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nathandrakeisabottom · 7 months ago

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Imprisoned, Impressioned: Nathan Drake x Reader

Summary: As a Panamanian prison guard, you signed on the dotted line that you'd never take bribes, never bring prisoners off grounds, and never beat on/off inmates. But for one, you just might make an exception. So long as he stays in his cage. Notes: Explicit. Gender neutral reader. B0ndage, fem/male-dom, r*mming. Cause that's his bussy, folks, don't get it twisted. (Get it plunged.)

“God, you’re such a fucking brat.”

Nate snorts in a wavering smirk in reaction, stabilizing a cocky grin as best he possibly can.

But his best seems to be quickly deteriorating in quality.

“I distinctly remember telling you we’d only keep this up if you stayed out of trouble.” Your busy tongue shapes words around a threatening tone, fingers drifting mindlessly where you spread him open, but Nate’s quick to wiggle his hips— cute, and fucking irresistible— to coax you back in.

“Really? Because what you actually do kinda seems to imply the opposite.”

And he’s right.

You rove and search memory, only to find no occurrence where he wasn’t sporting a newly-earned bruise, a flinching face from a black eye, blood still speckled where his lip had been split from a particularly well-aimed punch. And he’s right. you only gave him this when he misbehaved.

Punishment, you convince yourself.

Comfort, your better mind argues.

Like a band-aid you administer, a kiss where it hurts. Maybe you only offered such a thing in the aftermath of cruelty. Defend from the bullies when he claims he needs no defense.

Even though he does.

“Do you mind taking these off? Wrists starting to ache a bit—”

And he sounds so earnest when he says it that you almost move, relinquish to give him what he asks for. But you’re no idiot. He may be cute— you won’t lie and say you don’t feel some sort of affection for him, no matter how tart and mistrustful— but you’re grounded enough in your conviction to know he always has an ulterior motive.

“Good. It’ll build some strength. You’ll want this position again. you can tell.”

You learned quickly not to play coy with Nathan. He liked blunt. He liked vulgar. He liked when you told him to shut up after a quip and called him ‘pretty boy’ with a sharp, teasing tone and forced him as deep as his legs could possibly go, ignoring when he’d grunt discomfortedly. He liked it when you called him out on his bullshit. He liked it when you knew what he wanted before he did.

And just like you expected it would, his cock jumps with an excited, anticipatory twitch. Of course he’ll want this again. He likes being held open. He likes being held down.

But before he can hop in with some sort of pathetic, half-hearted joke, you pry his legs wide and delve back inside. Tongue lapping pink and untethered between his thighs, where his hole puckers sweet, wet, and where he has no choice but to sigh in pleasure. you kiss him there like you’re kissing him— because we’ve never kissed before and frankly have no reason to— and this is a lovely consolation prize. He tastes tangy, stings of soap after-tasting between your lips because he always keeps himself nice and clean for you. You could only be so lucky to one day watch for yourself as he props one foot up on the shower bar, examines himself in the fogging mirror, razor in hand, and fantasizes about what you’d prefer, what you’d desire, what you’d want best against your tongue. What would make you bring him back sooner next time.

Maybe one day you can convince the Lieutenant to transfer your post to the male showers so you can watch for yourself.

“So good…” His groan rumbles deep and dark down his belly, breath desperate, gasping uneven at a pleasure soaked in only on barren grasses on the outer perimeter, where they forget to water it because no one ever, ever goes out that far. Your passion exists in secret, exists only in handcuffs and lies you hold better than any truth when you tell the other guards you’re only planning to rough him up a bit. When you feel like treating yourself, pushing past the boundaries of where your waning shyness crumbles, you allow your palm to brush past denim— old bloodstains aged to a grainy brown— to squeeze his naked chest between your claws. He’s fit, he’s young, he’s nimble, he’s beautiful. And whatever he’ll let you hold, whatever he’ll let you touch, you will.

Your tongue dips deeper, pushes past pucker with little resistance— you always wonder if he preps himself for you first, skin stinging freezing cold against the steel toilet bowl and leg hiked high over the toilet paper rack, how many cigarettes must he trade for olive oil, lotion, vaseline, fucking anything— and he croons sounds just as impassioned as his daily fist fights.

Fights you sometimes let go just a hair too long to enjoy the sounds he makes: pained and giving pain near identical. Though the pained ones have always been a personal favorite.

Again— he likes being held down.

And the wispy laugh that bubbles past his lips when the fight is finally broken up never suggests anything different.

This can never go on long enough for you— suspicion is born quickly in the likes of a Panamanian jail— so you always need to draw things to a close far, far sooner than you’d like. Your fingers reluctantly reach up to grasp his cock between them, stroke him just how you know he likes, be quick about it because he always either comes way too fast or takes just a little too long, and you always have to split the difference.

He groans delicious at your mercy, nails digging contradictorily merciless into the skin you long to taste, but never have the time to. One day you’ll leave him hard from foreplay and nothing else, abandon him aching and more desperate for next time. And next time, maybe you’ll make him eat you out. The image of his sweet, strikingly blue eyes gazing up at you from between your legs imprints in your weak-willed mind and steers the rhythm of your fist faster. How fucking adorable he is, how scrappy, how witty, how bratty, how you love the sounds he makes, how you love his skin pinching pink between your fingers, how the thought of one day marking him even deeper drives you wild.

Your tongue points, swallows, and savors for one final taste, before skating further along to foreign territories. And you distract him with quicker speeds, tightened grip, because you’re the same:

You always have an ulterior motive.

“Fuck—” His moans transcend into higher octaves, just like they do when he’s close, and his feet scramble for purchase, legs bending and stretching and flailing until you have to force them back up into position. Be good, babyboy. Stay where you want you. A gasp suddenly squeezes from his overworked lungs, a product likely of his precarious positioning, and there’s one second where you almost fear you’ll drop him. But your chest is quick to push forward and prop him back upright, keep him vertical, give him support until he comes in your arms. He breaks out into a wistful wisp of moan at the movement.

Yeah. Yeah, you’re definitely gonna want this position again.

And when he finally does come, you squeeze his thighs between your arms just before he can tip over— even though the sick satisfaction of a ruined orgasm, the sight of him falling hard and fast and unfair into the dirt below, always sounds like a fun idea on paper. Your own brand of cruelty is usually more playful than sadistic. But eh, watching him come uninterrupted isn’t so bad, either.

You drive your pace fast and consistent, and don’t stop even when you feel him coast languidly down your wrist. He always keeps bucking into your fist— hedonistic and somewhat masochistic— even when it must start to edge on the side of pain. Nate chases his pleasure because it’ll run out far too soon, it’s always far too soon, and something tells you he wants to impress. Prove to you a stamina that prolongs, even when you always deny his request to let him inside. Or maybe even a volume, to prove just how much he’s willing to give, how much his body will supply for your tongue to swallow up later— salty and warm and satisfactory because you earned it fair and square.

He comes a lot— but maybe he’s just trying to beat a personal record.

His final wail gives way to heaving pants, stomach tightening and relenting and tensing and back again, and his pleasure is so thorough that he drops limp in your hands. Little death, indeed. Nate dies in your arms as you gift him one last kiss there in a sweet finality, remind him of what he’ll receive in a couple days if you’re feeling nice, a couple weeks, a couple months if you’re feeling cruel. Taste him again because you love the thought of being inside him-– and the feeling of him around your tongue will be enough masturbation fodder to last you the better part of a week. Until next time. Until he gives you something even better to imagine.

“Woof…” Nate smiles doey-eyed and serene, and you can’t help the cocky, self-satisfied smirk that eases itself across your face. He looks fucking adorable— all blissed-out and rosy red and still slightly throbbing between your fingers with an overeager abandon.

Yeah… maybe you’ll be nicer this time around. Because you already know how violently you’re going to miss the sight of him like this.

“Crap, that felt so fucking good.”

Your teeth clamp teasingly into his thigh, flirty in a way you almost never allow, and he giggles. He fucking giggles. And you want to slap yourself for how quick your heart squeezes around such a delicious sound. you want to hold it longer. Wring it out of him faster. And against all reasoning, you want more of it.

But there’s no time. There’s no trust. You can never let on such a feeling.

This can only last so long as you keep control, so long as you keep distance.

But as soon as you lay his legs back to rest— he grunts when his body makes such an abrupt transfer of weight— Nate presses out into the unknown, and asks the only thing that would bridge the distance before you can push it back apart. Just as you finish lifting his slacks back up around his hips, zipping him closed (a common courtesy that may even be too tender by your standards), he sighs relieved and sweet before you can grapple him back to standing:

“...What? Not even a goodbye kiss?”

Oh god.

The freedom awarded by ecstasy has made him dumb. He has no idea what he’s even asking for. And for the fifteen additional seconds of bravery he has left, before his orgasm leaves him in a cold sweat and he begs you to not take him back, he’ll convince himself that this is a good idea.

He’ll convince himself that his joke is hilarious and he’s a better actor than he actually is. Because, even if you actively tried to ignore it, his wavering breath sticks out like a sore thumb. He can’t make the words sound natural, casual, suave in the way he must want them to. There’s something overzealous about it. And your stomach clenches at how your initial reaction to this isn’t repulsion.

But also, in the now ten seconds of bravery he has left, he’ll convince himself that a kiss will only make the sex better. That it won’t ruin it and he won’t mind the taste of himself on your tongue and the idea of adding feelings to the mix will be a good idea. Because, yes, oh my god, Nate, how fucking brilliant of you, yes, let’s add feelings to the mix. You know, I always thought prison bathrooms were so romantic. What a lovely getaway. Why not retire and raise kids in the handicapped stall while we’re at it?!

But his lips look so soft. Unbearably so. One corner is slightly chapped, skin peeling from a still-healing cut, and the instinct to kiss it better overwhelms, dizzy and sickening in just how badly you want to pursue it into reality. The idea of wanting him nauseates, terrifies. But the desire to give in, to taste for yourself the tantalizing beauty that always hovers just a little too far out of reach, is stronger.

When you two meet, it’s terrible and you hate it.

Because it’s fucking electric.

…

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

You break away before you can dwell on it, praying you’ve satisfied him enough to never ask again, but the residue stings clear across your lips.

It was good. It was a good kiss.

Nate’s eyes flutter back open just a second too late— and his lungs die on an inhale he must’ve thought he wouldn’t be privy to so soon. But the reaction is evident, etched along his face. It was a good kiss.

And he fucking noticed.

Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

His lips curl with a dazed sort of satisfaction, just in the way you feared they would. But his eyebrows jump, too, confusion just as much as pleasure, eyes reading you for something more. Clearly something has to be said, and you pray you're the one to say it first. ‘Okay, up and at ‘em.’ ‘Nice try, but never again.’ ‘Take a picture, it’ll last longer.’ ‘You’re a rat and you hate you, asswipe.’ ‘This can never, ever, ever happen again. And fuck you for even trying, Nathan Drake, if that even is your real name—’

But you’re too slow, and Nate’s chest rises in an abrupt inhale that signals he’s beat you to the punch.

Oh god. Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything.

But he does. Of course, he does. Even with a sock in his mouth, rope, tape, palm, he’ll find some way to talk (and trust, every single one— and then some— has already been tried).

“...One more?”

You just didn’t think that was going to be his answer.

There is one moment of absolute terror. The split second of doubt on the deep end diving board. He must know this is a terrible idea. He has to know. There’s no way his orgasm was so good that he completely lost touch with reality. The silence stretches endless and icey. And you can tell the feeling is mutual.

But then, all of a sudden, his fallen face splits, smiles uplifting into something familiar. Cheeky. Safe.

“I’m just messing with you.”

And a laugh escapes before you can even register exactly what you’re feeling.

The feeling is relief.

Yeah, that’s it. Relief trickles in and cools your blood back down to sanity. Fucking asshole gave you a goddamn heart attack. You deliver him a curt punch to the shoulder to release the remaining tension, but he laughs it off as soon as it lands. And how sweet his laughter is only makes you want to punch him harder.

Little brat is much cuter with his mouth closed. And far, far away from yours.

You grab hold onto his handcuffs and wrestle him back to standing— a motion he leans into far more reluctantly than usual— his throat still fluttering with an excess giggle.

“Come on, champ, let’s get you back home. Nobody’s gonna be missing me, but they sure as hell are gonna be missing you.”

“Aww, don’t say that…”

His facetiously tender tone dribbles like slow caramel down your back as he twists his neck to face you, and he drops a bomb that almost makes you die at his feet.

“I know I will.”

…Fucking brat.

Yeah, you’ll make sure to bring him back sooner this time. Fucking definitely. Give him a spank or two for good measure. Let him kiss you again— and this time bite his lip til’ it bleeds. Give him a wound of your own. A mark of your own.

But then again, none of that would really be punishment for either of you, would it?

And just before you can shove him back into the courtyard, he tilts down to whisper in your ear:

“Please don’t make me wait so long next time… ma’am.”

Oh.

Oh god.

Oh, don’t worry your pretty little head, Nathan.

…

I won’t.

⭑⭑⭑

The metallic walls sting matte and clouded with a heavy steam, lungs thick and breath difficult. Lust and peace lie reclined in humidity. After a startlingly quick release down the shower drain, a simple purpose rather than a prolonged pleasure— he tries not to think too hard about why he always curses himself for finishing so soon, or what reasons he has to prefer saving such a deeper pleasure for later— Nate points his focus back to the basics. He never bothered with anything fancy. The money Sully wired them was only ever used for band-aids, Tylenol, and whatever shitty coffee the commissary kept stocked (“None of these rats are ever gonna catch me sleeping,” Sam would say with a suspicious side-eye), which meant nice shampoo was off the table. But suddenly Nate was rethinking it.

Maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he started making sure he smelled good. Looked good, too.

…But for who?

A pestering question he always ignored the answer to.

He scrubs up his chest generously, barely even notices when he catches the tail end of a peeling scab, absent-minded and letting his thoughts run to nothing and nowhere. This was his only time of peace and solitude— why waste it with thinking? Why waste it when the next black eye, cut knee, broken rib was probably already outside waiting for him?

But as his hands drift downward, reaching to clean between his legs, he abruptly flinches.

…Huh.

That’s weird.

Now, Nate was no stranger to violent wounds he didn’t notice till later on— he could almost consider them a friendly confidant, a toxic sort of lover— but this one was especially disconcerting. A dull, tingling pain on his inner thigh. A strange place to not notice getting wounded.

He shakes his head and tries to ignore it— maybe he had just scratched himself during a particularly vivid nightmare— but when his palm moves low, he winces even harder.

…What the fuck?

It’s bigger than he thought. A lot bigger. And the ache is sharp enough to make him completely drop his soap when he touches it.

Okay, seriously, what the fuck?!

Nate abandons all motivation, turns tail out of the stall, and leaves his bar of soap to linger lonely on the shower floor. He has to know what’s going on. Allergic reaction? A sneak attack while he slept? Fucking STDS?

But when he reaches the bathroom mirror, levees his leg up to catch the culprit, his stomach drops.

And his cock twitches in unexpected interest.

Because there, stained across the inner side of his left thigh— drawn across his skin in lovingly littered hickies— is the unmistakable, pink-purple bruised shape of the first letter of your name. A brand. A claim.

A mark of your own.

“ ...Shit.”

⭑⭑⭑

#uncharted #nathan drake #nathan drake x reader #uncharted x reader #uncharted 4: a thief's end #Shea's B-Sides (HOLY SHIT is my 2 year old writing so different from my current)#(this is a year and a half old btw oops)#(im really excited for yall to one day see the new stuff <3)#shea speaks #original work #my stuff #anyway i love him your honor <3 but also i would smack the crap out of young nate #thus a fic was born!!#happy shea is posting again eve!!#have to censor tags now bc im scared

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trilliumprince · 10 days ago

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hurtcember day 3 - blood

finally finished editing this :)

4,536 words

this is a continuation of this

cws: drugs/drugging, gags, alcohol mention, escape attempt, slight choking, blood/bloody nose, getting shot/punched, tight spaces, falling from a tree

---

Seleien awoke many hours later. He felt as bad as he had when he had first woken up, if not worse from the hunger clawing at his stomach. He sat up, the blanket on top on him falling off. His wrists and ankles were still bound together with rope.

"Good to see you awake," A voice from behind him said.

He turned to look towards his captor. He looked back away as they smiled at him.

"Are you hungry? you haven't eaten in a while" They said.

"Yes, i am," Seleien replied softly.

Seleien could hear some rustling behind him, followed by some foot steps. The stranger came in front of him and crouched down in front of him with a piece of bread their hand. They gently pushed it into Seleien's mouth before reaching to undo the ropes on his wrists.

It took a minute or so to get the ropes off and the stranger stepped away from him. As soon as his wrists were freed, Seleien took his mittens off and took a proper bite out of the bread. It was a bit too stale to really be eaten on its own, better suited for a bread pudding or perhaps soaked in a warm stew to soften it, but he was far too hungry about to complain. And he wasn't exactly interested in anything that might risk upsetting his captor. At least not until he had the proper opportunity to try to escape.

The stranger brought him a cup full of water, which upon being sipped at didn't taste like it had anything added to it. Several minutes passed as Seleien ate and drank in silence before he looked towards his captor and began to speak.

"Where are you taking me?" He asked.

The stranger glanced at him from where they were sat, knitting away but didn't answer.

Seleien waited a few second for a response before trying again, his voice more firm this time, "Where are you taking me?"

They chuckled softly, "We are going to camp for the night in and hour or so and then we will continue on in the morning."

Seleien huffed, unsatisfied, "You said you were going to deliver me somewhere. Where are you delivering me to?"

They let out an exasperated sigh before going to crouch down in front of him, "Are you done eating yet?"

He glared at them, "Where are you delivering me?"

The stranger rolled their eyes and grabbed the empty cup and the last bit of crust that Seleien was still holding and tossed them to the side. They them began to pull something from their pockets.

"Hey!" Seleien cried out in protest, "Why cant you just answer my mmph-"

Seleien was cut off as the stranger shoved a piece of fabric into his mouth and used their hand to push his jaw up in attempt to keep him from removing it. Seleien squirmed and fought, trying to push them away. Unfortunately due to the drugs still in his system he was still far too weak to shove them away. They took a piece of rope and tied it around his head.

He continued to try to fight as the stranger forced his mittens back onto his hands. He squeaked in pain as they shoved his wrists onto the floor of the wagon and held them there. As they held Seleien's hands down, they reached to the previously discarded rope. He let out a muffled screak as they tied it tightly around his wrists.

The stranger carefully checked his bound wrists, making sure it wasn't too tight before standing up and going back to where they were sitting before. They settled themselves down with their knitting and started to make a few stitches before opening their mouth to speak.

"Sorry you didn't get to eat much. Once we are at the campsite you will get a proper meal," They said.

Seleien huffed before laying down, facing the end of the wagon. He shut his eyes and exhaled. The fabric in his mouth was making it so dry and unpleasant. But really the only thing he could do about it was wait in silence. He wasn't sure how long he waited until he eventually fell asleep.

---

Seleien was jolted awake when he felt two pairs of hands grab him by his upper arms and hoisted his upwards. He immediately began to squirm and thrash in a panic.

"Hey hey, you're okay," The voice of the stranger came from one of the two people that was holding him up, "Let me untie you so you can walk. Can i trust you not to try to run?"

Seleien stopped moving as he realized what was happening to him and nodded in response. The stranger briefly said something to the other person in a language Seleien didn't understand and the knelt down to undo the ropes on his ankles. He could feel the other one of his captor move one of their hands to his shoulder, holding him in place.

It took a few minutes of waiting for his ankles to finally be free. It was almost an odd feeling, not having the rope tied around them. He was grateful none the less. The stranger stood and started to undo the ones on his wrists too. As they untied it they said some more things in that same language Seleien didn't understand.

There was some back and forth between the two before the other person let go of him and walked away, a satisfying crunch of snow as they jumped out. The stranger put the rope from his wrists into their pocket. They then rested a hand onto his face and Seleien looked up from the spot on the ground he was fixated on to meet their eyes.

"I'm going to remove your gag now. Don't bother trying to scream for help, we're in the middle of nowhere. No one going to hear you and no one is going to help," They stated.

Seleien nodded in acknowledgment. The stranger untied the rope and then gently opened his jaw. They reached into his mouth just enough to grab the piece of fabric and pull it out. They tossed it and the rope to the side. Seleien flexed his wrists, ankles and jaw, careful not to move in such a way that would possibly imply any escape attempts.

The stranger then grabbed his upper arm and gently maneuvered him towards the end on the wagon. Seleien couldn't help but stumble. His ankles felt heavy after being tied up for hours. The stranger used their other hand to grab his other arm and keep him from falling.

"Thanks," Seleien muttered.

A few steps later they reached the end of the wagon. The other one of his captors was standing on the ground, looking at them with a slightly impatient look on their face. They then extended their hand towards Seleien. Seleien glanced between the two. He took their hand and then crouched down, trying to see how far he would have to jump down.

He pushed off, launching himself away from the wagon. He felt the other persons hand leave his own as he was propelled. He landed on his feet, but stumbled forwards immediately. He threw out his arms in attempt to brace his fall but despite his best efforts he still ended up landing on his elbows along with a face full of snow.

He could hear laughter erupt from behind him along with the sounds of someone dropping from the wagon to ground, followed by the doors of the wagon being shut. He heard some foot steps of a person coming to right beside him.

"Hey," a voice full of amusement said, and a hand rested on his shoulder, "Are you okay, Seleien?"

Seleien couldn't help but shiver at being called by his name. Something about his captors knowing it made the situation feel somehow worse. He pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"I'm fine," He muttered.

The stranger gave him a look that said Really? and then held out their hands, "Come on, lets get you to camp. The food should be done cooking soon."

Seleien took their hands and they pulled him to his feet. They them held his hand and led him towards the camp. It was maybe 10 meters or so away from where the wagons were with a few big tents surrounding a fire. He could see two cauldrons set up over the fire and a few people milling around them. Another 10 meters or so on the other side of the camp, another wagon was sat and to the right a few horses, oxen and some mules were tied to the branches of the trees. And the sky was clear, a myriad of stars filling it, only interrupted by the trees and smoke from the fire.

He was led a woolen mat with a folded blanket on it that was by the fire. The stranger pointed at it, "Here is where you can sit. Don't even think about trying to run off."

Seleien sat down and the stranger left him to converse with the other people. He took the blanket and threw it over his shoulders. He looked towards the people. There was maybe 8 or 9 of them. He sighed softly and looked towards the ground before closing his eyes. He was quite outnumbered. He could think of any way he would be able to try to run. Best to pretend to be more drugged than he really was and keep his head down for now. Either way he was hungry and was not about to try to run when he was about to get a meal.

It was several minutes before he was handed a bowl and a napkin with a few slices of stale bread tucked inside. He took it with a murmured thanks and looked inside the bowl. It was a thin soup with various root vegetables, onions, wheat berries and bits of salted venison. Upon being tasted it was rather bland, seemingly the only salt in it being from the venison.

Seleien watched his captors eat and drink warmed cider as he ate his own meal. Even though he couldn't understand what they were talking and laughing about he continued to listen, hoping he might be able to figure out where they were from. And maybe if they got drunk enough he could slip away unnoticed. He made brief eye contact with one of them and he quickly diverted his eyes back to his soup.

It took Seleien about a half hour to finish his food and he was now politely sipping on some of the cider he had been given along the way. He had also managed to stash some of the bread into his cowl. It wasn't exactly the most elegant of hiding spots but he was missing his pouch. And he wasn't sure if any of his captors had seen him hiding it even though none of them gave him any indication that they had.

He waited for several minutes later before he carefully stood and stepped a few feet away, stretching as he went. He watched the group as he began to step away. When no one seemed to notice him, he turned and ran to the wagon he had been transported it. He ducked behind it, his heart starting to pound. He took a peek back at the group and watched them for a few seconds.

Seleien smiled to himself and then started to jog away from the camp. He moved as quickly and as carefully as he could. He could still feel the after affects of whatever drugs he had been given earlier. He hoped that he would be able to find one of the many small hunting lodges nestled in the forest. They were often stocked with firewood and food. And they usually also had some sort of map or directions to the nearest settlements. If not then… well… he didn't really want to think of what would happen if he didn't. He couldn't bear the thought of his mother loosing all her family members yet again.

Several minutes of half running half walking later, he heard snow being crushed underfoot from somewhere behind him. Seleien froze and turned to look behind him. Something, or someone, was definitely behind him. He quickly moved to against a tree. His hands shook as he peeked out from behind it.

He silently hoped it was something like a deer. Or something else that would be easy to scare off. But it certainly didn't sound like the hooves of a deer crushing snow. In fact it sounded like a person.

It seemed like hours but in reality was only a few seconds before he eventually saw the person who was behind him. Seleien could feel dread fill his chest as he realized it was the same stranger he had first met in the wagon. They were holding a crossbow which was already loaded too.

A big smile grew on their face as they made eye contact with Seleien and he gasped and quickly straightened up against the tree.

"Seleien! There you are! Care to explain why you are so far from camp?" They asked as the approached the tree he was attempting to hide behind.

Seleien evaded them trying to grab at him as they came up beside them. The stranger quickly pointed their crossbow towards him. He froze mid step back, and slowly raised his arms.

The stranger stepped forwards, "I don't want a fight. Now, why don't you come back with me so I don't have to hurt you."

Seleien stayed where he was as they approached. He just had to take a deep breath, stay calm and see if he could get out of this situation. The stranger closed the distance between them. They reached towards him and as soon as their fingers started to brush against his mittens Seleien made his move.

He shoved them as hard as he could. As they fell he yanked their crossbow out of their hand. He turned and ran as fast as he could through the snow. He could hear the stranger shouting at him. He pointed the crossbow behind him and shot aimlessly.

At one point he stopped just long enough to throw it as far as he could. After running up a small hill he grabbed onto a low hanging branch and scrambled upwards. Standing on the branch, he reached out to one that was higher. He grabbed onto it and pulled himself onto it. He sat on the part that was thickest, leaning against the thick trunk. He shut his eyes and wrapped his arms around himself, hoping that the stranger wouldn't find him. The snow left tracks wherever he went and he didn't really have any options for hiding spot.

After a bit of waiting Seleien eventually heard the crunching of snow underfoot. He tucked his cowl tight against his face and covered his mouth with his hands. He listened intently as he heard the footsteps stop, wait and then start up again. They seemed to be circling the tree.

Please leave. Please leave, Seleien thought.

Eventually they stopped from what heard to be in front and to the right of him. After a few seconds of silence Seleien dared to take a peek. His eyes met with the strangers and then drifted towards their crossbow which was pointed towards him. He could feel a surge of regret throwing the crossbow away. Or at the least he should have tried to break it first.

"Come down here and let me take you back to camp without a struggle and i wont have to shoot you," The stranger said, dangerously calm.

Seleien met their eyes again before mustering up the courage to respond, "No."

He barely had the time to think to move before he heard the sounds of the crossbow being shot and the thunk of the bolt hitting the tree. Pain surged through the upper part of his right arm. He clutched at the wound, losing balance as he did so.

He tried to grab at the branch, but the rough bark slipped past his fingertips. He hit the ground hard, landing on his side and groaned, the snow not doing much to soften such a fall. He looked towards his hands, one of which was covered in the crimson of his blood. He put his hand back on his wound in an attempt to protect it.

The stranger was by his side in seconds. They yanked some hobbles from their pouch and secured them around his ankles. They pulled his hand away from his wound and pulled him into a sitting position. Seleien grumbled as they pulled at the tear in his clothes to look at his wound.

Seleien glared at them as they examined his wound. Once the stranger seemed to be satisfied they stood, pulling him up. They pushed him along.

The two walked on in silence, following their tracks back to camp. Blood dripped from Seleien's wound as he stumbled along. Whenever Seleien stopped, the stranger would press the front end of the crossbow into the small of his back.

Eventually the stranger sighed and grabbed his shoulder, "You're walking too slow."

They moved their hands to Seleien's waist and started to undo his belt. They then crouched down to unlatch one of the loops from one of him ankles. They closed the loop once it was off and then looped his belt through in and tied it together. Seleien looked towards the makeshift leash and then stared at them.

They gently pulled on the belt, "Come on we don't have all night."

Seleien looked away from them, folding his arms over his chest. He rolled his eyes as soon as his face was out of sight for the stranger.

"Will I have to drag you back?" They asked.

Seleien was silent, refusing to respond. After a few seconds he could feel the stranger seize his arm, their thumb directly in his gash, and yanked him along. He cried out as they pressed in hard. He clenched his free hand into a fist and swung it towards the stranger. They let go of him to dodge and quickly punched him back, square in his face.

Seleien stumbled back from the impact, blood splattering onto the snow. The stranger was on him in seconds, shoving him onto his stomach. They straddled his hips, facing towards his legs. Seleien squirmed and made a strangled sound, choking on the blood that slipped down his throat.

The stranger grabbed onto his ankles and redid the hobbles. They then turned to face his head. They grabbed his wrists, forced them behind his back and used his belt to tie his wrists together. They got off him and pulled him upwards into a sitting position. They tightly held onto the back of his collar.

Seleien coughed and coughed until his airway was free. Blood still dripped from his nose. They stranger waited until he was done before pulling him into a standing position. They then put an arm around his waist and hoisted him onto their shoulder. Selien couldn't do much other than watch his own blood drip, drip, drip onto the snow as he was carried back to the camp.

At one point his nose eventually stopped bleeding. And soon after they reached the camp. The stranger put him down on the mat that he had been sitting on earlier. He could hear the others whispering and giggling at him in that foreign language of theirs. He could hear the stranger speaking to the others as they held onto his braided hair, not tight enough to hurt but just enough to keep him from trying to move.

Seleien watched as one of the others ran to one of the wagons and then came back carrying a small wooden case. They set it down next to him and opened it. It was filled with bandages, surgical supplies, various bottles and small tins, among other medical supplies.

They must be a medic, Seleien thought to himself as they poured some water onto a washcloth. They carefully began to clean the blood off of him face as they exchanged words with the stranger. As the medic cleaned his face, the stranger let go of his hair and started to untie his wrists. Once his wrists were free the medic stepped back so the stranger could pull his tunic and linen undershirt off. Despite being next to the fire, Seleien couldn't help but shiver.

The medic went about cleaning the gash from being shot. The bolt had gone through the skin quite cleanly nor too deep either. Once they were done with the washcloth they grabbed one of the bigger bottles from the case and opened it. They proceeded to pour some of the contents right over the gash.

Seleien gasped as it produced a burning sensation. A fresh cloth was pressed into it to soak up the excess liquid. They put the bottle away and grabbed a small tin. They opened it and took a glob of the ointment inside onto their fingers. They dabbed it onto the gash.

Seleien gritted his teeth together and squeezed his eyes shut. The medic wiped the ointment from their fingers and picked up a roll of bandages. The bandages were wrapped around his wound. It was a bit too tight for his liking but he couldn't bring himself to care enough to complain. Besides it would surely loosen on its own as he slept.

The bandages were cut, tied and put away. Gentle hands pressed on his ribs and nose, making sure they weren't broken. After they were finished Seleien was given his clothes back. He grimaced as he pulled his blood stained linen shirt over his head. He would have preferred to clean it first but he doubted his captors would even allow him to try. He put his tunic back on next, followed by his cowl and mittens.

He looked towards the stranger, who was holding his belt, "Can i have my belt back?"

They only shook their head in response.

Before Seleien could try to think of a way to convince them to give it back he felt a tap on his shoulder and he turned to face the medic.

They were offering him a small uncapped bottle, "Drink this."

Seleien hesitated before taking the bottle, "This is going to put me to sleep, isn't it?"

The medic only smiled in response, slight amusement in their eyes. Seleien stared at them for a few seconds before looking back to the bottle. He took a deeep breath and drank, gulping the contents in one go. He handed the bottle back to the medic who added the cap and pocketed the bottle. They offered their hands towards Seleien.

He took them and they pulled him to his feet. As soon as he was up, he stumbled forwards. Whatever he had drank was working fast. The medic and the stranger took his arms and started to lead him towards the wagon he had yet to enter. The stranger had a much firmer grip on his arm than the medic. At least the medic was the one holding onto his injured arm.

They got about halfway in between the wagon and the camp before Seleien's knees gave out from underneath him. The two quickly adjusted, the stranger wrapping their arms around his chest and the medic lifting his feet to carry him the rest of the way. He couldn't help but groan at the pressure on his bruised ribs.

When they reached the wagon, the medic set his feet down and opened the doors. The stranger lifted him into the back, tossed his belt in and left. Seleien watched them leave out of the corner of his eye from where he laid against the wall. He moved his attention towards the medic who took his hands in theirs, tying them together.

Selien watched them as they got in the wagon themselves. They walked towards a large, person sized chest and opened it. They walked back to him, grabbed his belt in one hand and then scooped him up. Seleien could feel his heart start to pound as they headed straight towards the chest.

He was sat down next to the chest on a crate covered with a bear pelt. From here he could see a mattress and a pillow inside the chest. The medic was removing his shoes and setting them aside when he spoke up.

"Please don't put me in there. I can just sleep here."

The medic chuckled, "There's less drafts in there then out here. And you're more secure this was."

They took a large blanket and wrapped them around his shoulders. They picked him up and began to lower him into the chest.

"Wait wait! You don't have to do this. Please don't please don't," Seleien begged and tried to grab onto their arm.

They set him down and pulled him off of them. They pushed his hands to his body and quickly wrapped the blanket tightly round to keep them there. Holding the blanket in place, they grabbed a second blanket and shook it out. They put it over him and tucked it around him.

The medic stepped away for a second to grab a wolf pelt. In those few seconds, Seleien sat up. He tried to pull himself out of the chest, but whatever he had drank was making him so weak and tired. And it didn't help that he tried to use his injured arm either. Before he could untangle himself from the blankets, the medic returned. They put the pelt over him and pushed him back down.

"I promise i wont try to run if you let me sleep somewhere else," Seleien tried to beg again.

They snorted and tossed his belt onto him, "If you hate it that much you are free to try to kill yourself. Not that you would have the strength to try."

With that they slammed the chest shut. He could hear the sound of them sitting on the top. He smacked the sides of the chest as hard as he could. he tried to push the top but it wouldn't budge. There was a clink of a key going in a keyhole, followed by a click of the chest being locked.

"Wait wait!! Let me out!!," Seleien cried as he heard the sound of them leaving.

"Good night, Seleien."

There were sounds of the medic getting out of the wagon and then the doors being shut.

"please…" Seleien said softly as he listened to them walk away.

He doubted they heard him. He sighed and laid his head down on the pillow. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying not to cry. It wasn't worth it to try to fight it. He shifted around, trying to get as comfortable as he could curled in a chest while his limbs were restrained. At least he was plenty warm. At least there was that.

#whump #oc whump #nonhuman whumpee #whumpblr #my writing #hurtcember2024 #poc whumpee #this took quite a while for me to edit #i saw the 4000+ word count and just... didnt want to edit something that long #barkingz #happy new years eve btw :)

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