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Villain parted his lips, trying to suck in a smidge of cool air, only to fail and draw in a gulp of air that felt like molten lava. Not that Villain exactly ever tried molten lava, but he was sure that it felt like that.
He was stranded on a beach. Normally, he would've enjoyed the moment, soaking in the sun and tanning his muscles. They would definitely pop after that. Villain prided himself with his biceps and abs, his triceps and deltoids.
But in this current situation, he was all but pleased. Hero left him here to dry up and wither like a raisin, in the burning sun with no water whatsoever. The ache in his head was turning into a dizzying swirl of burning wood. Gosh, he was beyond miserable.
His fingers made random shapes in the sand. A star and a circle, but from his point of view and hazy vision they looked like muddled shapes of blobs.
Villain sucked in another torturous breath. The lack of humidity in the air parched his throat and made his yearning for a droplet of water to multiply very quickly. He didn't even remember how he got there. Was he kidnapped? Possibly, but how? And why a beach? And why couldn't he move?
Villain wasn't even restrained which confused him immensely. He just laid there, only able to move his fingers and loll his head about. He let out a fluttering sigh. Whatever Hero did to him was good.
Villain licked his lips, trying to alleviate the dry feeling, but it only made them feel even more chap. He groaned and tried to drink the little saliva he had left, which was close to nothing.
He then closed his eyes, relishing the break from the sun. Earlier in the year, he got a small piece of glass stuck in his eye. After the doctors removed it, he was left with permanent sensitivity. Usually it wouldn't annoy him, but now under the sun, it bugged him tremendously.
As the minutes ticked by, the lightheadedness started to effect him more and more. He thrashed his head around, tears falling. The headache was now blinding. All he wanted was water. Water and sleep.
But he forced himself to stay awake as best as he could as figures danced around his vision. He knew he was hallucinating, a side effect of the heat, but it still was scary.
When one of the figures, a witch-like thing wearing a pink dress, came too close, Villain jerked back. The movement surprised him in a good way. He was not permanently paralyzed. Most likely a paralytic drug.
A single memory flooded into Villain's mind, causing the figures to vaporize into the air. Droplets that felt like rain showered his face and for a moment, hope enveloped him. Only then did he realize that he unconsciously move his arm and caused sand to fall onto his face.
The memory illuminated itself in Villain's mind. Hero, her costume and everything, stalking up to Villain with a syringe and a knife.
So he was kidnapped.
Or so he assumed. And he assumed that the syringe carried the paralytic drug.
Villain closed his eyes once again, parting his lips. As soon as the memory came, it vanished, leaving Villain with a empty space in his head. What was it again? Why couldn't he just remember? He smacked his head against the ground, causing the headache to pound him harder.
He wanted to scream. Scream as loud as he could, but the lack of water made it impossible. Gosh, was he getting thirsty and hungry. But most of all, he was exhausted from trying to stay awake.
The hallucinations came back, but this time, Villain was not as quick to figure out that they were fake. Figments of his imagination. This time, it was a horned beast, screeching. A sound that pierced Villain's eardrums. It sounded so real, so real... and terrifying.
The horned beast stalked up, drawing its long, clawed finger over Villain's cheek. He cowered it fear, anticipating an attack, but the creature wavered and tilted in Villain's vision- going back and forth, forth and back. Villain blinked a few times, the image going away, only to be replaced with... water?
Villain forced himself to lift his head, a motion that nearly tipped him over the edge of dizzyness and into sleep, but he shook his head. It cleared somewhat, but the fact that his body was screeching at him to rest was not his main concern. The fact that the newly formed oasis just slipped from his vision was. Villain whimpered, panic striking his chest. The precious water was gone, all his fault.
He gently laid his head back down, watching the same spot. He was hoping, praying, for it to come back so that he could drink. Even if it was saltwater, it would be something.
As if Villain's wishes came true, the oasis returned. He immediately forced himself upwards, forgetting his previous fatigue and paralysis problem (luckily that went away). In his state, he barely recognized his body's need for him to stop. He just kept on going towards the hazy oasis even though it looked fake and artificial.
He crawl towards it in a fury. Water. He needed water. He collasped a few times, but shot straight up, the image in front of him. He felt himself nearing as he dragged himself over, but everytime he got close enough to barely tap his finger in the water, it seemed to have moved three yards away.
Villain eventually gave up, gazing at the lovely scene. His lips were now more parched than ever and the headache was out of this world.
He allowed himself to sink into the ground. His cheek hit the ground, and in one last feeble attempt to soothe his chapped lips, he ran his tongue over them. Only he failed, his tongue landing into the sand. He barely was able to draw it back in when the doors of darkness began to enclose on him.
Cw: broken bones, neglect, dehydration, starvation, falling down stairs, locked in the dark; sickness; cold; cruel whumper; untreated wound;
âŠHe heard Madam shouting his name. He dropped the dishes he was washing and followed the voice into the living room.
It was a truly lavish place. A huge red rug covered the floor, decorated with floral patterns in golden embroidery, matching the long velvet curtains and the comfy sofas. There were also several cupboards of old dark wood with glass doors. Inside them, there were a lot of artifacts of the old world. Master worked for the city government, studying those, and he always, always promised he would teach Laz about it.
Of course he never did. Laz learned a bit, when slacking off, sometimes âborrowingâ the books from the living room⊠But he still had hope.
Master pointed at the fireplace, a huge metal-and-brick formation. He nodded, putting some pieces of wood in there, but there was not enough. He cursed himself for neglecting it, there should always be wood in the living room, so he didnât have to go outside to get more.
ââŠIâll be getting more firewoodâ He mumbled, with a small reverence âIâll be back in a minute, sirâ
Master nodded to him, gesturing that it was okay for him to go, as Miss Charlotte rolled her eyes.
He walked outside the house. It was dark, and cold, and everything was covered in a thick fog. He sighed, hoping there was some firewood in the shed. He didnât want to go into the forest now, there were wolves and maybe⊠Maybe worse things, in there, during the night. It wasnât safe.
Just as he struggled with the old rusty lock, he heard a voice from the house door.
ââŠThere is none on the shedâ he turned, frowning, to Taylor, who watched him, arms crossed leaning against the doorframe.
He left the lock and walked around the small construction, peeking inside through the broken corner of a window. He was right. There was none. Laz looked at the woods, gulping.
ââŠThere is some in the basementâ
He looked from Taylor, to the basement doors. He⊠wasnât exactly happy with the idea. The basement was scary, dark and dusty, everything smelled like mold. Even if there was wood there, it would probably be humid and bad.
ButâŠ
âIf you prefer to go to the woodsâŠâ Taylor laughed ââŠBut a wolf might eat youâ
So, his options were either face the wolves, enter the dark basement, or, worse of all, face an angry Madam Charlotte. As much as he hated it⊠Maybe it was worth taking his shot on the basement.
He opened the two wooden doors on the floor, staring at the dark stairwayâŠ
Next thing he knows, Taylor runs towards him and pushes him down, sending him rolling downstairs. He screams, and hears the wood cracking, as he tumbles until the cold floor lifting a cloud of dust.
The dim light of the moon is gone in a second, as Taylor closes the doors.
âNO! TAYLOR!â He tries to get up, but as soon as he stands, he falls back with a scream, intense pain coming from his leg, enough to bring tears to his eyes. He stares at it for a moment, in horror, realizing itâs broken âOh no, no, no, no. Taylor PLEASE, PLEASE. IâM HURT-â
Fuck. He doesnât think he is even there, anymore, and he canât hold back the sobs, as his vision slowly gets used to the basement. He whimpers, holding his legs and crying until he passes out from exhaustion.
When he next wakes up, there is a tiny bit of light coming from the crack between the doors, and he decides he needs to work on the now monumental task of climbing back the old stairs. His head is hurting from crying, lots of bruises and strains from the fall leg throbbing and his throat dry and raw. His back hurts too, making every movement a thousand times worse.
The process is slow. Sit on a step, hoist himself up with the good leg, sit for a moment to deal with the pain, and repeat. He does it to the twenty awful steps, but finally reaches the door. And to his horror, as he pushes it up⊠Itâs locked.
He screams, pushing the door, banging on the wood till his hands are full of splints. He takes a moment to breathe, and starts again, until his arms are numb and his voice is gone from screaming.
Still, no one comes to save him, and that little stream of comforting light is gone as the sun sets.
By now, his throat is raw, lips drawn and parted. The whole day shouting ruined it, and it tastes like blood. He needs water â he desperately needs water â and there is none. His stomach turns. He can go weeks without food. Only a couple of days with no water.
As much as he has been struggling, as much pain as he is in⊠He doesnât want to die.
Going down the steps is a little easier than going up. He knows no one will come now, anyway. Not when itâs dark and cold. Taylor is the only one who knows where he is, and he wonât tell anyone else.
He canât help but think that theyâll only find him too late, when he is dead and the stench of rot pollutes the rooms of their home.
He reaches the last step, falling back on the thick coat of dust, blinking a few times to get used to the dark as much as possible, pulling the rags around his shoulders. And he starts to cry again. He knows he shouldnât. He needs to save water. He is already struggling, head pounding, throat burning. But he canât avoid it. It hurts too much and he will die here, cold, alone and in pain. The air is so humid, enough to make him feel the sensation of wet, but that doesnât help him any.
âŠItâs only when he stops⊠He notices the dripping sound. From somewhere in the basement. Drip. Silence. Drip.
He struggles back on his knees, and crawls up to the sound. There is an infiltration in the ceiling, surrounded by an awful, moldy stain from where water drips slowly. But there is a small poodle on the floor.
âŠWhimpering, Laz leans over it, and drinks. He doesnât even care about the moldy, dust taste. Doesnât care if it will make him sick. It soothes his aching throat a bit, and for that he is grateful.
He falls asleep next to it.
âŠThe next day, he isnât strong enough to crawl back up and try to call for anyone. He doesnât even have a voice. He feels sick. All he can do is lay on the dust, his entire body aching, stomach revolving, as he watches the tiny beam of light move and disappear.
Itâs nearly gone when he spots what should be the panel for the heating system of the house, reflecting the light.
Crawling up to it is a monumental effort. Itâs even harder to lift himself up enough to mess with the buttons. But somehow, he manages, before falling back on the dirt. He prays someone decides to come look at it in time.
 -----------
âŠHe woke up on a bed, a precious beam of sunlight on his face. There is a cast on his leg and⊠Water. Water on the table by his side. He takes it and desperately drinks, turning the entire jar in one go, already feeling the tears rolling down his cheeks.
ââŠSlow there, Laz. Easyâ
âŠMaster was there. He approached, sitting on the edge of the bed. Normally, Master wouldnât let Laz touch him at all. After all, he was just a filthy servant. But today, he offered his hand and Laz grabbed it, as desperate for touch and company as he was for water.
âM-master, Master-â His voice is broken, it hurts to speak, barely a whisper. He pulls Lazâs hair beside his ear, petting him a bit.
ââŠTaylor told us you had run away. How did you get in there, Laz?â
âHe⊠He locked⊠Pushed meâŠâ He swallowed part of him fearing the Master wouldnât believe him. But Master sighed, and nodded.
âI thought so. Iâll talk to him laterâ Master offered him a consoling smile âLotte isnât very happy about this, but I insist you stay in the guest bedroom until your leg is better. Iâm afraid you might have gotten pneumonia or other infection too, being in there for so long. Itâs best you donât get back in that closet so soonâ
âT-thank you"
He smiled softly. Master was letting him stay in the bedroom! A well lit, comfy bedroom, so different from his closet. Of course, the closet was still a million times better than the basement, even that would have been good, but regardless, he was happy. He wasn't sure if he could deal with more darkness and cold.
"It was very smart what you did there, with the heather, boy" Master said, approvingly "...We might not have found you otherwise"
Laz smiled happily with the compliment. It was better than to think about the other part.
CW: mer whump, it as pronoun, mer fishing, cuts and stabs, mention of amputation
Their parents were right: the younger fisher was not prepared to catch their first mer, they realized as they tried to pull the net and the net pulled back, making them lose balance and fall into the water.
Saltwater filled their lungs, burning inside. Looking down they caught a glimpse of their almost-catch, a beautiful silver mer with long hair, keeping a hold of their leg. The fisher struggled, trying to kick the mer or at least make it hard for it to keep pulling them. Just as they were about to pass out, they managed to get their head over the water, coughing and trying to take in as much air as they could.
The mer didn't stop pulling. The fisher held their breath and reached for the knife resting against his hip. This time they swam down, trying to have the mer in their arm's reach. Their eyes stung from the salt water, making it an almost blind attack. Their intention was to cut its arm off, but they would gladly accept any damage they could do if it helped them get free.
After some stabs and cuts, all the fisher could see was red. The arms holding them let go. The mer had seemingly gone unconscious.
They grabbed its hair, hoping it was not dead. Despite the damage, it would be a shame to lose their first catch like this.
this is a collab with @sapphirechao for the @summer-of-whump
day 3-Drowning/dehydration
tw: offscreen death, dehydration, death of a minor character, lost, self deprecation, suicidal thoughts (if thereâs anything i missed, please let me know)
2 days after escape (6 months of containment)
Five seekers stand in a straight line, in front of them is a tall man, pacing angrily back and forth. They all look at each other nervously as he continues pacing until almost five minutes have passed, he stares at them, his eyes seething in rage.
âSo, let me get this straight-â he finally breaks the silence. âWe leave you alone for two days, TWO FUCKING DAYS, and youâve lost our most valuable subject in this wasteland of a facility!?!â he yells, eyes glowing red as the seekers cower in fear. âWell is anyone going to say anything or do I have to beat the answer out of you?!âÂ
One of the seekers takes a breath. âWe donât know what ha-â The man grips onto the seeker's neck, he struggles against their leaders grips.
âI donât want excuses. I want answers! Tell me what happened!â The other seekers look away, tears falling down their eyes as they watch their comrade struggle to breath before going silent.
---
Isaac has walked the sprawling desert now for two days straight. The sun burned into his backside as it hung over the horizon like a sweltering hot blanket, practically suffocating the runaway priest. As much as he hated being locked in that damn freezer, it sounded so much better than slogging through the harsh burning sands that cut his feet like glass. Bitter thoughts formed heated words that rolled off his cracked dried tongue.Â
Of course these bastards would have brought him to a desert in the middle of nowhere! From being snatched up at sea to being in a sea of yellow sand as far as the man could see⊠the elements were his greatest enemy. He pulled out a plastic water bottle he had stolen from a particularly smug seeker and downed the last few drops. The droplets practically evaporated before he could even taste them and his body physically ached.
He was going to die out here, he realized. A bitter reality that refused to be ignored any longer. He had escaped and was a free man⊠and he was going to die out in this wasteland. Never able to see his son again. Unaware if his friends ever survived from that stormy day at sea as the ship slowly sank below the murky depths. His fellow prisoners risked life and limb to help him taste the sweet nectar of freedom⊠and he was going to die of thirst before even reaching sanctuary.
The man was sharply dragged from his thoughts when his foot snagged on a rock partially buried in the sand. He stumbled forward and fell face first onto the scorching earth, and for a moment he lied there. He had no more tears left to shed. A failure⊠he was a damn failure. All of his efforts were for nothing and his captor's were probably laughing at him right now.
He heaved a broken sob into his arm, brushing the sand from his eyes. He thought back to his fellow prisoners, imagining the light he saw in their eyes when he planned out this escape. They were all counting on him. They needed him to succeed and be freed too!!
In spite of his body feeling like lead, Isaac pushed himself back to his feet and kept moving. One slow shaky step after another, following the sun as it slowly crept west. He couldn't die. Not yet⊠not when people needed him. He could fail himself, but he couldn't bear to fail them too.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
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Free to watch âą No registration required âą HD streaming
