used as a literal punching bag from the torture bingo card for whoever you’d like
Card by @a-crumb-of-whump!!
Content: Well—being used as a punching bag, broken bones, emeto, prison whump, sadistic whumper, and generally a guy having Despair.
Tagging: @whump-queen @whump-in-the-closet @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @onlywhump
—
Thud.
The chess board clattered as it landed on the cold tile. From the farthest corner of the cell, Ciel watched intently as the guard got down on their knees in front of the board. And still they were looking down at him—Ciel could barely get off the floor in his state. His ankle was definitely sprained, and it ached terribly—a fact that hadn't convinced anyone to give him a break. Not to mention the bruises over bruises, scars over scars.
He was so tired.
The guard stared back at him with a barely concealed smirk, a taunting glare in their eyes. They gestured to the board as if it was a friendly invitation to play.
With no real choice, Ciel crawled to the edge of the chess board, the chain around his good ankle clanking as he did so. There was no getting out of this. He'd play, or he'd suffer for refusing.
He always got first move. The guard treated it like it was some sort of mercy—and maybe it had been, a long time ago.
I'm giving you a chance. Be grateful for it.
He tried to smile like he was.
Either way, the game always ended the same. It ended with blood and tears and words like I’m sorry, I'm sorry, don't hurt me, please— falling from his lips.
The best Ciel could do was stall for time, use every move to prolong the game. And maybe, maybe he'd spend a few minutes in a little less pain than he usually was. Maybe, maybe, something would happen and they wouldn't finish and he'd get to avoid the end for just one day.
But it never happened. The final move would always be made. Someone would checkmate, and the game would end.
The guard was an incredibly tough opponent, and it had taken Ciel countless games to finally capture their king. He almost cried that first time he won, because he'd thought that maybe this time, maybe, just maybe—he'd finally be safe.
And then he saw the flash of anger and felt the first blow.
That's when he learned that everything was futile.
It didn't matter who won this time either.
The guard locked cuffs around his wrists, attached a chain to the ceiling, and pulled him up and up—his shoulders stretching more than he could bear, his toes barely touching the floor.
They circled him like a hungry hawk surveying its prey. Ciel closed his eyes and bit on his lip until blood dripped down his chin.
Please just get it over with.
The blows didn't hurt that much compared to the despair. Even as his ribs cracked. As the fists to his stomach made him vomit. As his voice gave out from the screaming.
It didn't hurt as much as knowing next week, it'd happen all over again.
There was no escaping this hell.
—
A/N: hehehe sad chess man go brrr
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