TW: Torture, sexual assault – read more under your own risk.
Blue grey eyes were wide in panic as he made another last ditch attempt to dig his heels in, breath coming in short sharp pants that misted out in front of him in the frigid air. The firm hand propelling him forward with a steel grip on the back of his neck though was one that not even he could fight. His tanned skin was pimpled with goose flesh from the cold. He glanced around again before hissing at the feel of rough rope settling around his neck.
His captor was humming Wagner, and as the rope tightened cutting into his neck he had to give in his rebellion, he had no way of forcing the rope loose, equally rough rope was fastening his arms behind his neck. A sharp tug had him stumbling forward dropping to his knees and finding himself dragged on the cold concrete, a terrified yelp escaping his lips unwittingly.
God, I’ve fucked up…. I’m gonna die here…. Not going to make it out alive. Think Ivarr. Think. Can’t give away information…. His thoughts were haphazard as he tried to prepare himself for the inevitable torture ahead of him. He was still trying to find some way of escape, sure his team wouldn’t come back to get him out. God… Tchaikosky now… is he going to destroy everything? He couldn’t help the sudden laugh that broke loose. He was imagining the tall intimidating Russian dancing swan lake, even as he regretted it. Another tug sent him sprawling back onto the floor, and he tasted the copper taste of blood as he bit his own lip.
His shivering increased as he was dragged by the impromptu leash to his feet, trembling more as he found a hood thrown over his head. Nostrils crinkled at the musty damp smell as his world was thrown into, if not quite darkness, a strange dark brown shade, only able to see the rough texture of the sack. Then the tug of the rope increased and he had to follow its guidance, feeling the instability of the stool beneath him, the pressure on his neck only increasing as he felt it guide him up onto his toes.
Fuck…. Gonna die….. he felt the warmth of fluid trickling down his thigh as he lost control of his bladder. Even if the idea of death was preferable to an extended torture, legs already trembling from the stress of having to remain on his toes to try and keep his airway open. He turned his head unconsciously as he could hear the Russian moving about, still jumping and regretting it as he almost dislodged the stool from under him, feeling the fabric of clothing pressed against his naked flesh, swallowing.
“Just think if you hadn’t been a failure, if you hadn’t missed the shot… you’d not be in this situation… you failure,” the voice was heavily accented with Russian, but he could hear the sneer.
He bit his lip, refusing to sob, even as the words cut deep. It was his fault. He’d missed, that was all his fault. If he’d not failed.