This was requested by thedoodlenoodle-wa on Tumblr!
thedoodlenoodle-wa asked: Could you potentially do some gorey whumptober writing with Micah? Maybe some kind of body horror or torture 👀 Thank you so much! 💖💕💖
"Take Jack into town, if you will... I don't want him to see this."
Morgan.
Of course it had been Morgan.
It had always been Morgan.
Morgan that ruined everything. That butted in when he tried to get with the women, when he tried to talk to Dutch. That took over his plans, that butted in on his jobs.
So of course it was Morgan that ruined him.
"Bill, get the fire goin'!"
"Oh yeah!"
He'd gotten sloppy.
Doesn't know how Morgan found his camp. Must have followed him, big lumbering brute he is, and had a sniff around.
He should have put the bounty poster away, not just covered it up. Should have watched his back, covered his tracks.
"He still out?"
"Yeah,"
"Sure you didn't kill him?"
"Is everyone ready?"
"Yes."
"Then let's find out."
Something slammed into his side.
Agony.
His eyes snapped open with a yell.
Like a pack of wolves, the Van Der Lindes spread out around him in a half circle. Dutch at the place of honor right before him, Matthews at his right elbow and Morgan on his left, Marston at Morgan's elbow. The rest fanned out around them - Williamson and Escuella, Smith, Summers and MacGuire. Even Swanson was standing off to the side, huddled with Pearson, Strauss, Trelawny and the fat old man.
"Oh, good. See Hosea? I told you he was bleeding."
"Well, I'll be damned." the old man drawled, crossing his arms and glaring down at Micah and, for the first time, Micah found himself thoroughly afraid of him.
"Dutch?" he struggled to meet Van Der Linde's gaze, but he was swaying slowly through the air, the slightest breeze enough to set him to moving, and tried not to vomit.
How long he'd been out, he didn't know. Long enough that all the blood had rushed to his head, that his head had taken to throbbing, a painful pulse heavy behind his eyes.
"Glad to have you join us, Mr. Bell."
Micah had always heard stories of Dutch Van Der Linde. Of his cruelties, of the monstrosities he'd committed. But he'd found them to be, for the most part, hot air. The man was soft, a bleeding heart. Let women laze around, even permitted one of them to keep her bastard in camp.
Looking at Van Der Linde then, though, he could see every bit the monster the man was purported to be. Eyes that gleamed as a beetle's shell, lips curled up with cruelty.
Micah was not a cowardly man, but his heart beat just that little bit faster.
"Dutch, buddy, what's goin' on here?" his tongue darted out, licking his lips, and his eyes followed to look at each member in turn. All of their eyes were just as hard, glaring at him as though he'd just insulted their mothers to their faces.
"You shouldn't play stupid, Mr. Bell. It's not a good look on you." Van Der Linde purred, sounding like some sort of content big cat though his face was lined deep with anger.
"Dutch, honest!" he tried, breathing quicker, "Whatever you think, I assure you, it's all a misunderstanding!"
Van Der Linde raised his eyebrows, reaching into his jacket and pulling out a handful of photographs, flipping them upside down before showing one to him,
Van Der Linde's bounty poster on his cot, next to one of his jackets
"Dutch, Dutch come on, I just pulled it down so people don't recognize ya!" really, all this fuss over a bounty poster? What the hell was going on?
His head throbbed—
A body tackling him to the ground
Fists flying
"Get 'im Arthur!"
His head being slammed into the ground, over and over
—"Pray tell, Mr. Bell, how you will explain this?" Micah squinted at the photograph shoved beneath his nose, felt the purpling flush of his face go white,
Milton, handing him a money clip
"I-I," he licked his lips, how the hell could he talk his way out of this? "I was tryin' to get an in, Dutch! They've been findin' us so easy lately, I was thinkin', you know, if I could get cozy with them then I could know when they'd be close to findin' us!"
Van Der Linde's eyebrows rose to vanish into his hairline, and he looked from gang member to gang member, none of whom looked particularly moved by his story. One by one, as his eyes landed on them, they shook their heads, and Micah was sure he'd never be able to breathe normally again with how quickly he was gasping for breath.
"You know, Mr. Bell, my opinion on traitors,"
"I was tryin' to help us!" he gasped, shaking his head, "I ain't a traitor Dutch!"
"I know, Mr. Bell. You're a survivor." he looked over his shoulder, gestured to the old man, Trelawny, Pearson and Swanson, "If you would get him down," and Micah began to thrash, to fight against his bindings, frantically enough that leaves dumped down on their heads.
Stars burst in his eyes as Pearson struck him as hard as he could and then, for good measure, a second time. The cook held him in place as Trelawny undid the ropes binding him, tossing them to the side, Swanson helping Pearson move him down and to the ground, pinning him to the tree, Uncle manipulating his arms as the magician wrapped the ropes Grimshaw handed him around Micah's wrists over and over until he was very well bound.
"Miss Gaskill, would you care to do the honors?"
Micah chuckled, slurred and slow, Mary-Beth? She couldn't hurt a mouse - and he'd know, he'd had to kill one up in Colter to get her to shut up.
He met her eyes as she stood in front of him - blue on blue - and sputtered out, "Well?" and if his arms weren't bound he'd have spread them wide in invitation.
And then he was screaming, only the tree he was bound to keeping him from curling in on himself as she brought up the red-hot poker and, in a stuttering, fancy script, carved an R into his chest. "Miss Gaskill," Van Der Linde held up his hand and she paused, the poker so close to his chest that he could feel the heat of it, "Miss Jackson, if you would?" and his world went white as she carved a jagged A beside it, pressing as hard as she could, passing it off to Jones at Dutch's prompting, the woman's T plain and straight, vision clear for the first time in a while. She stepped back, meeting his glare with a nasty grin, passing the poker back to Bill who carefully set it into the fire.
Matthews clapped once, and the gang looked at him like a pack of dogs to their master, "Everyone, unfortunately you won't all get a turn," there were cries of disdain, and Micah spat his defiance on the ground, "but we will try our best to let you all at least get your pound of flesh. Now," he turned to Escuella, the man perking up, "Javier, if you would make sure he can't run if he gets loose?"
A grin flashed the man's teeth, and he nodded "Of course Hosea," stepping forward and looking Micah over appraisingly.
"Alright! Everyone, please leave Javier to his work. You're welcome to watch, just don't crowd him," and there was disappointed groaning but no one dared to argue with Dutch so the gang dispersed, calls of "Good luck!" and "Have fun!" sending a chill down Micah's spine.
"Javier, come on, help me out here," Micah croaked, meeting the Mexican's eyes, "We're brothers, ain't we?"
The man froze, looked up at him with his knife, for once, unmoving in his hands. "Brothers, Micah, don't sell each other out for a few dollars," and with that, he stepped behind him and out of sight, though not for lack of trying, as Micah twisted, tried to look back at him and found he could see nothing but tree bark.
A hand grasped one of his - his gun hand, forced his trigger finger loose of his fist - then pain, shooting pain, screaming oh that's him make it stop please God and his fingernail popped off and disappeared into the grass.
"You know Micah," Escuella said over his gasping, "I was a revolutionary, back in Mexico. A few times we had traitors, rats that tried to give up and go back. This is what we did to them so they couldn't help the military." Micah couldn't help his sob as the man slid his knife under his nail, burning shooting up his arm, and then he was screaming to the sound of the man humming, prying back and up and pop it dropped into the grass.
"De la Sierra Morena. Cielito lindo, vienen bajando," he sang under his breath, three, four, five, and Micah was left to slump against the ropes. Escuella chuckled, wiping his knife on the man's pants before patting his shoulder, "Eh amigo, it's not that bad is it, just fifteen more."
Micah choked, and fought weakly against his ropes, but was helpless to do anything as Escuella pried one, two, three, four, five to the soft humming of Cielito Lindo.
"Halfway done Micah," Escuella patted his shoulder as he left his hand to dangle, blood dripping from his nail beds, wrinkling his nose at the red staining on his knife and wiping it clean on Micah's dirtied pants. "You're doing very well," he soothed, as though Micah were Jack the one time he'd fallen and scratched himself so badly he'd had to be stitched up.
Escuella took a knee, and Micah's heart leaped into his throat. Oh god. "No," he groaned and, when the man grabbed his foot, began to kick as hard as he could, digging in his heels and flailing hard enough that the bark of the tree scraped his back raw, "No! No! No!" and Escuella scowled, ducking back and out of the way.
"Hey Arthur! Can you give me a hand here?" he called over his shoulder, and the man was more than happy to, dropping the sack of grain he'd been carrying and jogging over, looking at Micah in a way that showcased every ounce the monster he was said to be.
Morgan knelt, grabbing one of his flailing legs and shoving him against the tree until he couldn't move, grunting when the heel of his other boot caught him in the jaw. "Marston!" he barked, the younger man hurrying over with a laugh, getting glared at in return. It was nothing for him to pin Micah's other leg, the man gasping breathless "no"s as he tried to free his legs.
Marston and Morgan, though, had a solid grip, and so it was nothing for Escuella to tug off his boot and send it thudding into the dirt. "Just ten more," he reassured, getting a grip on Micah's foot as though he were shoeing a horse before jamming his knife beneath his big toenail and crnk! off it came and if he'd thought his fingernails had hurt they'd been downright pleasurable comparable to his toenail and as Escuella kept going two, three, four, five it only got worse, and by the time Escuella left his foot to dangle in Morgan's grip he was sobbing, all fight gone out of him.
Escuella eyed him critically before nodding at Marston and Morgan, "Thanks John, Arthur, I think I've got it from here," and Marston smirked while Morgan tipped his hat, the former slinking off to sit at the campfire and watch while the latter went back to his chores.
One, two, three and Micah vomited. Escuella grimaced as he leaned back to avoid the mess, waiting for him to stop retching before, without acknowledging the fit, finished off four, five, wiping off his knife on a clean spot on Micah's bloodied pants. "There, see? Not that bad, was it?"
Putting weight on his feet was agony, just the slightest touch to his toes sent tongues of flames lashing through his feet, up his legs, until his vision went white. He couldn't even make a sound, couldn't cry out, couldn't manage even tears, could only gasp for breath and try desperately to keep his weight on his heels.
The pain grew, and grew, and grew, burning shooting through his body until, with a laugh, Javier struck him across the back of his head and he lurched forward, took all his weight on his toes, saw white, and passed out.
"Tongs ready?"
"Yes Dutch!"
Micah roused, barely, as his pants were jerked down and off, his legs grabbed and pulled apart, barely managing a whine as too much weight was put on his toes, his wounds tugged on, any clotting torn loose and made to bleed anew. He forced his eyes open, just barely able to make out something glowing white, a heat he could feel between his legs, and then there was a hand grasping his penis and testicles and he made an undignified squeaking sound, tried to pull away but was well bound and too weak and
Agony
Burning
"...used to be the most happiest and most loyal of courtiers…"
Screaming
Van Der Linde chuckled, waved his severed genitals for everyone to see to raucous laughter, before tossing it to the dirt at Micah's feet, the man staring unblinkingly at nothing, choking on air. "He bleedin'?" he asked Williamson, who shook his head,
"Naw, it burned shut beautifully. Need to put a needle in or it'll heal over and his bladder'll explode."
If Micah were able to see then, he'd have seen Van Der Linde losing some color even as a grin curled over his lips, just barely flashing his teeth, "No, no need to worry about that." he tilted his head to look to the side at
"Mr. Summers, Mr. Smith, if you'd kindly."
"Yes boss!"
"Yes Dutch!"
'Bootlickers,'
Smith got a good grip on his ankles as Summers bound them with a rope, cinching them so tight his feet began to rapidly go white from lack of blood flow, MacGuire walking behind him to slice through the ropes binding him to the tree, Summers slinging the one on his ankle up and over the thickest branch, Grimshaw grabbing it and, with Roberts' help, strung him up so his head was only a few inches off the ground, blood rushing to it in moments, passing the rope off to MacGuire and Summers who quickly wrapped it around the trunk, carefully tying it tight.
"Is he ready?" Matthews asked and, as Micah blinked, squinting against the throbbing setting in behind his eyes, he could just barely make out a knife in the old man's hands—
His heart dropped into his throat, leaping in time with the throbbing in his head, racing faster and faster as he croaked, trying to plea Van Der Linde's name, to beg forgiveness, maybe, to beg for his life, to beg to be set free, to swear that he'd run and run and run and never look back if only they'd let him go but he couldn't manage more than a wheeze
—at a chorus of confirmations, the gang spread out before him - the women clustered together, Grimshaw slightly in front as though to protect them, Trelawny, Pearson, Strauss and the old fat man together, and the rest fanned out as they'd been in the beginning. He panted, wall-eyed, looking at each one desperately 'help me, please, help me!' but there was no sympathy there, only hard eyes and gleeful cruelty, to them he was getting what he deserved and this pain was well-earned.
Matthews stepped forward, bringing up his knife and trailing it down the line of hair that ran from his navel, finally stopping just above the burned stub where his genitals used to be. Pressed down just enough that blood welled in the dip he'd made, and nodded. Van Der Linde stepped up, grasping the knife handle along with Matthews and, together, they began to push it into his stomach, the knife parting the skin like a hot blade through butter. Kept pushing until they felt the slight push-back, then give, of the connective tissue, Micah only able to choke on a gasp, before releasing the handle to get a better grip.
Then it was a simple matter of sawing a straight line down, along the line of hair, through the pouch of his stomach and the middle of his rib-cage, stopping just below his collarbone and pulling out the bloodied knife, Van Der Linde wiping it on his handkerchief and turning to pass the cloth to Strauss, who wrinkled his nose and threw it into the campfire.
The wound gave and split wide, Micah's innards tearing free and spilling to the ground in a heap, steaming in the chilled air.
The man didn't make a sound.