watching. No one would fucking know, and you…” Kiv shrugs, voice shaking too badly for him to carry on.

“I'll help you clean up,” Sahota says after a moment of nothing but quiet gasps from Kiv. “Here.”

He comes up on one knee, gently taking Kiv's hand and easing him back onto his knees, wrapping an arm around his back to support him. It takes a careful second to get him on his feet, but Sahota has him up without much difficulty, taking most of his weight onto his shoulders. Kiv is still crying, still won't look at him, but he stumbles forward when Sahota begins to move. Slow and steady, they make it out of the room, one foot in front of the other for the short journey to the showers.

Sahota unfolds a plasticine seat from the tiled wall with one hand and lowers Kiv onto it, dialing the water to something warm before turning it on. Kiv is silent throughout, not a word when Sahota takes a rag to his back and gently cleans out the whip wounds, not a word when Sahota washes the residue out of his hair. He gives him a moment alone while he fetches some clean clothes, and finds him in the same hunched position when he returns, water running off his shoulders.

Kiv is slow to change, his fingers still trembling as he pulls at the hem of the shorts Sahota brought, an empty look on his bruised face. Quiet when Sahota drapes a towel over his shoulders and helps him to his feet, quiet as they make their slow way down the hall. Quiet as he opens the door to Kiv's quarters.

There are no locks on either of their doors. For Sahota, it hardly matters. He's either with Vic or protected by him in some twisted way. Property. Not to be touched. Kiv isn't so lucky, is he?

He steers him to the bed, lowering him onto the thin mattress. “Get some sleep. Bax is still expecting you to work tomorrow.” There's no real rest at Midnight. He won't be surprised if Kiv shows up to their shift high as a kite. He doesn't think he can blame him.

“Sahota.” Kiv's voice is small, halting him halfway to the door.

“Hm?”

Kiv's gaze drops when he turns around, fingers digging into the blanket. “I don't… I don't know why you did that.”

He hardly knows himself. “Rest,” he says.

“You could've… I don't understand. You could've…”

That's the heart of it all, isn't it? Kiv hurts him because he knows Sahota won't fight back, knows he won't go to Vic. Why shouldn't he take vengeance, teach him a lesson, beat his lights out like everyone else does? Why shouldn't he draw a new line, painting himself as someone who hurts Kiv, instead of someone who's hurt by him?

“No,” he says, lingering in the doorway for a final moment, a stern gaze meeting eyes that still shine with tears.

“I couldn't.”

× × ×

@whumpyourdamnpears , @taterswhump , @light-me-on-pyre , @echo-goes-aaa , @kixngiggles , @thewhumpcrypt , @stainedglassqueen , @3-2-whump , @i-walk-on-the-dark-side , @whumpty-dumpty-doo , @chiswhumpcorner , @whumpsday , @merciless-whump , @deluxewhump , @itsmeblackcat , @hurt-people-hurt-people , @inhurtandincomfort , @gala1981 , @studyofwhump , @onlywhump , @twigsofmanyfaces , @queen-of-whump , @scoundrelwithboba , @roses-after-dark , @decayanddie , @turn-the-tables-on-them

#sad boyyyy #(sad boys really)#t$$ midnight au #t$$ kiv #aftermath of noncon #aftermath of whump #asshole whumpee

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turn-the-tables-on-them · 4 months ago

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The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug

(2013) dir. Peter Jackson

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turn-the-tables-on-them · 4 months ago

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P15. Isa

Isa uses she/they pronouns in case that gets confusing reading it

Past torture, injuries, medical attention, scar reveal, plot plot plot plot plot

Isa checks her watch 5:52am. Ok, definitely suspicious.

Logan's behavior has been odd ever since Jesse came back, but recently, it's become almost erratic. She's tried to give him some grace, assuming he's just been talking late night walks to blow off steam or something. But then Misha got dragged into it... They've watched the two of them disappear for hours on end late at night and come back tense and fighting.

He isn't cheating. Isa is fairly sure of that. If he and Misha wanted some… time together Logan would just have talked about it. Their relationship, especially with him, is flexible. Jesse and Isa are for life, but Logan is a bit more fluid. He loves Jesse but also likes to explore, try things, meet people. But with Misha? It would definitely be out of character. The two of them are practically siblings. Maybe not by blood, but they treat each other like it. So what are they up to?

Foot steps and urgent whispers ascending the stairs from the basement.

Isa closes their eyes and pretends to be asleep. She lies curled on the couch, Jesse safe in her arms snoring softly.

She holds them close, feeling a rush of protective anger. If Logan is cheating...

She likes Logan. He's good for Jesse. Gives them things she can't, and she loves him for that. But he isn't her priority. He's emotional, impulsive and doesn't always see things clearly. She knows he loves Jesse, and that's enough for now, but if he cheats on them or starts taking them for granted...

The basement door opens quietly, and their two silhouettes make their way past the couches and swiftly up the stairs to the bed rooms.

Isa settles in to wait. Once they're safely up the stairs, in their rooms, hopefully tucked up in bed. Isa crawls out of the blankets. Jesse stirs and she comforts them. Gently wrapping the blankets back around their shoulders before hurrying silently to the stairs.

It might be unlikely for him to cheat, but Isa isn't naive enough to trust anyone that completely. Except Jesse, but they're exception to most of Isa's rules.

She doesn't know what she expects to find, but every night, she watches the two of them sneak down these old stairs to the basement. Sometimes, with bags or Misha's medical kit. It's suspicious, to say the least. She flicks on her phone flashlight.

The basement seems unchanged. Cold, dark, and empty. Four makeshift holding cells for the villains their team would catch back during happier days. A fifth door leading to a cramped bathroom, is that dried blood on the floor?

Isa crouches down to examine it. Definitely blood, a dried trail of it across the cement.

They press lightly on each door. Three swing silently inward on oiled hinges, but the last sticks firmly shut. The one at the end of the blood trail.

This cell is deadbolted from the outside, the thick iron cold under Isa’s finger tips. Is it their imagination or can they hear muffled noises from the other side?

Isa takes a step back, thinking. This is not what she expected.

Should she open it? Go in? Go back upstairs and grill them about it? That's what her common sense says to do. She should listen to it.

She thinks through her options. One, go back up stairs. March straight into Logan’s bedroom and demand to know what's going on. Pros, safe. Cons… there aren't really any cons. She's seen the door now so even if he lies and says nothing is going on she can come right back down here and take a look for herself. Two, open the door now. Risk letting out whoever’s inside. Risk getting hurt. Why is she even considering it?

They turn away and are about to head for the stairs when the muffled noises cut off

That's all she needs. An excuse. Smoothing down her wrinkled t-shirt, they pull Jesse's switchblade from their pocket. They hadn't really expected to need it

This is stupid. Part of her complains. This is so stupid. Don't do it. It doesn't make any sense and is undoubtedly the worse option. But her decision is already made

She steps toward the door.

The bolt slides open easily and almost silently in her careful fingers. Opening the door just a crack she peaks through with one eye.

Blood. Blood everywhere. Smeared in dark, dried patches on the floor, splattered across the wall and pooling wetly around the man in the corner.

He's slumped over on his side against the wall, naked except for blood-soaked boxers. His body is covered in wounds, but their eyes are immediately drawn to two large spikes of wood driven into his leg. One in his thigh, the other into a bloody mess of flesh below his knee

She blinks once surprised before crisis mode takes over. The man looks like he's breathing, but blood is spilling from him at an unhealthy rate. She taps Misha's number into her phone

She picks up after the first ring, sounding bleary but in a way Isa immediately recognizes as fake, overplayed.

“Isa?”

“I found what you guys have hidden in the basement. I think he's bleeding out.”

“Shit” no more vagueness in her tone. And then, muffled, speaking to someone else “They found him.”

“Yes.” She says “and he's bleeding out. Unless you guys want him dead you better get down here, now.” She hangs up. There will be time to grill them later.

She approaches the man slowly incase he's faking his injuries and nudges him with a toe. He whimpers, but doesn't seem very aware.

She crouches just out of arms reach and examines him. This must be Adrian Morgan. Or someone working for him. They can't think of any other reason their team would be torturing a man in the basement.

She examines his face. Bruised and bloody, with angular features and a prominent nose that looks slightly crooked. He doesn't look much like Logan. The way Jesse sometimes reacts to him she would've thought they'd look more similar.

There are scratches on his neck and biceps that look fresh, still in the early stages of bruising. She is cautious to touch him in case it brings him out of his stupor, but she nudges his wrist so it flops over, exposing the tatoos there. Three of them, longer, but matching her one. On a whim, she pushes his shoulder slightly to get a look at his back and sighs. Bandages cover most of it, but through them, she can see layers of scar tissue. Great

“Isa I can explain!” Logan burts, bursting through the door “oh” he sees the man “I didn't do that.”

“Hold pressure here.” She guides Isa's hands to the wound on his calf “but try not to dig that wood any deeper. Logan you too. Hold pressure here on his thigh.”

Misha rushes to Isa's side “Christ!” She exclaims. “Will this fucker ever stop needing urgent medical care!?” She yanks the bag open and starts digging for supplies.

She rips open a package of gauze and starts tucking it under Logan’s hands. As she works Isa examines the man's face again.

His eyes are half lidded, showing only the whites, but the muscles in his face work, twitching slightly with each movement.

“I assume he's the one who took Jes?” they ask

“Yeah.” Logan sighs. “I found him. It's my fault. Dragged Misha into it.”

Obviously. Misha is way too smart for a stunt like this, but she doesn't say it.

“She's been trying to get me to tell the rest of you. I know it's right, I just-” He hesitates “all of this was a mistake, I think. It's definitely gone too far. I never wanted to hurt Jesse. But if I tell them now…”

Isa thinks through the options. This will hurt Jesse. It's quite literally their greatest fear right now. Having this man in the house. But at this point, there's no avoiding it. They deserve to know. It would be unfair to kill him without Jesse's input. She doubts they'll want revenge in the way Logan is taking it, but it's deserved. They should be allowed to make that choice themself.

“It's too late to avoid hurting them.” She says. “You guys didn't do this to him?” she indicates the wooden spikes

“Not these.” Logan says “well, Misha didn't do any of it. I didn't stab him at least.”

“Do you think he was trying to kill himself?”

“I don't think so.” Misha says. “Remember who this is. He probably knows the human body as well as I do. How to take it apart at least. If he wanted to kill himself he could've stabbed here and punctured his femoral artery. I don't know if he dodged it intentionally, but he could've killed himself with these spikes if he'd wanted to. Either way this has gotten so far out of hand. We need to end it.”

Isa nods. “It might be better coming from me. I'll tell Jesse in the morning.”

Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them @kiichu @whatwhump @jay--o @starsick1979 @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @syncopein3d @fuckcapitalismasshole @keeper-of-all-the-random-things @mannerofwhump

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#whump #whump writing #action and echo #oc whump #injury reveal #scar reveal #torture whump #revenge whump #reluctant caretaker #Love Isa #this is great

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turn-the-tables-on-them · 4 months ago

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Aww, Andrey is humiliated that Noah saw him this way.

Be a shame if Noah had to watch him get whumped while he's begging and crying.

MASTERLIST

CW: injuries, suffering, whumper turned whumpee, torture, angstt, Power Dynamics, Self-Loathing, Shame, forced to watch

After dragging Noah away from his tormentor, the bulky men threw him in a room. He had tried getting answers out of them. To know what was happening. To know why was this happening. In any other situation, Noah would've loved to see Andrey go through the same pain that he did, to know what it felt like on the other side. But now that it actually happened, he couldn't help feel the pit of sorrow in his gut.

Noah curled into himself on the ground, didn't even try escaping. He only waited and waited for someone to come in again as he was left with the shouting of his own ringing thoughts.

Soon enough, the door creaked open again. Noah held his breath, and jerked upwards to stand. Heavy footsteps thudded against the ground, before he caught a glimpse of the men again. They started walking towards him, and suddenly the air seemed much more thicker and suffocating. A hand grabbed the back of his hair, pulling it back roughly and before he could comprehend what was happening, a white vial was injected into his neck and he fell into unconsciousness.

Noah's head throbbed when he woke. His body felt heavy, his limbs refusing to move. Panic instantly surged in through his chest when he realized why - his arms were tied behind him, his legs strapped to the legs of a chair. Why did every situation end up with him being the one getting tied up and drugged? A groggy haze clouded his mind, as he tried shaking the drug off.

Then he saw it.

Andrey.

The man was on his knees, the same man who had forced him to kneel for hours until either he got bored or Noah's knees threatened to shatter beneath him. His head was hanging low, his black hair matted with blood and sweat. A few feet away, the same men stood, waiting, watching. One of them cracked his knuckles, another flexed his fingers around a blade. But the one most noticeable was a mysterious figure that stood infront of them, covered in loose black clothing, their face covered with a weird mask.

Noah's blood ran cold.

"Andrey-" He squeaked out, voice barely above a whisper. But Andrey didn't move, didn't react, didn't even glare at him.

"Ah good. You're awake." The figure spoke and he couldn't quite lay his finger on the person's gender. Ah as if that mattered anyways.

"Please- Don't hurt him- Don't-" He choked out before he was rudely interrupted by their captor again.

"Shut up. Didn't ask for your opinion boy. You're only here to watch."

A cruel laugh rippled through the room, echoing in the heavy silence that followed. Noah barely had time to process before the first blow landed on Andrey.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh, a sickening thud made Noah's insides curl. Andrey didn't give much of a reaction. Just a sharp intake of breath, his hands twitching and fingers tightening in an attempt to brace himself. Not only a while ago, Noah would've been the one being beaten up, and the Prince would've been the one watching it with sadistic delight. That's how it should've happened. Not like this. Neither of them were meant to be like this.

Then the second strike came, and the third, and then another one until Andrey violently coughed. His arms buckled beneath him as he collapsed fully onto the floor. Noah’s breathing turned ragged as he watched the blood drip from Andrey’s mouth, a stark contrast against his pale, fever-flushed skin. Somehow he felt like he was the reason this was happening to Andrey in the first place. That he was the reason of someone else's torment.

"P-please," Noah managed to croak out, his throat raw. He dig his nails into his palms, his whole body shaking. "Please stop. Please—"

As a response, a boot connected with Andrey’s ribs, sending him sprawling onto his side with a pained groan.

"Hm? Say that again why don't you?" The figure hissed, his voice sounding so cruel, so poisoned.

Noah’s throat tightened. His body trembled as he fought for breath, trying better than to start hyperventilating. His eyes burned, his mind screamed at him to fight, to do something,for fuck's sake anything—but all he could do was just sit there, frozen, tied up, his voice catching in his throat like it was being strangled from the inside.

And then Andrey whimpered.

The sound was soft, almost inaudible, but to Noah, it shattered everything.

Noah had never heard Andrey whimper before. Not even in his worst moments, not even when he was at the receiving end of a knife or a bullet or a broken bone. And yet here he was, shaking, curling in on himself, a sound of raw, broken misery slipping through the broken man's clenched teeth.

Noah’s stomach lurched, his vision blurring.

"Please—" he sobbed, desperate. "Please, just stop, please, I—"

Another blow. Another pained gasp from Andrey. Another laugh from the men.

"You should be thanking us, boy," one of them snickered. "Teaching your master a little humility."

Noah clenched his fists so tightly his nails nearly pierced his skin. He felt sick. He wanted to run. He wanted to claw his way out of this living nightmare.

Andrey let out a weak, broken laugh, breath hitching with every painful exhale. "You enjoying the show, Noah?" he rasped, barely audible. His fevered eyes flickered toward him, glazed over with pain and something almost like mockery—but no more strength left in it. Only the last remnants of his pride clinging to the edges of his words. "I bet… I bet you are. Watching me like this. I hope—" A sharp cough, more blood. "I hope you're savoring it."

Noah choked back a sob. "I’m not—I swear, I—"

But his words meant nothing. Not here. Not now.

Andrey’s body trembled as another kick landed against his stomach, knocking what little breath he had left out of him. He curled in tighter, his fingers twitching weakly against the stone.

Noah could only watch.

Taglist: @miireux134/ @nuriiz134/ @noeul-whumpsss/ @morning-star-whump/ @parasitebunny/ @anutz1234/ @whatwasmyprevioususername/ @whumped-by-glitter/ @lordcatwich/ @someoneoninternettt/ @natthebatt/ @noeul-whumpppssssss1234/

@electrons2006/ @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees/ @lolrpop/ @yassifiedinformation @written-in-the-stars135 (let me know if you want to be added or removed or be tagged just in the main series :D)

#Emotional Distress #References to physical pain and torment #angstt #Power Dynamics #Self-Loathing #Shame #whump #oh yesss

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turn-the-tables-on-them · 4 months ago

Text

Dark Water

Chapter 55 : Belongs To The Bilge

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"I guess it's been long enough" - writer's block, probably (hopefully)

cw: captivity, description of a dead body, details of decomposition, alternating POV's

Despite his desperate attempts at convincing himself otherwise, the pain in Moss’ face and body was comforting in it’s familiarity. He felt pathetic acknowledging that, even as he lay down on the hard floor with the strangle of the tide in his stomach and throat.

He sat up, pressed his back against the iron bars, and looked into the dark as he dared to take a deep breath in. The stagnate air settled on his tongue that tasted of the stench that filled his nose. He exhaled, carefully, out.

“Stinks down ‘ere, aye?”

Moss blinked, trying to make out if the voice was a dream or not.

“Burke must’ve sold us half-rotten supplies.”

“Another step toward the grave for that one.”

He lift his head from the floor, and called with a tired croak. “H-hello?”

“Let the Captain know.”

Moss crawled to the bars, taking hold of them with shaking hands. He lifted himself up, pressing his face between the iron. “Hello! C-can you hear me?”

There was a beat of silence, and a head appeared above the closest wall of crates. Moss smiled, laughing in relief when he saw the figure.

“I’m the new recruit,” he explained. “When you see the Captain, can you also tell her I’m in here? I think she forgot about me. There’s no water-”

“-Did ye hear somethin’?” The head said, sinking below the crates again.

Moss’ heart dropped into his stomach as the other answered.

“No. Nothin’. Best let the Captain know.”

“Wait!” Moss side-stepped along the cell until he couldn’t move further, and the footsteps continued up the stairs. “Please?!”

There was no door to the hold, only an empty space that flickered with life, and sound, and promise, only to fall silent and dark again.

“Damn it!” He punched the bars then waved his hand as he sat down with a huff. There had to be some mistake, some misunderstanding…

Suddenly the ship keeled, throwing him to the side. Moss sprawled, taking hold of the bars to steady himself as a rope snapped. The bang from a crate buckling against the iron made Moss scream and curl as he tried to make sense of it all. Seconds later the ship righted, and stilled, followed by a holler from above.

“Captain on deck!”

****

Isola emerged from her quarters as the salty sea blew an untethered wind of the approaching winter. She always slept better aboard a ship, something about the gentle sway and the knowledge of what was outside.

“Good mornin’, Captain.” Adair greeted her with a nod as she approached, then lowered his voice. “There was a small incident in the hold. Thomas has resigned.”

She focused on her scurrying crew. “That so?”

“Aye.”

“And why is that?”

Adair moved his eye toward the deck as the boatswain barked an order, and steered the ship starboard.

“He got a little too mouthy.”

Isola took a breath, considering the information. “I see, and where is he now?”

“In a crate.”

At that, her eyes snapped to him. Then she took a deep breath, huffing out of her nose. “Not your finest work, Adair.”

“Had to think fast, Captain.”

“That fast? In the middle of the night down in the hold?” She shook her head and pressed her lips in a line.

“I told the crew that he was found with more than his fair share of coin in his pocket.”

She nodded. “Gunner!”

Uneven feet stomped on the deck below, and the gunner appeared just beyond the upper deck’s railing. “Ye called, Cap’n?”

“Sword.”

“Aye.”

Not long after, he returned up the stairs and put a sheathed sword in her outstretched palm. She immediately made her way down, sweeping her eye across every surface as she did. Her crew righted themselves as she passed, giving her respectful nods before continuing their work.

“I want to be half-way to The Key before weeks end, sea and wind permitting.”

Adair walked beside her, keeping pace easily as they descended the first set of stairs. “Aye. I’ll let the boatswain know.”

They both stopped with pause at the landing of the first stair that led to the second, listening as a raspy voice called in the dark.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

Isola felt a smile crawl up her neck to one corner of her lip, tugging it with a gentle coax of anticipation. Adair took the lead down the second set of stairs, to where Thomas’ body was dumped, though the smell was strong enough to make it an easy guess.

“M-my name is Moss…” the lad continued.

Isola nodded toward the crate. Adair opened it, unleashing the stench in a cloud that overtook the hold, making their eyes water.

“Can never get used to that…” Adair said between gags before he worked to pull the body out. It slumped down with an empty thud, curled in awkwardly with rigor.

“Roll him over. I’ve got to make it look convincing.” Isola ordered.

“Captain!” Moss called almost as soon as she was done speaking. “Captain it’s me, Moss! I’m so glad you’re-”

Isola turned the corner and stepped toward the cage to see Moss looking up at her, smiling. Relieved.

She smiled back as he finished his sentence.

“I was worried you forgot I was here. I can start with the gunner…” his eye flicked down to her sword, then back up at her. “Immediately.”

“That so?” She responded between the start and stop of a muffled scraping sound neared her feet. She watched as Moss’ eyes traveled down, and suddenly his relief vanished.

Isola side-stepped over the body, addressing Adair.

“It has to bleed,” she mentioned.

“Blood’s thick already.”

She considered that. “Hang it by the ankles first.”

“Where, Captain?”

“The only place with cross beams, Adair.” Isola then looked at Moss.

The lad subtly shook his head, letting go of the bars. “Th-there’s no room in here-”

His protest was suddenly drowned by the strike of her sword on the steel bars, and the lad jumped back.

“Looks to be plenty, to me.”

She kept her eyes on him while Adair opened the cell door and dragged the body inside.

“Need a rope, Captain.” He muttered. “Don’t worry about the lad, he won’t be moving. Will ye?”

“…No.”

Isola made her way back to the base of the stairs where lengths of rope hung on thick steel nails with buckets stacked underneath. She grabbed one of each and returned, handing them both to Adair.

****

Moss’ vision widened with his eyes as he simultaneously watched Isola approach him while Adair wrapped the rope around Thomas’ ankles and looped the other end through the metal rods of the cell’s ceiling. There was a distinct sound—one like the creaking of wooden tenon’s set into a mortise—when he lift Thomas off the ground.

He didn’t dare move. The glint of the sword was quickly followed by the sound of it’s blade slicing through flesh.

Seconds later, Moss felt something poke at his chest, and he looked down to see the point of Isola’s sword trained on him. He followed it’s blade up until he was looking into Isola’s eyes, and he felt his skin tremble as the first drop of thick blood hit the bottom of the bucket behind her.

“To think I was so upset when Matthews tried to send me to clean up his little mess. Only to find you.” Her smile grew as her eyes sparked, and Moss’ already icy skin prickled over with fear. Another drop of blood fell with an empty, echoing, plop.

“A tiny loose end, in over your head, having deceived not only the prince of Talon, but a Lumrey spy.”

He shook his head. “I didn’t do-”

Isola’s hand whipped back as her smile vanished to a toothy snarl, threatening a downswing.

“The next time you speak, you’d be smart not to lie.” She bit. “I know what you are.”

The room grew darker, smaller. Adair appeared just behind Isola’s shoulder as the ship swayed, making the ropes creak and the metal hinge of the cell door squeal.

Moss lowered his head, looking past the blade and to the ground.

“What do you want?” He heard himself ask as another drop of blood fell.

“What a beautiful question,” She replied.

The brief silence afterwards made Moss want to scream; but the truth never mattered when the lies were louder.

“I want you to simply exist, just as you are.”

The initial pain throbbed through his face and chest as the weight of those words hit him harder than Adair’s right hook.

“I’ll tell the crew everything.” He said, quiet, but clear. “How would they like their Captain, then?”

The laugh that came from her shocked him to silence as it crept up his spine and sunk it’s tendrils into his skull.

Then, in the pale of what little light came from above, he saw her smile reflected like a sinister moon that reached her eyes in tiny pricks of light among the inky dark; and she spoke like the shadows from his dreams.

“Who would believe a little rat like you?”

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