The caregiver flinches with the sound of each impact, eyes wide.
“How many times do I have to say it?” The captor asks, fist furled and reeled back. The next crash of knuckles against the whumpee’s face draws another frightened sound out of them. “You struggle,” punch, “you try to break free,” punch, “I hurt you. No, no, come back here.”
The caregiver can only watch as the whumpee’s ankle is grabbed and they’re dragged back, feeble attempts to escape the beating easily overpowered. The glaring at their captor, the bargaining for the whumpee to be shown mercy, it’s all died out by now. There’s no stopping this. They can only watch.
I’m sorry I haven’t really been posting as much as I’d like, I’m not a very fast writer and I’ve been hella busy. The good news is that I already have a big chunk of the next chapter done, so all is going well! Hope you guys enjoy this new installment!
CW: modern slavery, dehumanization, implied child abuse (never described),
Small hands cupped Luca’s face, warm in contrast to his icy cold skin. He struggled to open his eyes, every muscle in his body aching from the hunched over position he was stuck in, curled up in the cage.
“-ease, Luca, please. Wake up.”
The voice was small and anxious, and it sounded so far away. Luca opened his eyes obediently, seeing Marcus crouched in front of him, shaking him lightly. He couldn’t see well in the dark lighting, Marcus mostly a silhouette, but nonetheless he could see the bruises.
Characters: Hero, Villain
Trigger Warnings: Gore; broken bones, injures.
Notes/ Links: Hi! Thank you for your request, I hope this was worth the wait
— — —
“Please! Stop it!” The hero yelled, pulling their sidekick away by their torso. Knocking away the bloody bat Sidekick had in hand, the hero stared straight into their eyes, lost and pained with a cacophony of horror and grieve. The madness and rage in their sidekick’s pale blue eyes, the tremor in their hand, it only tore the hero’s heart apart. “Stop,” they cried, holding onto their bloodied hands, hands that only brushed away theirs.
The sidekick left, their angry loud footsteps fading away in the distance as their last words rang loud in the hero’s ears.
The villain sank back, curling up as much as their body would allow them in their chains. Their broken ribs screaming with each breath, every movement; a fiery step closer to what seemed like death. Keeping their chained wrists close to their aching chest, the villain kept their head down, unable to master the strength to meet the hero’s eyes. Those pity filled eyes, that sad, miserable expression; the villain hated it. It was the last thing they ever wanted. Pity.
Still, the villain did little to resist the hero’s gentle hold of them. Instead, they leaned in, grateful for any form of comfort available. It hurt so much, their body so heavy and worn out- it was as if they had been tied to a boulder and had been left to tumble down a rocky hill. Languidly, the villain’s eyelids drooped, unable to fight back the exhaustion any longer. Within a minute, they had fallen into the restless darkness.
The shadows, ghosts of the past.
Voices; screams and pleas.
Eyes glaring, some taunting.
Plea- please… Please s- s- st- stop… Plea… se…
The villain whimpered in their sleep, tossing and turning on sheets that they hadn’t even realised that they were on. With hitched breaths, they begged for mercy, choked out apologies. Please just stop! It hurts, it hurts! Please- I- I can’t-
“Why won’t you love me?!”
“Som- someone like you,” the whumpee coughed, blood trickling down from their lips. They held their injured caregiver close. “Some- someone like you- you would ne- never understand love.”
It began, and ended, with Jim opening the front door.
The face was a swollen mass of bruises and welts. Nose and mouth were both thick with blood. Matted hair betrayed more black and crusted patches, seeping down the back of a red and chafing neck.
But Jim knew the eyes.
One slow, painful blink, and there was the faint hint of a nod before Ty fell forwards, and Jim caught him in waiting arms. Ty was so far gone, there was no instinctual stiffening in his spine, no uneasy noise, at the contact. In fact, he seemed to collapse into it fully, resting against Jim’s front the way he’d used to – in the way he only did now when he was absolutely shattered.
“Gonna lift you, okay?” Jim murmured, bending his legs to carefully shift Ty’s weight into his arms. “I’ve got you, love, you’re safe now.”
He carried Ty to the sofa, a safer place than the bed when the past was close to the surface. He found Ty’s blanket, pristine, and draped it alongside him, within easy reach.
Ty’s fingers were twisting around the hem of a thin white shirt. Through the fabric, Jim could see more bruises, clustered thickly around his ribs. He headed to the kitchen for supplies, and he hurried.
Antiseptic, cream, gauze, and ice packs. He could do first-aid without touching by now. Tenderly, he covered the open marks, used warm water to clear the dried blood, and laid the ice packs over Ty’s ribs. Ty’s only response was a faint, high whine at the pressure.
“I love you,” Jim sighed, settling down on the floor beside him, fingers weaving into the blanket and tucking it closer against his husband’s cheek and neck. “I was so scared. You came back, love, again. I’m so proud of you.”
Ty seemed to be looking in his direction, unfocused. Pain pushed everything else under.
“I met the Butler. He’s alright, isn’t he? He’s living with Bibi, would you believe it? She says they get on quite well. She taught him her chapatti recipe last week. He folded all of her scarves and sorted them by colour.”
It would be so easy to reach out right now and touch Ty’s cheek. To trace the curve of it down to his jaw, and feel the skin under his fingertips. It was an old, deep ache, that he couldn’t.
“Oh, I’m talking to AJ again. He’s been really good actually. Not perfect, but he catches himself, and he always apologises. Less pushy now, and less…intense, but still cares. I think he might have some stuff that made him quick to jump to conclusions, personal things, y’know?”
Why had he turned it into a question? Ty didn’t respond. He blinked, slowly.
Jim rested his head against the arm of the sofa, trying to smile. “It’s been two months, Ty. I couldn’t help but count this time. Daveed got here before you and we waited and worried and – and here you are, and you’re not even – you’re not here, are you?”
Blink. The eyes seemed to be on him, now.
“You’re in the clean room.” Jim sighed quietly. “But you’ll find your way out. I know you will.”
I wish I could kiss you awake like in the fairytales, my love.
He took a deep breath, wiped his eyes, and pushed his hands into his knees to get to his feet. Ty’s head turned to follow the movement, and his heart nearly burst.
One more breath, to steady his voice. He could do this.
“Okay. I’ll go heat up some soup.”
Honor bound - 63 (it’s all my fault) - @badthingshappenbingo
Red X is for posted, white X is for requested.
Cw: blood, mention of death
The guard guided Vera and Tori through the winding hallways of the hospital. If Vera had to guess, it had once been an office building. Now there were x-ray apparatus along the walls, big rolling cabinets full of medical supplies strewn about, beds pushed into every available space. Every bed held at least one person. Vera shuddered and looked straight ahead. This is a war we’re fighting.
Tori was tucked securely under Vera’s arm. She was doing her best to walk upright, to conceal how badly she was hurt. She was trying so hard to breathe without wheezing, to pretend the sweat that beaded on her brow wasn’t there. She sagged against Vera’s side and prayed she wouldn’t notice.
She did. She pulled Tori closer, winding her arm under Tori’s shoulders and pulling her a little more upright. She tripped and stumbled into Vera’s grasp. Vera paused and searched her face, concern darkening her eyes. “You alright?”
Tori nodded weakly. “Just…need to sit down. Let’s get to them. Then I’ll sit down.”
Vera nodded and started moving again.
“Ple- please,” the whumpee begged, their eyes shimmering with pain filled tears. “Please, Sir… Please let- let them go.”
The whumper pouted, thinking for a moment. Their fingers casually running through the beaten and defeated caregiver’s hair. “I think not,” they finally responded, chuckling. “This is fun.”
“Again.” X said, arms folded across their chest. Y jumped back to their feet and sank into position to fight, again. This time, three fighters approached. Y whirled to block the first strike.
Within a minute, Y was back on the ground, several new bruises to add to their collection.
anders is @whump-sprite‘s oc! also, content warning for broken bones.
When Anders spins on his heel as if the pain of it doesn’t register, when his fist comes flying to slam into Lux’s gut, it’s a surprise. It makes Lux’s brain fritz and scramble for an explanation. The nausea that comes with the punch to the gut is half shock at the fact that he didn’t expect this in his usual low-grade paranoia type of anxiety. He’s started to think that friends are safe, like he’s learning that his home is safe, and his boyfriend, and even using his magic, sometimes. Being with Anders is supposed to be safe - he knew it was dangerous to come to trust that, but he did it anyway, and now it hurts.
“And-der-,” He stammers, the end of the name caught up in the oof sound made by the air forced out of his lungs. Another punch to the gut. It’s so rapid-fire, so eager, that he registers his head snapping to the side and pain blooming in his head before he understands the fist that was aimed at his face a second ago.
Magic blooms in his hands. Not only did he - does he - trust that he’s safe with his friend, but he wants to fight back, wants to let his magic lash out. He can fight, he’s not a coward, not a victim.
Lux shoves a hand forward, lets his magic protect him, and it sends Anders stumbling back. Emory is watching, frozen, clearly just as shocked as Lux is and even more powerless, without magic. Lux is going to prove to Em that he deserves all those nights spent in his arms shaking and crying only to be told he’s brave, he’s strong, he deserves better. Lux can be those things.
It’s been days, he thinks. Maybe. There’s something in the wall that hisses open at some interval and drops a meal bar into his cell - he won’t call it a cubby, it’s a cell and he’s a prisoner - but after the first few times it all muddled together and he lost count of how many there have been. He’s always hungry anyway.
He wonders if it’s a machine feeding him, or if some handler walks down a row of cells, tossing food in to the Paths inside like they’re animals, caged in a pound.
He realizes he’s sitting curled up in a corner, pressing himself into a wall on each side, and makes himself unfold. He’s not scared. He’s going to beat this, he’ll come out of here as himself, not as some quiet, terrified Path.
Sitting in the open makes him flinchy, though, when imagined noises, conjured by his brain to combat the dead silence of the padded cell, tap against his senses. Ezra gets up, paces back and forth until he’s tired, and then leans his head against the wall and screams. He’s here, he exists, he’s going to make it through this.
The door hisses open, and Ezra jerks away, hating the overpowering fear that’s becoming instinctive at that sound.
“Fuc–gkkh-” the taser hits him first, dropping him to flop and seize on the ground as electricity jolts through his body. He can’t breathe, can’t break away from it.
Boots come next, the moment the taser shuts off, kicking him against the wall, and then nightsticks, cracking across his body, and Ezra tries to get spasming, uncooperative arms up around his head, or curl his legs up to protect his torso, but the aftereffects of the electricity coursing through his system makes moving beyond his body’s jerking response to the beating a treacherous, monumental endeavor.
They don’t speak. The only sounds are Ezra; Ezra’s body, receiving the thuds of nightsticks and boots against him, and Ezra’s sounds, stifled at first but increasingly, openly broken as he gasps for air and perhaps mercy.
When he’s sobbing, pressed into a corner and flinching preemptively at the scuff of their boots on the padded floor, they leave, as abruptly as they came, and he is alone. Maybe. For a long time he just hurts, breathes through his clogged nose and dry throat and aching chest, and tries not to move.
His blindfold is damp against his eyelids. That, somehow, is harder than the twitching in his hands and the throbbing swell of his bruises. They made him cry, and saw him cry, and they’re probably laughing about it right now, at the stupid Path who won’t just shut up and behave.
He pushes himself up with a flare of hot anger, but it breaks across hotter pain and Ezra slumps forward again, cradling what he’s pretty sure is a cracked rib with a noise better suited to a wounded animal than to a human. The padded floor catches his head, and this time Ezra doesn’t try to get up.
He’s here. He exists. And he’s not sure he can make it through this.