Tumgik
#beating tw
Whumpee shaking in their chains, bracing themself as well as they could muster as the whip fell again and again. Their back was in shreds, engulfed in pain that only seemed to grow and grow.
When whumper came to release their chains whumpee sobbed. Finally, finally, it was over.
But it wasn’t.
Whumper wasn’t taking them down, oh no, they hadn’t earned that yet.
No, whumper was simply adjusting them. Turning them. Preparing the skin on their chest and stomach for the last.
And somehow, that made the next strike even worse.
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Hand in Hand (part three)
@whumptober No. 8 "It's all for nothing."
cw: violence/beating
previous ///// au masterlist ///// next
~ ~ ~
Dan is awake long before the cell door swings open. The only way he could sleep with even a little comfort was sitting up, back pressed into the wall, and now he's stiff all over. He can't imagine how Wes feels. His arms must be dead from the partial suspension, shoulders aching, legs well-past being asleep. If he begs Swift, will she at least loosen the chains enough for him to lie down? He's willing to try.
But it isn't Swift who steps inside. It's a pair of Riot Kings. Both are wearing masks. Pointlessly; he knows who they are, but maybe it's in an effort to make themselves feel better about this. They must feel at least some kind of shame, right?
"Peres. Sawyer," he says. "What can I do for you gentlemen?" One of them, Sawyer, freezes in place as he's named, but Peres is undeterred.
"Swift wanted another demonstration with him," he says, jabbing a thumb in Wes's direction. "But I figured we'd offer you a deal."
A deal? Dan doubts it's anything good, but if they feel guilty enough to try and hide behind masks, maybe they still have the decency to not want to hurt Wes. "What sort of deal?" he says.
Peres lays a hand on his shoulder. "I'm gonna unchain you, and I'm gonna beat the shit outta you."
Dan makes an effort to hold still, not letting his apprehension cross his face. "Doesn't sound like the kind of deal I usually make."
He's expecting the backhanded blow Peres deals him, but it still stings. Behind him, there's the clank of metal-on-metal as Wes throws himself against his chains.
"Fucking traitor! Leave him alone!"
Peres rolls his eyes and gestures to Sawyer, who's quick to gag Wes. Dan regretfully agrees with the decision. It's probably for the best if Wes is unable to piss these guys off.
"You didn't let me finish," Peres says. "I'm gonna beat the shit out of you. If you can take it, if you don't try to run or fight back, we'll leave him alone this time. Got it?"
Dan closes his eyes with a grimace. This will be fun. "Got it," he says flatly.
He sits perfectly still as Peres unlocks the cuffs, hands in his lap, flattened to keep him from clutching at the fabric of his pants. Even now, he needs to look stronger than he is. That's how it's always been, and he refuses to let his own mask slip now.
Dan knows he'd stand a chance against the pair, even aching and exhausted, even outnumbered. He can wait until the chains are gone, strike when neither are expecting it, and win. He could free himself and Wes.
But why unchain him at all when they could get the same result without the risk? If they want to hurt him, why not tie his hands behind his back so there's nothing he can do? Maybe they want him to try and escape, maybe they're expecting it. Maybe that's how they plan on justifying hurting Wes more, and insisting he's to blame for it.
Dan isn't about to risk it. As long as he's in this cell, surrounded by his former allies, he's powerless to stop them from hurting him, from hurting Wes. All he can do is take what he's offered and---
A fist collides with his stomach and he doubles over with a grunt. He doesn't even have time to catch his breath before it's followed by two more. Cheek, chin. Powerful enough to daze him.
"Stand up."
Dan does, getting his hands under him then carefully pushing to his feet. He doesn't stay up for long before Peres hits him in the stomach again.
Can he even block it? Move his body in such a way that he takes the least amount of damage? Or will they count it as fighting back?
"Hold him up." This is directed at Sawyer, who quickly moves behind Dan, grabbing his arms and keeping him steady.
It's all he can do to keep breathing as Peres whales on his torso, punch after punch, sharp and rapid, until Peres is panting and Dan is retching.
The other man grabs him by the shoulders and jams his knee into Dan's sternum, then lets him go. Dan doesn't even try to break his fall, just tries to keep his chin tucked as the men above him kick at his back and ribs and legs.
Beyond the blood rushing in his ears, beyond the pain the crashes down on him like a wave, threatening to completely overwhelm him, he can hear Wes's frantic shouts, muffled by the gag.
Peres---or maybe Sawyer, he can't tell anymore---gives one final kick to his stomach, and Dan cries out.
"Stand up."
He tries, but it hurts to breathe, and he can't figure out how to get his legs beneath him.
"Stand. Up."
Wes screams through the gag again, and Dan knows he has no choice. It's tedious work. A palm first, an elbow over it. A knee on the ground, and then he's slowly pushing himself up, swaying on his feet.
Peres punches him square in the jaw, and he's on his back, staring at the ceiling in a daze. One of the men above him grabs him by the hair and drags him back to the wall, locking the manacles back in place. It takes a tremendous effort to sit up, to ease the strain on his shoulders, and once he does, he can't keep his head up.
"I'm surprised you actually held out," Peres mutters, then nods to Sawyer. "Grab the cattle prod."
Dan shudders. Aren't they done? But through half-closed eyes, he sees Sawyer closing in not on him, but on Wes.
He sits up, wincing. "Y-you said--"
"I didn't think you'd make it," Peres says. "And I'm not about to go against orders from Swift."
~ ~ ~
@kira-the-whump-enthusiast
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adrift-in-thyme · 6 months
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Whumptober Day 7: Alleyway
Read on Ao3
- Warriors & Hyrule
- Summary: a group of ex-soldiers corner Warriors in an alleyway
CW for blood and injury, a character getting beaten, drugging, and vomiting
——————————————-
The laughter is deafening.
Warriors winces as it echoes in his head, increasing the incessant pound to a fever pitch. The lights of Castle Town certainly aren’t helping either. They are especially bright tonight. They bleed through the slits of his swollen eyes, blinding him, piercing his skull like shards of glass.
“Getting tired yet?”
A foot connects with his jaw. The crunch of breaking bones sounds in time with the annunciation of the last taunting word.
His head snaps back. Blood fills his mouth. Stars crackle before his eyes and a nauseating rush of heat zips up his spine, cascading through the back of his neck and head. He has already been sick – the disgusting stuff is splattered upon the cobblestones before him – but he’s dreadfully certain he’s going to do so again.
He’s an idiot, he decides, running his tongue over teeth coated in blood. Waltzing about Castle Town at night. Anyone else’s might’ve been fine, but his? He knows better.
Or he should.
But he should also know better than to do what he does next.
Lifting a head heavy with pain and the strange fuzziness of near unconsciousness, he grins. The faces of his assailants waver before his eyes, so blurry he can hardly make out their features.
“Nope,” he slurs. “Why…y’ guys gettin tired?”
One of them – the largest from what he can see – grasps the front of his scarf and hauls him upward. The ground tips as Warriors’ feet leave it and his stomach somersaults.
The man leans in, breath hot and rancid with the scent of cheap alcohol.
“Still smirkin, are ya? Well, we’ll fix that attitude right up. You’ll be cryin like a babe by the time we’re done with you.”
A chorus of agreement erupts from behind him and the man grins, leeringly. Warriors has a split second to brace himself before he reels back and hurls him at the stone wall of the alleyway. He hits the ground with a dull thud. Pain explodes so abruptly that it takes his breath away. For a moment he can only lie there, bracing himself on trembling arms, struggling against the wave of darkness that tries to drag him away.
“Who’s laughin now?”
A boot connects with his side and Warriors topples sideways. There had been a time, not so long ago, when he had tried to evade their kicks and punches. At the start of all this, he had even fought back. But whatever they had slipped into his drink had been strong. Even the little bit he had ingested before realizing his mistake was enough to make the world hazy and his steps unsteady. And once they had managed to corner him, that had been the end of it.
His sword is long gone now, flown somewhere out of sight and reach. His shield has disappeared along with it. He only has his battered limbs for protection, as the blows rain down faster than he can predict them.
A fist connects with his abdomen and he chokes on a mouthful of blood. The dark liquid colors the path before him, spreading like spilled paint.
“Look at you. Captain of the Royal Army. Hero.”
Another hit, this one knocking his head against the alleyway wall. His protesting stomach finally clenches. Warriors gags, tasting iron and bile.
“Hah! Murderer’s more like it!”
“You think you can cause an entire war and then walk around like you own the world?”
A hand fists in his hair, yanking him upward. Warriors slumps in their agonizing grip. The edges of his vision are tinged with gray now. His breath rattled in his chest, every inhale like drawing air beneath the water.
Punctured lung, more than likely, he thinks, dazedly. Oh, joy.
A laugh bubbles up in him at the thought, born of the remnant of drugs still coursing through his veins, the wounds making him dangerously dizzy. He chokes on it as it erupts. The hoarse sound is hardly recognizable for what it is. But they recognize it anyway.
“You little…”
He blinks and his vision clears just enough that he can make out a pair of fury-filled eyes.
Another chuckle hiccups out of him.
“Still not crying.”
His attacker flings him down so hard his teeth clack together. If his tongue was an inch closer to them, he would have bit it off.
He’s making a bad situation worse — he knows that. But in this light-headed, pain-drunk state, he can’t bring himself to really care.
Still, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t tense, preparing himself for the next, dreaded hit.
…the hit that never comes.
Instead, a new voice joins the jumble of taunting truths.
“Hey! Get off him!”
That horrible laughter bounces around in his skull again and Warriors grits his teeth against the pain of it.
“Oh, lookit that. There’s another one! What’d you think boys? We can take him, right?”
The newcomer doesn’t answer. There is the muffled pounding of feet at a run, then a grunt of pain. Someone hits the ground beside him so heavily that Warriors is certain it shakes.
The telltale noises of a fight erupt – groans and grunts and the sound of bone connecting with flesh.
Slowly, he raises his head. It’s difficult to see past the static prickling before his eyes, but he can just make out the shadowy forms of his assailants and the small body weaving skillfully in and out from between them. And though he can’t be completely certain – not in this state of near-consciousness – he can’t help thinking that the person looks an awful lot like…
“Rulie?”
It’s a hoarse croak and nothing more. He dares not raise his voice too loud, dares not hope someone has truly come to his aid. But then, between one agonized breath and the next, he finds himself staring up into the familiar face of the traveler.
“It’s okay,” he says, a bit breathless. Blood dribbles down from his bottom lip and nose. He wipes briskly at the dark stream as he reaches into his pouch. “I’m here.”
Warriors tries to say something, but all that comes out is a hacking, wet cough.
“Take it easy. You’re really bad off, captain.”
Warriors chokes out something resembling a chuckle and immediately regrets it. His body screams in protest, stealing the very breath from his lungs. He blinks rapidly, trying to keep Hyrule’s face in focus.
“Think I lost,” he mutters.
Hyrule shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah I think you did.”
Gentle hands cup his head and suddenly he is looking at the traveler upside down. Cool glass touches his lips.
“Drink.”
Dutifully, he swallows the warm liquid that courses down his throat. He can feel the rush of magic, flowing through his veins, seeking to mend his many wounds. The effect is small but instantaneous.
Breathing comes a bit easier, his mind is less foggy, and the pain less intense. But he still feels as though he has been knocked around by a hoard of stampeding bokoblins. And when Hyrule moves to return the bottle to his pouch, he can’t hold back a groan.
“Sorry.” He can hear the wince in the traveler’s voice. “I know that didn’t help much. But I can’t do anything more here. We’re too exposed.”
He casts a quick glance over his shoulder, then turns back to Warriors.
“Can you walk? It’s not that far to the inn.”
Warriors nods.
“Good. I’ll support you okay? And we’ll take it slow.”
Neither Hyrule’s support nor their sluggish pace make the journey much easier. Getting up off of the ground is a near-impossible task in and of itself. And walking even more so. By the time they make it to the inn – by some miracle, to be sure – he has come dangerously close to passing out more times than he can count.
It is only Hyrule’s aid that keeps him from toppling before they ever reach their room.
The traveler breathes a sigh of relief once they’ve entered the room and shut the door behind them.
“I should be able to patch you up now,” he says, as Warriors collapses in a tangle of aching, bloodied limbs upon the bed. Even the silken softness of the duvet seems like sand in his wounds.
He hardly notices it as Hyrule sets out gauze and bandages, barely comprehends the instructions to move a little here or there to help him peel off his bloodied garments. But when the chilled air collides with his newly exposed chest, he sucks in a breath, jolted awake by the white-hot agony.
“It’s alright,” comes Hyrule’s voice, soft and gentle as his touch when he begins to dab at his wounds with a damp cloth. Magic begins to flow through his other hand to Warriors’ body. “I know it hurts, but I’ve got you. You’re gonna be just fine, you hear me? You’re gonna pull through, cap.”
Warriors drags in another rattling breath. The ceiling looks smudgy now, as though someone has taken a dry paintbrush and rubbed it across it.
A low curse sounds from beside him. “Why’d they do this to you?”
Warriors’ eyes slide closed. There’s no reason to keep them open when he teeters on the edge of unconsciousness anyway. One more little push and he will plummet into blessed darkness.
“Angry ‘bout the war,” he mumurs. The question had been directed back at Hyrule more than him, but he feels the need to answer it anyway. The least he can do for the traveler is explain a bit.
“Well, I don’t care what they believe about you. It’s wrong. And no one deserves this, least of all you.”
There is a fire in his tone, the same one that always makes an appearance when he is gearing up for a fight. Any other time, perhaps, Warriors might have made it one, if only in his own mind. But today he is too tired, too hurt. And so he remains quiet, floating in the strange half-state, as Hyrule wipes the blood from his body.
Until he loses that battle too and consciousness slips from his grasp.
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janetm74fics · 6 months
Text
The Freighter
@whumptober Day 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”
Characters: Alan, Kayo, Scott
Warnings: beatings, bound, kidnapped, ransom
With help from @the-original-sineater and @mariashades
~
Babysitting duty was not something Kayo enjoyed. Well, she did…and she didn’t.
Kayo loved spending time with Alan, especially in space. Seeing his excitement at getting to fly Three and his joy at being out there in space would never get old, it was just that she was aware that she was only here to watch out for him because he was so very young.
Fifteen, too young to have a pilot’s licence and yet the boy could fly a rocket. And fly her with a panache no one else could, not even John or Scott. Three more months and he’d be sixteen and Alan could go on missions alone.
Today, though, that idea had gone out the window when the space freighter she and Alan had been sent to rescue had turned out to be a trap.
The emergency call had said the freighter had been hit by some stray shrapnel and they were venting atmosphere. Time was of the essence and so Three had been launched. Five was too far away for John to affect a rescue, but he kept the three-man crew talking and EOS confirmed they were indeed venting.
When they entered the ship was silent. There was no one to be seen, and for a moment Kayo’s internal alarm sounded. But Alan was already striding for the bridge and was in full rescue mode, and she hurried to keep up.
The trap was sprung the second Alan entered the bridge. Kayo was two steps behind when she saw a huge arm yank Alan aside and she reacted.
The fight was short and dirty but superior numbers and sheer beef won the day. 
Three life signs multiplied into six, and Kayo’s yell had been cut off by a jamming bubble at the same time EOS registered the sudden increase. Five barely picked up the yell before Alan and Kayo’s life signs winked out.
‘Scott – we have a situation.’
Kayo and Alan were bound with duct tape and left in the middle of the floor. She looked Alan over, worried for the teen, but he winked at her in an action that was pure Gordon. There was blood running into his eye from a cut on his forehead and bruising were already beginning to show. She sighed in relief.
She wasn’t much better off. She grinned back at Alan, but was sure it was more grimace than grin. Aware that her teeth were bloody and, judging from the pain her face was in, her nose was broken, there didn’t seem much more she could do right at this moment.
Alan had obviously cottoned on to the extent of her injuries, for he frowned before getting unsteadily to his feet – not an easy thing to do with bound hands. Kayo shook her head at him in an effort to make him stop but all that did was cause her to almost black out.
The men were equally surprised to see Alan get up. They watched him until he was fully upright before one of them kicked the back of his knee, causing Alan to fall heavily onto his side. He looked up at them, pure anger on his face, and spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva.
 ‘You better pray I don't get up again.’
They laughed at his words, and two of them left the room, no doubt set on trying to get into Three, while the remaining ones amused themselves by tormenting their captives. She really hated Duct tape, especially around her mouth. They had gagged her, but they left Alan free to talk, a move that worried her a little more than if they had gagged him.
Space boots hurt just that little bit more than the normal steel-toe boots, Kayo decided. It must have something to do with their bulk, because they sure were heavy and they sure hurt. 
She glanced over to Alan. He was receiving similar treatment, but they did look like they were holding back a little. She guessed they didn’t want to hurt the opportunity of Tracy Money too much.
Curled into a ball and almost forgotten, Kayo watched as two of the men manhandled Alan into a sitting position and made the call they all knew was coming.
‘Calling International Rescue.’
‘International Rescue here. How may we be of assistance?’
To the average person John sounded like the consummate professional he was, but Kayo could hear the underlying fury, could see the tension in the set of his shoulders.
‘Nah, I don’t speak to underlings. Get me the Commander.’
The screen blurred and Scott appeared, all iR’d up. The background was the villa, but Kayo wasn’t fooled for a moment. Scott must be on Five, that holo-background was just a little off to someone who knew their home well. She glanced over to Alan, and his face softened, showing her that he’d seen it too. The men, however, were oblivious.
Scott’s tone could cut flesh.
‘I am the Commander of International Rescue.’
‘Ah yes, Mr Scott Tracy, billionaire.’
‘What do you want?’
‘I like that. Straight to the point. The point is, Mr Billionaire, I have two of your operatives and one Thunderbird, and I am wondering how much they are worth to you. I am not a greedy man, but I reckon at least a couple of billion should be a good start.’
‘You better not have harmed them. I want to see them.’
‘Of course you do!’
The man panned his phone around so that Scott could see Alan, but he stopped short of showing Kayo. She could still see Scott, though, and at the sight of the state Alan was in, he gritted his teeth and his nostrils flared, but his voice remained calm and soft.
‘Alan. Are you alright?’
‘Scott…’
But that was all Alan was permitted to say before one of the other men back-handed him. The blow was hard enough that Alan keeled over onto his side, and he lay there, willing his smarting eyes not to betray him.
‘Your people are fine. I have two demands.’
‘And they are?’
‘I want a billion dollars for the girl and two for the boy, and I want you to grant access to Thunderbird Three.’
‘Access to Three is granted. The money will take a while. You can’t move that level of money around easily.’
‘I think I might be generous and allow…’
‘NO, SCOTT! DON’T!’
This time Alan was silenced with a boot, and the gasp he let out had Kayo attempting to move. She also received a kick to the ribs, and the tell-tale crack and pain as she breathed in told Kayo that this time a rib had broken.
‘If you lay one more finger on either of my people you will not see a cent!’
‘You are in no position to threaten me! I will call you in two hours with details of how to give us the money.’
And with that the connection was cut.
‘Boss, he said he’d granted access to the Thunderbird!’
‘Yes. I admit to being surprised at that, but I guess he knew he had no choice really. You go help the others while you and I will secure our guests.’
The man disappeared, leaving her and Alan with only two. Alan looked over to her and winked.
‘You better pray I don't get up this time around,’ he said. The threat was somewhat dampened by the position he was in, and once more the men laughed at him. The leader strode over and picked him up as if he was a sack of potatoes, throwing him down next to Kayo.
‘Yeah, right. Whatever, kid.’
And they both turned their back on their captives.
Slowly Alan moved into a crouch, his bounds falling aside as he did. Carefully he used the tin-can laser cutter he’d managed to work free from its pocket in his baldric to free Kayo before silently walking up to the two and tapping the leader on the shoulder.
Both men turned.
The fight – if Kayo could even call it that – was short and dirty. She watched with admiration as Alan employed everything she, Scott and Gordon had taught him about how to defend himself, and a few moves that were purely his own.
Once they were groaning around the floor Alan used the roll of Duct tape on their hands and feet before helping Kayo up. She was never more grateful that he was the right height for her – their other brothers would have been too tall (except Gordon of course, but she’d not tell the man that) and leaned heavily on him. 
Alan paused at the entrance and looked over his shoulder at the men. Surprise was still clear on their faces.
‘I warned you.’
It was all he said as the door slid open.
Scott stood on the other side. He had a bruise forming on his cheek and his eyes were as dark as night, but he looked them over before carefully pulling them both into a quick hug. Kayo knew he hadn’t missed her muffled gasp but she was ever so grateful for that hug. 
He stepped aside and allowed Alan to help Kayo out of the room and back to Three. The last thing they heard was Scott’s voice over the comms.
‘John – the threat has been neutralised. Tell the GDF we have six prisoners for them and ask where they want them dropped. I’m just going to have a chat with the leader.’
‘FAB, Scott.’
The comm went dead.
Alan busied himself getting Kayo’s wounds seen to as best he could while trying not to think too hard on why Scott hadn’t followed them back directly. Kayo smiled and winced through the treatment, acutely aware that Scott was currently doing *her* job and wishing he would come back already.
Scott came back seven minutes later.
‘John, can you remote-pilot Three for a bit while I see to Alan?’
‘FAB, Scott.’
He gently placed a hand on both their shoulders and smiled at them.
‘How about we go home?’
‘Home sounds good.’
‘And Alan?’
‘Yes, Scott?’
‘You did good. I’m very proud of you. You kept your head.’
Alan sagged as Scott’s arms came around him and Kayo squeezed his shoulder.
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whumpflash · 11 months
Text
Penumbra: Undeserving
for Angstpril, Day 28: Trust Issues (alt)
cw: referenced beatings/abuse/torture, death wish, brief reference/allusion to self harm
previous ///// masterlist ///// next
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Even warm and dry, even in a bed for the first time in months, even utterly exhausted, Cerus could not fall asleep. In the time since his fall, not a single person had falsified kindness before hurting him, before taking from him, but nevertheless, Cerus didn't trust the soldier's intentions. He'd never given anyone a reason to love him. Never a reason to extend a hand. And even when asked directly, the soldier wouldn't give him an answer.
What did they want? Every possible reason for their administrations eluded him; beating him didn't require a bed. Taking vengeance in other ways didn't demand his wounds be bandaged. Anything they wanted from him could've simply been seized, be it the boots off his feet or the flesh off his back, and not a soul would bat an eye. Such were the rewards of the damned, and Cerus had come to expect as much. 
There was always the possibility that the soldier wanted more than simple revenge. Perhaps they thought they could access his magic, the lifeblood that had been torn away from him at the trial where he should've been allowed to die. If that were so, the soldier was a bigger fool than he'd thought. In his early days as a slave to the kingdom, when he was at his most desperate, he'd tried to cut away the tattoos the priests had tainted his skin with. He'd despaired to learn it was a fool's errand; they kept coming back.
Even without the black marks of the holy mages, any spell requiring refined movements would be impossible with his ruined hands. He'd been allowed a healer after the trial, so that he could be put to work right away, but the woman who'd done it didn't bother to align bones, or even hold the larger gashes closed, and Cerus was left with ugly scars and uglier hands. Hands that could hardly grasp the tools he was made to use; fingers that still spiked with pain when he tried to curl them.
The soldier hadn't returned yet. Cerus was uncertain how long it had been since they'd closed the door, and as he lay shivering on the mattress, trying to suppress the painful coughs that wracked his body, he wondered if they'd come back at all. Despite their supposed determination to care for him, they didn't seem to enjoy it; hardly looking his way, hardly speaking. Perhaps they were only acting on orders. That would explain some of the situation, but still left the larger question of why unanswered.
He wished they would hurt him and be done with it; the fear of what was to come was worse than any pain they could inflict. At least then he'd know what to expect. A whip, a stick, a fist. Something that left him shaking and bleeding, something easier to understand than a gentle hand.
In spite of those hopes, Cerus still flinched when the door at last swung open. The soldier was back, a steaming bowl in hand.
"My uncle's gone to bed," they said as they crossed the room. "I'd thank you to not start shouting at me again."
Their uncle. Was that who had ordered him brought here? What did he want with him? A ransom, perhaps. Nurse him back to health and sell him to a lord who desired revenge. Cerus was very used to revenge.
At the mines, if a night was particularly dull, workers would pay him a visit. Reminisce about sisters and mothers, lovers and sons, lost to the war. Punish him for it, with whatever they had on hand, and let his screams soothe their grief. He couldn't pretend any of it was undeserved.
"Let me help you sit up," the soldier said. "You'll have an easier time eating if you aren't lying on your stomach."
Cerus didn't respond, but allowed himself to be lifted, wincing as the movement pulled at his damaged back. The feeling there wasn't what it had once been, but pain still found a way to sink its fingers into him.
The soldier propped him against the wall, taking care to avoid the wounded skin, and Cerus once again wondered why they'd bother. Even on orders, their master couldn't fault them for a moment of carelessness. They picked up the bowl then, holding a spoonful of broth to his lips.
"Shell stew," they said. "I'm sure you've had it since coming here."
He hadn't. A thin porridge in the morning, bread and a strip of dried fish at night. Enough to keep him on his feet, for the most part. 
Cerus took the broth, too hungry and exhausted to feel humiliated at the notion of being fed like a babe. Whatever the soldier's plans were for him, refusing food wouldn't help. He hoped the stew was poisoned.
In slow silence, the soldier helped him to empty the bowl; thin, salty broth full of bits of potato and seaweed and a chewy meat that reminded him of the smell of the ocean. He felt warmer after, though shivers still ran through his body.
The soldier rolled him back onto his stomach, then left with the dish, returning moments later with another blanket. They laid it on the floor, parallel with Cerus, and blew out the pair of oil lamps that lit the room; leaving nothing but the faint glow of clouded moonlight from the window.
Were they sleeping on the floor? Had they been commanded to watch over him tonight, so he wouldn't try and run? 
"Wh—?" he started to say, but the shift of air in his throat sparked another coughing fit, driving spikes of pain through his lungs and still-healing ribs.
"I hope you're not about to ask me 'why' again," came the soldier's voice from somewhere in the darkness. "Sleep."
Cerus was silent for a moment, steadying his breathing before trying again. "Are you meant to be guarding me?" His voice came out ragged and small. He hadn't had much reason to speak in the last months. Begging rarely granted him a reprieve, though sometimes his stupid tongue couldn't help itself, and conversation wasn't one of the labors the kingdom demanded of him.
"If you'd really like to leave, by all means, do it." The soldier's tone told him they were tired of this topic. Cerus was tempted to push it, to goad them into lashing out, into striking him, or throwing him back into the rain. Something that would shed a light on their intentions for him.
But he didn't, instead allowing his eyes to drift closed, though he knew sleep would elude him. Pointless as it was, Cerus hoped the soldier or their master could be convinced to kill him.
Put an end to this. Once and for all.
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@whumpwillow @rabbitdrabbles @kixngiggles @honeycollectswhump @chibichibivale
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sephyathredon-writing · 6 months
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Whumptober #6: I'd Do Anything For You
Summary: An unmarked package arrives at the Institute's barracks and by chance, someone from Ambrosius' class stumbles upon it first. It has nothing but a flash drive in it. When Ambrosius sees that Ballister has been captured and the video on the drive is a ransom video, it spurs him to rescue the other. After all, he'd do anything for the man he loves.
An Entry for Whumptober under the prompt "Recording"
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Ambrosius couldn’t believe what he was watching.
A package had been left at the Barracks. It was unmarked. Another one of the cadets in his class had found it first, but had gathered everyone around when the only thing in the package seemed to be an unmarked flash drive.
Several cadets including Ambrosius and Todd all gathered around the first, who sat at his personal laptop. He was seated on the edge of one of the bottom bunks, with people gathered around from all sides. Ambrosius sat on the other side of the bed, leaning back to be able to look over his shoulder. Todd stood behind the cadet with the computer, one hand grabbing onto one of the bottom bars of the top bunk.
He ran the necessary programs to make sure that the drive was free of viruses or anything else that might mess up his computer, then he noticed there was only a video file on the drive. He didn’t hesitate on opening it.
Ambrosius’ heart felt like it was going to jump out of his chest when he saw a figure on his knees, hands bound behind his back, gag stuffed in his mouth. He was unarmored. Black hair fell to either side of him like a curtain as he looked up at the camera with pleading eyes.
He’d recognize those big brown eyes anywhere. Anger surged within him. Whoever they were, they had Ballister.
The room they were in looked like it had been used as a cellar once upon a time. It had a stone floor and walls, as well as wood racks for holding casks. Some were there, but most of the casks were missing. A figure spoke from out of the camera’s view.
“This cadet, Ballister, seems very important to the institute, being top of his class and all. We could have gone for Ambrosius, but this one was much easier to nab.”
Several of the people gathered around looked at Ambrosius before looking back at the computer. Ambrosius wasn’t quite sure how to process the fact that they had thought about grabbing him. He stayed quiet for now.
A figure dressed in nondescript clothing stepped into view and delivered a hard punch to Ballister’s gut. Ambrosiuis bit his bottom lip to stop himself from crying out, especially when he heard the cry that Ballister let out in response.
He could swear he heard Todd chuckling behind him.
The off camera voice spoke again.
“For the return of your prized cadet, we ask for a humble price. Normally we would ask for all the gold in the Royal Treasury in return for him, but since we nabbed Ballister and not Goldenloin, I’ll cut a deal. Half of the gold in the Royal Treasury. And so you know we’re not messing around…” The voice trailed off.
Ambrosius felt a weight of dread settle in his heart as Ballister was punched again. It escalated into a full out assault against this man who couldn’t fight back. Ambrosius closed his eyes at one point, unable to watch anymore, but he couldn’t block out the sound of Ballister’s cries.
“Leave the money at this location.” An address flashed up on screen. Ambrosius forced himself to open his eyes and look at the screen. He tried to commit the address to memory as best he could. “Should you fail to do so within the next day, your prized cadet will be no more.”
The video left off on the figure delivering a harsh kick to Ballister’s stomach. The scream was cut off by the end of the video.
The silence that followed only lasted a minute or so, and it was, predictably, Todd that finally spoke.
“Pff, it serves that gutter rat right. They really think we’d offer up half the queen’s gold in exchange for his pathetic life.” He laughed and a few of the others laughed as well, though most of them were clearly nervous. The only ones that were genuine about it were notorious lackeys of Todd’s, Blanche and Chad. Others just stayed quiet.
“Todd.” Ambrosius was visibly seething with anger now. The other cadets gave him a wide berth. “Shut up.”
“What? I’m only telling the truth. He never belonged here. He was never one of us. He deserves this. I say we should just leave him to his fate.”
Something in Ambrosius snapped at those words. He got up from where he was sitting on the bed and approached Todd so fast, he hardly had time to react before he was taking a fist to the face.
“Don’t you dare say that about him! Nobody deserves this!”
With that, Ambrosius turned and left.
“Where are you going?” one of his classmates asked.
“To rescue Ballister.”
“But… there’s no way you can do it alone.”
Ambrosius turned, regarding the room with a determined expression, “Are any of you going to help?”
Nobody responded.
“That’s what I thought.” His voice was bitter as he left the room, heading to his own. Being a descendant of Gloreth gave him special privileges, which included his own room.
He grabbed any scrap of paper he could find and a pen, jotting down the address before he forgot it, then he gathered up a few things and grabbed his sword. It was in a special stand near his bed.
He donned his armor and sheathed the sword by his side, grabbing a cloak so he didn’t stand out as much. As much as he knew the armor would stand out, he would need it to protect him during a dangerous rescue mission like this. He recognized the address as being in the lower city at least, so he would certainly need the disguise.
Ambrosius didn’t expect the address to lead them directly to their hideout, that just wouldn’t be the smart thing to do on their part. He at least figured there’d be someone there to receive the money they were expecting.
Instead, he expected it to lead them to an area close to their hideout. It was good enough for him.
Ambrosius tensed his jaw, face forming an angry expression as he pulled the hood of the cloak over his head and tightened the rest of the cloak in front of him, being sure to hide that gold armor and blond hair really well.
He sighed and closed his eyes for a moment.
“I’m coming for you, Ballister, just hang on.”
And with those words, he left the room and then the institute, continuing on until he reached the very outer ring of the city. He had to go into one of the sketchier parts of town to find the place, but eventually he arrived at a shop. Nothing seemed off about it, except that it didn’t seem to be in the best shape, but that was to be expected when it came to the buildings in these parts.
He was about to approach it when a voice from nearby spoke.
“Come here.”
He saw someone dressed head to toe in nondescript clothing. He was obviously very thorough in not letting any part of his identity show. If Ambrosius had to guess, this was the guy.
Under the cloak, his fists clenched, nails digging into the soft flesh of his palm. No. He had to wait.
He followed the man into a dark alleyway, reaching a hand up to tug his hood lower and make sure all of his hair was covered, quickly hiding it again so the gauntlet didn’t show.
The man turned once they got halfway down the alleyway.
“You got the money?” he asked. “Doesn’t look like you do.” He had the same outer city kind of accent Ballister did. It was a popular thing in these parts.
“I’ve got it on me, ready for digital transfer,” Ambrosius responded, hiding his voice by making it deeper.
“No. Digital transfers leave trails that are easy to follow.”
Ambrosius tensed up, but then visibly made himself relax, “Better than lugging around all that money in plain sight. Besides, I know a way that we can transfer it without leaving a trace. I just need to see Ballister first.”
“I can’t believe it. The queen was actually okay with this?”
Ambrosius nodded, “You know how much she cares about Ballister. The whole Kingdom knows that she will pay any price to get him back.”
He apologized in his head for the blatant slander of Queen Valerin. He was sure what he said wasn’t true, at least not to this extreme. She’d probably just give the command to raid the place with a group of Knights.
“Alright, you want to see him, I’ll show you him. Just be warned that if you don’t actually have the money, we’re going to make you regret talking to us.” With that, he started walking and Ambrosius was quick to follow him.
He was led down several alleyways, crossing empty streets in between, in a pattern that he would not be able to distinguish were he looking on his own. Looking up, Ambrosius realized he could see the wall looming closer and closer. It was one of the parts where the forest was the thinnest. Still, they pressed on through the trees.
The forest here seemed to be new, overtaking buildings that had previously been owned, bridging a gap between two forests on opposite sides, against the wall.
They only stopped when they came across an abandoned half destroyed building practically pressed against the wall. The figure pulled open a trapdoor in the floor of the place and motioned for Ambrosius to go first.
He did so, descending the stairs, his anxiety spiking as the man stepped in behind him. Ambrosius had one hand wrapped around the pommel of his sword, just in case.
The sight that greeted him when he got to the bottom of the room made him bite back a gasp.
Ballister was lying on the ground, curled up into a ball, still bound as he had seen in the video, but covered in noticeably more cuts and bruises. Bloody nose, split lip, black eye, so much had been done to him in the short time that it took Ambrosius to get there. The whimpers that escaped him as he lay there made Ambrosius’ heart break.
“Satisfied?” the man behind him asked. Ambrosius took note of two others in the room. He was truly outnumbered, maybe in over his head. He was known for doing reckless things to keep Bal safe.
The fact that Ballister was in trouble blinded him. He’d act reasonably any other time, but since he was involved this time, Ambrosius only saw red. He wanted to make them pay.
Ambrosius unsheathed the sword a little from under his cloak, looking at Ballister, trying to meet his eyes. Ballister seemed to recognize him immediately. He shook his head as best he could. Ambrosius ignored him, instead turning to the man that had asked him the question.
“You picked a fight with the wrong guy.” His anger showed clearly through his voice.
“Wha-?” The man barely had time to speak before Ambrosius drew his sword and hit him hard on the head with the pommel. He crumpled to the ground.
Then he faced the other two, cloak pushed aside, revealing his golden armor. He ripped his hood off, his expression one of pure anger.
“Bet you didn’t see this one coming. Did you really think the queen would just roll over and take your demands? Think again.”
Most everyone in the kingdom knew that if Ballister was always number one, then Ambrosius was right behind him. They knew what a good swordsman he was.
“Who’s next?” Ambrosius asked, just daring them to come at him.
In a sudden bout of what Ambrosius assumed to be bravery, both of the men charged him at once. They had daggers that they brandished like swords.
It was hard for Ambrosius to fend off two people at once, but he’d been taught this sort of thing in training, namely how to fend off multiple opponents.
“How dare you hurt him!” Ambrosius was seething with rage now, but still he managed to restrain it. He didn’t want to be a killer, even if these people deserved it in his eyes.
It wasn’t hard. His sword was obviously a more capable weapon than their daggers and it was wielded by someone who spent his whole life learning how to fight. Soon the other two were crumpled to the ground next to the first.
As much as he wanted to go to Ballister’s side immediately, he made a call first, to the Knights. He kept it as vague as he could, planning to fill in the details once Ballister was safe and his wounds were patched up.
It was only once he hung up that he allowed himself to go to Ballister’s side. First thing he did was remove the gag.
“Ambrosius. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me they sent that video to you?” he asked.
“More like to the Barracks. Someone from our class found it before any of the Knights.” He couldn’t help but wonder if Ballister would have gotten hurt less if it had been found by one of the Knights and sent directly to the queen.
No, it would have taken more time to organize a rescue party. He made the right decision.
Ambrosius used his sword to cut Ballister’s restraints, then he did a once over to assess Ballister’s injuries.
“You know, you didn’t have to come after me…” The look on Ballister’s face was one of guilt.
Ambrosius put a hand under Ballister’s chin and made him look at him. “Ballister, I would do anything for you, anything to keep you safe.”
He avoided eye contact, turning his head to the side as Ambrosius took his cloak off, tearing long temporary bandages from it and beginning to treat his injuries.
“I’m the top fighter in my class. I’m supposed to be capable enough to handle myself. I just… they surprised me. I didn’t have my sword on me… or my armor… how could I be so ngh-,” He tensed as Ambrosius covered a particularly sensitive wound. “How could I be so stupid?”
“Hey, everyone has bad days. It’s not your fault that you were ambushed, and I know you’d do the same if it had been me. So don’t worry about it, okay.”
Ballister’s eyes met his for a couple of moments. What he saw there was genuine. Concern and fear, but also a softness that Ballister had learned to love from Ambrosius. He meant it with every fiber of his being.
Though Ballister’s eyes showed just how tired he was, there was a small smile that formed on his face in response to those words. “Let’s just go home…”
“Gimme a moment, Bal. Gotta make sure you can make it home.”
A few minutes passed by in silence as Ambrosius finished with Ballister’s wounds, doing one last check to see if he’d missed any before putting what was left of the cloak on Ballister’s shoulders.
He stood, grabbed and sheathed his sword, and then sat in front of Ballister with his back to him.
“Grab onto my neck.”
Ballister did as he asked and Ambrosius stood, supporting the other’s legs with his arms once he could get a hold of them. So Ballister was draped across his back with the cloak hiding most of his features, especially his face, which he buried in Ambrosius’ shoulder anyway.
They left the place just before the Knights arrived. Ambrosius left the trap door open for them. It took hours of walking before he finally made it back to the barracks. Just a lot of silence between them. Ambrosius assumed Ballister had passed out.
As he made his way through the halls of the barracks, several Knights and cadets just stopped and stared. Ambrosius heard muffled talking among his classmates.
‘He did it. He really did it.’
Ambrosius held his head up as he walked. He felt like a hero. He even saw Todd off to the side in one of the hallways. He was sporting a big bruise on the side of his face from the punch. His expression was once of clear annoyance, but he didn’t say anything. For once, Todd kept his mouth shut. A miracle if Ambrosius ever saw one.
When Ambrosius got to his room, he laid Ballister on the bed, taking the cloak off of him and tossing it aside, then went to the bathroom. He came out with a first aid kit and a few other tools.
The next few hours were spent properly cleaning and bandaging all of the wounds. Ballister woke up as soon as he sanitized the first one and the pained hiss he let out in response tugged at Ambrosius’ heartstrings.
Very little was said as Ambrosius concentrated on his task. It was only once he was done that Ballister spoke up.
“Why did you come alone, Ambrosius? Was there really nobody else who wanted to come with you?”
Ambrosius looked away, his answer said more than words ever could.
“Oh…” was all that Ballister responded with. He truly didn’t think he was that disliked.
“But that doesn’t matter. We’ve only ever had each other,” Ambrosius stated, laying down next to Ballister, “We’re the only ones who really know each other. I meant it when I said I’d do anything for you.”
Ballister nodded, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to let tears fall. Ambrosius has seen him cry enough already. “It’s the same for me, you know. I’d do anything for you too. I… I love you Ambrosius.”
Ambrosius smiled, “I love you too, Ballister. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing you.”
Things went quiet between them before Ambrosius remembered something.
“Oh, Todd started spewing the usual hateful things he always does, even had the gall to say you deserve being treated like that. I punched him in the face for that.”
Ballister laughed at that, “You never could stand it when he talked bad about me.”
“What can I say? Normally I’m pretty level headed, but when it comes to you, all sense of logic and reason fly out the window.”
“That’s not a good thing, Ambrosius.”
He hummed, “Maybe not, but that just goes to show how much I care about you…”
They stayed talking like that for a while, both of them staring up at the ceiling. Soon, Ballister’s exhaustion caught up to him and he fell asleep.
Ambrosius hated to leave his side, but he had some reports to fill out regarding what had just transpired and it was better to let them know sooner rather than later. He cringed internally as he thought of the scolding he was going to receive from the Director about going off on his own.
As Ambrosius looked back at Ballister’s sleeping expression, he couldn’t help but think that it was all worth it.
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In League — A Lucky Blunder
Masterlist
Summary: The boys finally caught their rival gang's spy but something about him has their leader intervening in his punishment. Beta read by @alittlewhump!
CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, kidnapping/abduction, nudity (non-sexual), restraints, bruising from implied beating, whipping, scars, torture/interrogation, taunting of prisoner, multiple whumpers, dubious caretaker.
A high-pitched keening wound its way through the house. 
Wyatt paused, pencil hovering over his place in the row of numbers. It was early evening. Sunlight entered the window at a low angle to cast long shadows through yellow-orange light. The boys would be winding down from the day which meant they were winding up for the night.  
“Tommy?” He called for Frankie’s lad, the portrait of his ruddy-haired father in miniature. A child of about ten years who was always close at hand, ever-keen to make a farthing running errands. Especially if he could smugly tell younger boys later that he wasn’t at liberty to divulge the particulars. As though he was the rare child-confidant of the entire gang. He did have a fair pulse on what was going on, if a little slanted by the perspective of his youth.
Another cry, twisting all the way upstairs, most likely from the cellar two floors down. In the house—their house—not a thing could transpire unnoticed, such was the size and layout. Wyatt liked that. All was within reach and what one could hold in the palm of his hand, one could command. 
Although, his appreciation and pride were diminishing by the second as the cries continued and grew more insistent. He leaned back in his chair with a sigh and almost ran his fingers through his hair before he remembered they were smudged with graphite from doing the books. 
“Tommy!”
Finally, a clatter and then short, snappy strides as the child scrambled across the kitchen and up the stairs. “Yessir?” 
“What is that fucking noise?”
Tommy swallowed, trying to catch his breath. “They found that man. The one ‘tipped off Keats.” 
“Is that so?”
About a month ago, a beggar had shown up on their streets. He’d seen the man in question himself—more of a boy really, no more than twenty—huddled outside the door of the pub and shuffling around the streets covered in a ratty blanket. 
Around the same time, a number of plans had been mislaid. At first, it had seemed only as though they’d mismatched their timing. Until one night, when they’d had a raid planned on a warehouse, expecting just a few guards and found its owner—one of their biggest rivals—Keats, had two dozen waiting instead. 
It had nearly cost two boys their lives and one still had a bullet in his shoulder. They had pulled the usual threads, made sure to reassess the loyalties of certain parties. The beggar, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found. No one thought twice about an urchin disappearing. But then, a handful of days later, Jack’s sister had seen the very same accompanying none other than Keats himself. 
A short ten days later, here he was, apparently paying for his trickery in the cellar, having finally been apprehended. 
No one noticed Wyatt coming down the stairs. All backs were turned, including the one getting belted. Their captive was stark naked and covered in grime with patches of bruises darkening along his ribs. His wrists were tied together and hooked over his head so that he was forced onto the balls of his feet. From the looks of it, he’d managed to bear his due reward silently for a not-insignificant length of time. Raised welts crisscrossed from the back of his neck down to his calves. It was plain by the scars on his back that this was not his first beating. Not much of a distinguishing feature around these parts. 
Alfred was winding up for what would no doubt be the first lash that drew blood. The rest of the group surveyed from a loose half-circle, some sitting on overturned crates and others leaning against the soot-blackened walls. Wyatt hadn’t been down here in ages, couldn’t say what was in half of the cobwebbed crates stacked in the corners. The air in the cramped space was beginning to smell pungent, cigarette smoke clinging to the ceiling in spite of the open street-level windows. 
Wyatt put his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall at the foot of the stairs. He waited until Alfred was about to strike. “What’d you find, lads?” 
At least one of the men jumped, a few others sat up just a fraction straighter. Alfred let the swing fall short. Only the tail end of the belt met its target, who hissed as another welt rose on his pale flesh. 
Wyatt wasn’t the oldest nor was he the longest-standing member. The group operated mostly by consensus but he was indisputably its leader. After all, he had been the one to rescue this house of cards from collapse before they had completely lost control. He’d recast the senior members into roles that didn’t require temperance and recruited younger men to fill the ranks instead. The younger the better, hungry to prove themselves and yet to develop the arrogance and pride that had prevented their predecessors from changing with the times. 
They had swiftly replaced brute force and standoffs in broad daylight in favour of subtler methods, refocusing on activities with higher turnovers that required a fraction of the effort and didn’t put them atop wanted lists. Half the city was still under the impression the gang had in fact collapsed and retreated back to the slums.
Alfred turned, face as red as the skin he’d just been beating raw. Either from the strength he was putting behind his arm or from feeling caught. He wasn’t the type to come up with the first idea himself but was always the first to volunteer to carry another’s. “It’s Keats’ spy.” 
“We finally caught up with him,” someone else chimed in, making a few others chuckle. 
Frankie sauntered over to clap the accused-spy on the shoulder, making him tense. “Just having some fun.” 
That earned a few laughs from the audience and the boy ducked his head as if to hide. 
Wyatt cleared his throat. “Come on, let us have a look.”
As Frankie made the captive turn on his toes, Wyatt was struck by two things. 
The first was the curious wound on the soft side of his hip, looking as though someone had inexplicably carved a piece of meat off him not long ago. 
Secondly, and more notably, Wyatt was struck by the fact that this was altogether a different boy.
Part II
Together/Apart taglist: @painsandconfusion @deluxewhump @no-whump-on-main @whumpy-writings @maracujatangerine @whumptakesthecake @subject-v @susiequaz12 @writer-reader-24 @whumpinthepot @wormwriting
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villainsandheroes · 7 months
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Captured
Thank you so much for reading everyone, @cupcakes-and-pain has the first part here and we will both be making masterlists which we will link here after! Let us know if you want to be on a taglist!
CW: alcohol mention, drinking mention, innocent person hurt?, fighting, restraints, beating, a bit of actual whump in this one!
Legend was in a nasty and obnoxious mood. He had spent the whole day in a head wrenching hangover and had been causing little catastrophes all over the city to keep the heroes busy. They were sporadic and without a plan, and so far he had seen four of the heroes helping, trying to keep up and figure out what he was doing. Seeing them busy and running around helped with his headache.
After causing trouble in the park, he flew over to a small supermarket. Anger boiling under his skin as he wanted to scream at someone. He wasn’t like this often but when he was, people knew to get out of his way. He went inside, trying to figure out what he was going to destroy before deciding to demolish nearly half of the store itself. He didn’t want citizens getting in the way, doing a good job scaring them off. Soon shelves were falling from the mini explosions going off left and right. He was unaware of the young adult with headphones in not knowing what was happening.
Ox growled as they arrived at the store at last. Icicle trailed behind them, and out of the corner of their eye, they saw her preparing to use her powers. They didn’t want to bring her, but she insisted. Ox was fairly good at keeping Legend in check by themself, but no one’s perfect. They might need the help. And the kid had to learn sometime. 
The citizens seemed to be already out, and there were next to no injuries. No surprises there. Legend didn’t like hurting citizens. It wasn’t worth going inside since they could corner him once he left the building. 
Ox and Icicle were still assessing the area, however, that’s when they heard a blood-curdling scream, followed by a crash and silence. Icicle glanced at Ox, but they didn’t even think before running inside as fast as possible.
Legend was staring across the side of the store at a citizen who had been crushed under a metal shelf. He had instantly stopped the destruction and was going to check on the citizen, but when Ox came in he stopped. Suddenly becoming indifferent as to not show weakness. He took a step back to assess the situation as reporters and a cameraman tried getting into the store to find out what was going on.
Ox took in the scene, assuring it was safe to make a move, then rushed to the person’s side. They could lift the metal off easily, but they had to do it gently and slowly to make sure the citizen’s injuries wouldn’t be worsened. Once it was completely off, they threw the shelf to the side and scooped them up. The person went limp in Andi’s arms and their eyes slipped shut.
“No, no, stay with me. Stay awake.”
They rushed to the nearest exit, already calling for help and blocking out everyone else as Legend stared at them wordlessly, worrying silently. Unaware that backup was even there.
Icicle stared down Legend alone. She couldn’t even bear to look at the person, or else she’d fall into her own terrible memories. Things she tried to keep far away from her job and her life, only talking about it with fellow heroes while off-duty. “You monster.” She spat while moving forward, “You don’t even care about the lives you ruin, do you? You’re all the same.” She fired an icy blast without warning, attempting to pin Legend to the wall.
He ducked, anger bubbling back up. He rolled his eyes, grabbing a broken piece of metal. “Oh please. Like heroes are any better.“ He threw the metal at her head. “You do it all for the glory.” He stepped forward. 
They fought, but it was clear from the beginning that he was so much more advanced than her. Ducking, weaving, and dodging through her attacks, Legend was the superior fighter. Yet, something kept him from hurting her despite the fact he wanted to. When he got her in a successful pin he stared down at her in fury before shoving her to the side and spreading his wings as he flew off. 
He was slower getting home, sighing tiredly as he shut the door. He took off his mask and dropped it on the table. Taking a deep breaths before checking the news about the civilian. All he could find was information he already knew. In the hospital. Critical condition. Attacked by Legend. His hand shook as he threw his phone at the wall. Cursing lowly as he tried to calm down. Drinking again was a bad idea but it was the only thing his mind produced to get off the injured citizen.
Little did he know, Icicle was not content with how things were left. There was a score to be settled. A wrong to be righted. A villain to be stopped. She crept after him, keeping a safe distance. She slunk along the alleyways, trying to slip in unnoticed by the light, but she was able to follow him to where he resided. 
Perfect. 
Watching through the windows, she saw him stalking towards his fridge. She slipped inside. It should be easy enough to catch him from behind, when he would be bent down, rummaging through drinks. With an icy blast, just like she had tried earlier, she pinned his legs to the floor. He wasn’t fast enough for her, and she knocked him out easily with some metal from the store. She smiled to herself. No longer would he be allowed to spread evil. And no longer would the others underestimate her, once she’d be able to show them what she’d done.
When Legend woke up, he was dazed. His head was aching, not from the familiar whiskey but something different. It reminded him of a feeling he had when he first became a villain many years before. Blunt object most likely. He didn’t want to wake up but eventually pried his eyes open, frowning heavily while inspecting his surroundings
Icicle glared at him from where she was leaning up against the wall. Straightening, she walked towards him slowly. “So, here’s what’s going to happen, Legend.” She spit out his name like a curse. “You are going to be nice for once in your life, and tell me what I want to know. After that, it’s off to prison. Behave, and I won’t be forced to hurt you.” She knew some heroes would feel conflicted over torturing someone, even if they were a villain, but she was only doing what had to be done. Legend had done worse, and he would’ve continued if she hadn’t been there to do what was right.
He raised an eyebrow. “And just how old are you? 17?” He yawned, feeling his hands in cuffs behind his back. Gently rotating his wrists as best he could. Trying to feel for any slack.
She seethed. Arrogant, vile thing. She wasn’t even thinking as she slapped him, though she smiled as she did. “I wasn’t lying, Legend.” Then she punched him in the gut, as hard as she could. “And I’m 22, thanks for asking.” She said sarcastically as he grunted while turning his head away, the same cruel smile spread across her face. It was nice to see a villain in pain for once. It was even better to be the one to cause it.
“You're welcome.” He spat at her shoe.
“Behave.” She took a breath. “Tell me, what are your plans? I’m not dumb, I know you had something up your sleeve. All those random attacks today, what did they mean?”
“Wouldn’t the pretty hero like to know.” He leaned back and closed his eyes. He looked far too comfortable for what was supposed to be a threatening interrogation. “Go ahead and hit me again, doll. You’re not getting anything from me.”
That was it. Icicle was not going to put up with this. She saw red, and before he knew it, her fists collided with his stupid face. Over and over, until she could finally calm down. His jaw was quite bruised, and she didn’t know if she could continue to interrogate him now. “Can you answer my questions? Or should I wait?” Might as well ask his input. He could lie, but soon enough this interrogation would be done, so it didn’t really matter if he refused to do it for now.
He chose not to respond at all. Wanting to cuss her out but think better of it. Not because he was afraid of any consequence, but because she was younger and she was Ox’s friend. He wouldn’t stoop to that level he knew other villains would do. He let out a quiet breath. He closed his eyes again while feeling blood drip down his face to his neck.
She interpreted his silence as either an inability to talk or a simple desire to stay silent. Either way, she was fine with it. It gave her more time to develop an actual strategy for an interrogation. “Have it your way. Oh, and by the way. I have no intentions of feeding you or anything until I get through all of the questions. So have fun down here. I’ll be back.”
Legend chuckled lightly as she left. She had zero experience. He thought it would be fun. Little did he know that she was a monster waiting to be released. 
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actress4him · 5 months
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Whumptober 2023 - Day 18 - The Shadow and The Brute
More of the Brumaria Hero/Villain AU! This one takes place much later than the first. Bruno is only mentioned, but he belongs to Izzy!
Taglist: @painful-pooch , @sssunshinebreeze
The Shadow of Death Masterlist
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No. 18: Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”
Contains: lady whump, interrogation, restraints, broken bones, beating, referenced internal bleeding, burns, mild gore, flashback, parental abuse, foster care references
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The steel rod cracks against her ribs.
“What is The Brute’s real name?”
“I don’t know.” A lie.
Again, on the other side. 
“Where does he live?”
“I don’t know.” A lie, and screw him for taking her there and making this even harder for her. 
Another hit, this time to her stomach. 
“Who else does he work with?”
“I…don’t…I don’t know.” Also a lie. This one’s her fault, though, for stalking him and his team to find out who was hurting him. 
“Oh, I think you do know. I think you know all kinds of things about the heroes, and The Brute, especially, that you’re not telling.” 
He hits her ribs again.
“I hate the heroes,” she spits. The truth. Or at least, it was the truth. Now, she honestly doesn’t know how she feels. “You know I do.” 
“It certainly doesn’t seem that way, not the way you’ve been cozying up to them lately.”
Kamaria doesn’t say anything in return, still trying to catch her breath, and there’s a pause from the rest of the room, too. She strains her ears, trying to figure out if he’s choosing a new tool or the next spot to strike. She hates being blindfolded, hates not being able to see what’s coming. Which, of course, is the exact reason why he does it. 
“Harder.” Her father’s voice. He is still in the room, then.
She catches the footstep that comes toward her and tenses in preparation, but there’s really no way she can ever be prepared. Roderick doesn’t stop to ask questions this time. He just hits her, again and again and again, all across her stomach and ribs. With her arms restrained out to each side she can’t curl in to get away from it. She can feel things breaking and bruising inside of her. She can’t take a breath for the entire time the rod is coming down, can’t scream or plead even if she wanted to. 
When it finally ends, she spends just as much time coughing, retching, and trying to gasp in any air she can get. She’d throw up if it hadn’t been days since she’s eaten anything. 
“What is The Brute’s real name?” 
Bruno. His name is Bruno, two whole letters different from Brute because he’s an idiot.
“Where does he live?”
In a bachelor pad apartment, second floor, on Broad Street.
All she has to do is say that out loud, and it ends. For literally half of her life, fourteen years, she’s done whatever it takes to protect herself. Played the perfect, obedient foster child even when the families had already decided she was a troublemaker for having superpowers. Learned to fight and to kill from the villains. Went on all of their missions, whether they fit her own agenda or not. Followed all of their rules as best she could and gave in to their demands.
But she can’t give in this time. She doesn’t care what they do to her, not when the alternative is them doing the same and worse to the only man who’s ever treated her with kindness. He’s far more worth protecting than herself.
This time she doesn’t hear him approaching and is caught off guard by a hand burying itself in her curls, yanking her head backwards. Her quick intake of breath throbs in her ribs. 
“I will make you talk. You and I have been at this game for far too long for me not to win in the end.” 
The cold tip of the rod presses into her bare stomach, and she bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying out. There’s no way that she isn’t bleeding internally somewhere. The only good news is that he’ll know that, too, which means that surely this session won’t last too much longer. They want her alive, after all. For now.
“I have a meeting to attend,” her father announces coldly. “Do whatever you need to do to get results.” A door opens, then closes again. 
Her hair is released, and there’s a loud clank as the rod is tossed aside. It’s simultaneously a relief to know that part is over and terrifying to wonder what’s next. 
“All you have to do is tell me what you know about The Brute, and this will all be over.” 
She feels the heat a split second before it fully hits her. Fire envelops her right side, spreading from her waist all the way up to her shoulder and out across her arm. Kamaria throws her head back and screams. Her skin is blistering, charring. She’s half in the past, half in the present, watching her childhood home go up in flames while losing her footing and dangling from the chains.
“Where does The Brute live?” Roderick is shouting.
She can’t stop screaming. Mom…Mom please…
His hands are on her face, still warm from using his power. She didn’t even realize he’d stopped. It still feels like she’s on fire, the intensity of the heat hasn’t let up at all. She isn’t screaming anymore, but she’s groaning, sobbing, trying desperately to get herself back under control while visions of her mother are pressing at her mind and most of her body is in excruciating pain. 
Chains rattle, and one wrist is freed. She drops to the floor on top of a leg that was broken two days ago, but hardly feels it over the burning in her side and arm. The left wrist is released, but she’s dragged backwards by that arm until her back hits the wall and it’s restrained again, just above her head. 
Her right shoulder feels strange. Dislocated, probably. She can’t distinguish that pain from the pain of her skin. 
She doesn’t know she passed out until he slaps her across the face to wake her up. “Here. Take it.” Something heavy is deposited in her lap. She knows almost immediately what it is, but it takes a moment for her to convince her arm to move. The skin pulls, and she nearly whines aloud. “Hurry up.”
Her hand shakes as it finds the stem of the plant he gave her, clutching on tightly. One of these days,  he’s going to go too far, and she won’t be able to use her power to save herself. Then where will he and her father be?
At least then Bruno will be safe.
The energy she siphons from the plant is warm as it floods her body. It’s usually somewhat soothing. Right now, more heat is the last thing she wants to feel. But she keeps going, pulling all she can, knowing this is the only chance she gets until he nearly kills her again in a day or two. 
Energy does nothing for pain, unfortunately. When the plant goes limp in her hand, completely spent, she feels very little difference from when she started. But she should be stable now. The energy will jumpstart her body’s natural healing process, allowing it to work faster than usual so that she doesn’t actually die.
It’s their failsafe. Their excuse for continuing to torture her for as long as they want. 
Her arm drops back down by her side, and the plant is removed from her lap. Her head lolls against the concrete block wall. Roderick rips the blindfold suddenly off her face, taking strands of hair with it, and pinches her chin between his fingers so that he can look into her eyes.
“This is just going to keep happening until you cooperate and tell us what we want to know. Is that what you want? To keep being in this kind of pain?”
She doesn’t have the strength to answer him.
Releasing her chin, he stands, looking down at her. “Think about it. I’ll be back before you know it.”
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selfshippingquotes · 2 years
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S/I: Me and F/O like to play this game called "Seven Minutes in Hell" where we go inside a closet and beat the shit out of each other.
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whumppmuhw · 5 months
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Whumptober Day 23: Begging, "take me instead," forced to watch
tw: kicking/beating, conditioned whumpee, failed escape, restraints, punishment, cruel whumper
another triple threat!! here we go again
...
Whumpee was forced to watch as Whumper dragged Caretaker by the collar of her shirt into the middle of the room.
"So, you think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine, do you?" Whumper was furious. They started kicking Caretaker in the side, stomping on her ribs and spitting at her face.
Whumpee didn't have many options. She couldn't bear to sit back and watch Caretaker get beaten after trying to set her free. Besides, Whumpee was used to pain, used to Whumper's insults and fury in a way Caretaker was not. It had to be her.
"Whumper, p-please," Whumpee begged. Whumper stopped, all attention on Whumpee. "Don't hurt her, she d-doesn't deserve it, it was me who wanted to run away, she was only trying to help."
"And what would you have me do?" Whumper sneered. "Not punish the person who broke in and tried to take you away? Sure, you tried to leave, you'll get your punishment, but she deserves one too, don't you think?"
Whumpee looked at Caretaker, curled up on the floor, fear in her eyes as she waited for Whumper's next move. "I-I'd rather it be me. I'll take her punishment too. Just please, please don't hurt her any more."
"Very well."
Whumper dragged Caretaker to the wall. They untied Whumpee and used the ropes to tie Caretaker up. They walked back to the center of the room, waiting for Whumpee to follow. She didn't need to be told what to do.
...
Caretaker was forced to watch as Whumpee followed Whumper to the middle of the room and knelt before them.
Whumpee's voice was small and quiet, a direct contrast to what it was before she had been brought here. She used to be so defiant, standing up to any authority who dare challenged her will. Now, she was reduced to this, and Caretaker didn't want to imagine what Whumper had done to her to make her this way.
"Master, I accept this punishment."
'Master?' When did she start calling them 'master?'
"Good. Since you'll be receiving a double punishment, let me get a tool that'll deal it well." They walked over to a baseball bat wrapped in barbed wire and picked it up, carrying it over to Whumpee.
Even though Whumpee was trying to her best to defuse the situation, Caretaker could tell that Whumper was dying to release his anger on somebody. She could only hope that Whumpee's obedience would save her from the harshest blows, but this looked a lot worse than a few kicks.
Both Whumpee and Caretaker cried out as the bat came down.
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WHUMPTOBER 2023 no.18
Nakir & Michael
Tags: improsonment, beating, blindfold, restrained, sadistic whumper, defiant whumpee
MASTERLIST
CHALLENGE MASTERLIST
Year 1169
The pain was bearable.
His breathing was more messy than usual, he also couldn’t keep his back straight.
But Nakir still didn’t scream, didn't even yelp. 
When he got hit repeatedly in the stomach all  he did was grunt. It was painful but satisfying. The guard, whichever happened to be the one torturing him today, sounded really annoyed. 
After they finished beating him up, they angrily left, smashing the door.
Unlike other days, they didn't untie him. Usually they threw him back to his cell, to rot miserably in there. Now he was still bound to a chair, with legs spread and hands behind his back. With a rug over his eyes.
Soon he heard steps, slowly getting closer.
Someone opens the door and walks around the room, calmly and confident.
Nakir knows who this is.
That shithead guard wasn't done with him because he was getting Michael. 
"Hello Nakir." He hated that man with all of his heart. Michael was the one who orchestrated his whole imprisonment. "I see you are pretty exhausted, we can skip this whole thing if you just tell me about it."
The same talk every day, he would mock it as boring and uncreative if it wasn't slowly getting to him.
Michael each time asked about something, changing each torture session into an interrogation.
The problem was he never specified what Nakir was supposed to tell him.
Torture with artificial meaning.
A pain erupted in his right leg, Michael apparently waited enough for the answer today and decided to get to work.
He hit Nakir with a hard object, aiming for his legs. Legs that he couldn't protect or move out of the way because of the restraints.
If this continued, moving around would be much harder.
A particularly nasty hit landed on his ankle making him tug on the ropes.
"You can just tell me Nakir."
There was an urge to ask what Michael wanted to know, to ask for the meaning of his pain, but he quickly suppressed the temptation. 
Asking would be equal to submitting. 
If he asked that would signal he was ready to answer, to obey. To do anything in order to ease the pain.
And Nakir told himself that he wouldn't submit.
The beating moved to his other leg, one that was scarred from the explosion. Each hit cut the skin, opening the old scar.
He allowed himself to scream.
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janetm74fics · 6 months
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Tenebrosity c1: Scott
@whumptober day 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”/Solitary Confinement
With thanks to @the-original-sineater and @mariashades for the read-through and help with naming.
Warnings for kidnap, beatings, blood
~
Tenebrosity. Obscure. In darkness. Shadow.
He was born in darkness to ensure survival once, many years ago.
Now he’s needed again…
They had been caught out.
Scott was absolutely beside himself. It was his job to keep his brothers safe, and for one minute he had not acted on the sudden feeling in his gut.
A minute was all it took.
Now he was alone. He could do solitary confinement – had done on several occasions – but for one thing.
Solitary meant alone. Alone meant John was somewhere else.
Whoever had taken them remained in the shadows. All the men were masked and the only thing Scott knew about them was that they were professionals. Military through and through, and that scared Scott more than anything.
He could take what they dished out. Had done before. But John…
He waited. Through the beatings. Waited for one of them to slip up, make a mistake that would leave him free to find John.
Time passed.
With no windows and minimal light there was no way to keep accurate track of time, but Scott had a good inner clock.
Five days, he reckoned. Five days with beating but no questions. Five days without any sign of his brother.
And then there it was.
One beating that left him bloodier than usual. Bloody enough to slip one of his hands out of the restraint. From there it was merely a short wait for the coast to be clear of…obstructions.
It was too easy to get out, Scott knew that, but that wasn’t going to hold him back Trap or no trap, he needed to get to John because he knew, he knew, John would be bearing the brunt of the beatings. Everyone knew Scott’s history, it was hardly a secret, and that would make John a much more viable target for whatever this was.
His cell opened up into a hallway. There were multiple doors on both sides. Scott paused, listening for any signs of life but he couldn’t hear anything. There was nothing for it – he’d have to check every room if he was going to find John.
Each empty room had his heart crying out for his brother, but Scott knew better than to utter a sound. Eventually he began to discern a noise from a room at the very opposite end of the hall from where he had been held. No wonder he hadn’t heard anything before.
Sliding the bolt carefully out of the casing, Scott eased the door open and his heart clenched.
John had a cell almost identical to his own, and his brother was on the floor, hands bound in front of him and lying on top of what looked like sacking. In the low light Scott could see the results of beatings, and he crouched down and lay a very gentle hand on John’s shoulder. He was rewarded with one swollen eye opening slightly and a small, pained smile. A remote part of himself said he must look that bad too, but he ruthlessly shoved the thought aside.
All that mattered was getting John to safety.
Of course, that was when he was dogpiled.
‘Took longer than I expected for you to get here, Tracy. But now you’re here you and I have much to talk about.’ ‘We have nothing to talk about!’ ‘Oh? Really, I would have thought that you would been ready to share by now.’ ‘Well you thought wrong.’ ‘What a pity.’
Even in the low light Scott could see the man was lying – he was enjoying this. But then hands were holding him back as others dragged John away from him.
‘Guess I’ll just have to ask your brother then.’
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whumpflash · 1 year
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Scene from a rp with @turn-the-tables-on-them , featuring my boi Wes from The Riot Kings. For context, it's set in a futuristic high fantasy au and this is basically just me being self-indulgent lol.
cw: beatings, language, noncon drugging
It was obvious Wes wasn't gonna get much sleep during his stay here.
Winter was in full throttle, and the stone cell he'd been thrown into didn't offer much protection from the chill. All he could do was curl in on himself, shivering and cursing his situation.
He'd stolen from royalty, killed guards, ambushed rich assholes, and gotten away scott-free, but somehow couldn't walk away from a single act of petty theft.
Wasn't his fault lord whats-his-face couldn't hold on to his wallet. Wasn't his fault the guy's kid was sharper than he looked and prone to snitching. And it certainly wasn't his fault that such a small offense could get you locked away to freeze to death.
Wes clenched his jaw to try and keep his teeth from chattering. He guessed he was still sorta lucky though. At least no one here seemed to recognize him as one of the rebels terrorizing the upper class.
Hopefully it stays that way, he thought as he finally sank into sleep.
When he woke, it was late in the day. He was aware of being hungry, of a dryness in his throat, but he couldn't do shit about it except hope someone came by soon. Night fell, and he tried to sleep. Not like there was anything else to do, and he had to conserve energy if they weren't going to fucking feed him.
It was well past morning the next day when he heard someone outside his cell. Fucking finally, he thought, but when the door swung open it wasn't food on the other side. It was a pair of armed guards. He cursed under his breath as they seized him by the arms, cuffed his hands behind his back, and began to march him down the stairs.
He decided not to struggle, despite really really wanting to. If he were about to be released, he wasn't gonna make trouble, and even if he weren't, the last thing he wanted was to be thrown down the fucking stairs.
They brought him to what he assumed was their main base, leading him down a corridor and into a small room. Inside was a single metal table and chair.
Fuck.
The guards pushed him into the seat, securing his ankles with a pair of handcuffs that had been bolted to the floor. As they left, an older man in an officer uniform stepped inside.
Fuck.
A cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck as the man moved to stand across from him. His name tape identified him as 'Nault'.
"I'm sure you already know why you're in here, boy," he said. "It'd be in your best interests to make this easy for me. We'll start with something simple." He leaned in. "What's your name?"
Wes didn't answer, keeping his eyes glued on the table in front of him. It was probably just a ploy to get him to crack, and he wasn't falling for it.
Beside him, Nault shrugged. "Suit yourself. But you're only making this harder on yourself, Wes."
The surprise must've shown on his face, and the other man chuckled. "Like I said, that was something simple. We already know who you are. Got profiles on dozens of you rebel delinquents." Nault moved to stand behind him. "Never would've known you boys were on this side of the realm if you hadn't been arrested. How's that feel?"
Shitty. Absolutely shitty. Not only did they know who he was, they knew the rebels were on the move, and it was his fault.
Whatever. They would've found out sooner or later. All he could do now was not let anything else slip.
He swallowed nervously. No matter how hard that might be.
"Still not talking? Alright, but at least answer this: what's your band doing this far North?"
Silence was a good strategy, right? If he didn't talk, they couldn't learn anything from--
The blow caught him off guard, Nault's hand seizing him by the hair and slamming his face into the table. Pain exploded in his skull, making his eyes water.
"Fuck!"
"Not the answer I hoped for, but I suppose it's something. Now about the rebel movements--"
"None of your fucking business," Wes snapped, the pain overshadowing his reason.
"That so?" Nault replied, voice level. "Maybe you're right, but we'd like to make it our business. Can't have rebels terrorizing the kingdom, after all. So I'll ask nicely one more time. What are you doing in the North?"
That was nicely? Wes spat a glob of blood onto the table. "Eat shit."
Nault sighed. "Fine. I see you've made your choice."
He left the room, and before long, the pair of guards who'd brought him here reappeared.
For all of a second, Wes was able to entertain the idea that he was done here, and they were taking him back to the cell. That happy thought died as soon as they drew their batons and closed the distance on him.
Blows rained down hard and fast. He couldn't move away, couldn't even raise his hands to try and shield his face. Best he could manage was to tuck his chin into his chest and hope they got this over with.
It wasn't long before he was thrown from the chair, hitting the ground hard enough that it knocked the wind out of him, the first boot to the gut compounding the feeling. Wes choked on the air, unable to even find the breath to cuss them out as the blows kept coming, boots colliding with his stomach, his ribs, his back. One kick caught him in the jaw, dazing him, but they didn't stop. His will to stay awake was rapidly failing, and after a few more well-placed kicks, he blacked out.
He came to back in the tower, hurting like hell. His head was pounding, and every little shift of movement sent a wave of pain through his body.
When the guards returned, he couldn't even find the energy to try and get away, but this time all they did was throw him a water bottle. It wasn't until he'd chugged the entire thing that he noticed the bitter aftertaste.
Fucking drugging him now? Didn't they have some kind of code?
Apparently not, he thought as the room started to spin around him, a weird haze clouding every thought. A few minutes later, the door opened again, and the guards dragged him back to the room.
And so the cycle continued. The guards brought drugged water, or shitty food, or escorted him to the next interrogation.
If you could even call them that. He had only a vague idea of what happened in the room, forgetting each question almost as soon as it was asked. The only thing he knew for sure was that they always hurt him.
Wes wasn't sure if he'd given anything up at this point. Whatever drug they had him on made it hard to think, but he couldn't just start refusing the water. He doubted they'd give him anything else, and he was still determined to survive, even if every day brought on some new hell.
He had no idea how long he'd been there. Everything blurred together, and it wasn't like he was scratching fucking tally marks into the wall of his cell. Maybe he should, just for a single bit of clarity. But in the rare moments he was left to rest, he couldn't find it in him to get up off the floor.
Everything hurt. He was almost certain he had a few broken ribs with how painful it was to breathe, and a few of his joints weren't feeling too hot either. To say nothing of the bruises, the burns, the cuts... Fuck. They liked getting creative, and he was so fucking excited to see what tomorrow would bring.
He'd probably die here. They didn't seem to care how much they hurt him. All they wanted were answers, and whether he gave them up or not, it was only a matter of time before his body gave out.
With that cheery thought in the forefront of his mind, Wes did the only thing he could:
Curl up against the chill and try to sleep.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(in-play he got rescued right after this by @turn-the-tables-on-them 's OC Aliyah so no worries lol)
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ceceliaknowsbest · 7 months
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Setting: Capitol cellblock, day 25 Open to any tortured souls in the block
I don't support my husband. I don't support my husband.
The words kept bouncing around in her head over and over again until she wanted to scream or throw herself against the doors just so she could stop hearing herself say it. They had given her no choice, she had been backed into a corner and if she hadn't said those words out loud would they have hurt Jax? Caesar, fuck him, had given her no choice.
But that didn't stop the self-loathing or the guilt. Had Sterling watched the interview? If he had, did he hate her? Could he hate her? He had to know that it wasn't her choice to do that interview. She had no way of knowing if her message got through and if he knew what she had been trying to tell him. They were a million miles away, but she still loved him and she was thinking of him. Even if her words had changed his feelings for her.
The Peacekeepers hadn't given her a choice when they dragged her to the studio to be beautified. Poor Domi, it had taken her far longer than normal to get her into 'victor status' again. She had to cover all the bruises and make her whole again.
It had almost been nice to see the other woman, Cecelia had almost been able to trick herself into thinking that it was a normal day. Domi had been quieter than she remembered her, she had probably been told not to talk to her, but Cecelia had tried to get her to talk, but she had eventually given up. Domi turned Cecelia into who she was again. She had always liked Domi and had done plenty of work for her over the years. It wasn't a surprise to see that she was complicit. Of course, Domi was thriving while Panem burned.
Cecelia needed a distraction, but distractions were hard to come by in the cell block.
"Tell me what your favorite memory is," Cecelia said, her voice carrying through the block. "Or just...tell me anything you'd like."
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In League — A Lucky Blunder, part II
Masterlist
Summary: (Continued from part I) Wyatt is certain the rest of the gang has been torturing interrogating the wrong boy so he intervenes (just not too quickly). Beta read by @alittlewhump!
CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, kidnapping/abduction, nudity implied (non-sexual), restraints, manhandling, torture/interrogation, taunting of prisoner, burns, knife, blood, loss of consciousness, multiple whumpers.
The similarities were absolutely striking. It was impossible to pinpoint the variations, with this boy in front of him, eclipsing any memory of the other. His mind was determined that they should be one and the same, that there wasn’t any need to count them separately. 
But there was something about this boy that was subtly, barely, yet undeniably different. The way expressions played across his face, perhaps. Muscles of his jaw tightening when Frankie prodded his chin to get him to look up. His eyes narrowing as he resisted, expecting the slap before it came. The way they filmed over with tears and his nostrils flared with the effort of keeping quiet as his head was raised for him in a pinching grip.
Facing his captors, the unfortunate doppelgänger grew red in the cheeks, flush inching down his neck and chest. There were fresh cigarette burns there and littering the undersides of his upper arms. He had his mouth set in a hard line at the moment but his face was a mess of tears and snot from whatever crying or begging he must have been doing earlier.
Wyatt took a measured step forward. “Has he confessed?” 
The boy’s eyes snapped up, gaze unrelenting as it burned into Wyatt with a bitter righteousness. This was definitely not the same boy.
“Not yet.” Alfred struck a match to light his cigarette and the boy flinched toward the wall. The poor thing overspent what slack he was hanging by and wound up losing his footing. He swung even closer to Alfred and the open flame before he caught the ground again, bare toes scuffing on the rough concrete. It was already blotched red from his prior struggling. 
Frankie and a few others laughed. “Keen for some more?” He grabbed the boy by the ankle, pulling his leg up so Alfred could hold the lit match to the inside of his knee. 
The boy yelped, trying in vain to kick free of Frankie’s bruising grasp. He panted through his nose, trying to bear the rest quietly, knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists in their restraints. When the flame neared Alfred’s fingertips, he dropped the match and the boy was likewise released. 
The display had earned more teasing laughs and he flushed even redder, chest heaving as he caught his breath. He looked as though he wanted to tear them all to shreds but his lashes were wet with tears he did a poor job of holding back.
“Claims we’re ‘mistaken’,” Frankie explained. He was one of the oldest, closer to thirty, but still clinging to a youthful immaturity you’d expect in someone a decade his junior. In keeping with that, he produced a knife and held the side of the blade just beneath the boy’s ribcage, flat against his stomach. “Isn’t that right?” 
He was underfed enough that Frankie could insert the knife clean up into his lung, a fact that the boy clearly appreciated from the way he’d visibly stopped breathing. “Please,” he whispered, tears now falling in earnest as he shook his head as much as he dared. “I swear it wasn’t me.” 
Jimmy, whose brother was still bedridden from the whole incident, jumped up, shouting, “Fuckin’ lying little prick!” and backhanded the boy across the face. 
He’d flinched with nowhere to go as soon as Jimmy had moved but Frankie hadn’t responded as quickly and in the exchange had managed to unintentionally draw blood. The boy wasn’t even reacting to the fresh cut though. His eyes were unfocused and his posture slack as he hung on his wrists.  
Wyatt took another step forward. “All right. That’s enough, surely. The lesson to be learned is ours, lads, one of diligence.” He looked around, made sure to read the others’ gazes as he continued, “we deserve what we got if our plans were waylaid by a spy that didn’t even infiltrate our ranks and merely sourced his intel on the streets.”
The room was silent for a beat, save for the thin, ragged breathing of the boy.
Only one or two of the men were new enough or plucky enough to have to lay eyes on Wyatt to read if he was serious or not. He didn’t exercise his veto power that often, after all. The rest knew better than to be told twice and were already ambling up the stairs, bottles swinging loosely from their hands. They’d make their way to the pub at the end of the corner, aptly named The Corner, and busy themselves with darts or otherwise. 
None of them were truly cruel, just easily swept up in the moment. 
Wyatt waited until the last pair of boots had cleared the parlour above before he moved closer. “You all right?” 
The boy only whined somewhere in the back of his throat and made a limp half-start at wincing away. In all likelihood, still seeing stars. Wyatt wrapped an arm under his shoulders and lifted him off the hook. The boy slumped against him, bearing none of his own weight. He’d be easy enough to carry, scrawny as he was. 
Wyatt looped the other boy’s arms around his own neck and was about to pick him up when the boy came to again. 
He panicked, backing away and dragging Wyatt along with surprising strength. His back soon hit the wall and he found himself caught between it and Wyatt. 
“Pleasepleaseplease—” He tried in vain to squirm away. Not understanding they were entangled, he pulled mindlessly at his bound wrists which only forced Wyatt nearer and pinned him further.
“I’ll not harm you—” Wyatt tried to catch the other boy’s gaze and, when that failed, made to take his chin in hand to still him. He narrowly avoided getting bitten. “For fuck’s sake, lad. I’m trying to help you.” 
Before the feral thing managed to get them both on the ground, Wyatt pulled him away from the wall with just a little more force than necessary, sending him tripping forward. 
The boy yelped as Wyatt caught him but swiftly bit down on the tail of the cry when he found himself cradled in Wyatt’s arms. He stayed still as a corpse and didn’t dare to meet Wyatt’s eyes, instead choosing the safety of silent deference. 
Upstairs, Wyatt sat the boy on his bed, ducking out from under his arms and sitting down beside him. He kept hold of his wrists, for a moment, but the boy remained subdued. All the fight left down in the cellar, it seemed. 
He pulled the boy’s hands to his knee and started working at the rope. “How about a lie-down?”
“N—” The boy bit his quivering bottom lip, eyes downcast. “Please, sir…”
Christ, could Frankie tie a knot. 
“Please—” He swallowed, his face reddening. “Be slow,” he whispered, letting one knee fall to the side. 
“To rest.” Wyatt lifted his freed hands for him to see. 
The boy inhaled sharply, eyes flicking up to Wyatt’s. He slowly began to pull his hands away, gaining conviction as Wyatt didn’t move to stop him, and then wrapped his arms around himself. It must have been tender but he gripped himself tightly, fingertips pressing into what flesh they could find. 
Wyatt reached for one of his shirts that hung over the footboard. “Here.”
“But I’m—” He looked down at himself. “Surely—”
“It’s all right, it’ll clean.” The cut on his belly was shallow after all and didn’t seem to be bleeding any longer. Wyatt held the shirt out again. The boy wavered for another moment before finally bowing his head. Wyatt slowly helped him thread his arms into the sleeves, mindful of his injuries. 
It was too large. Even with the topmost button fastened, the boy’s sharp collarbone was visible on either side but it was long enough for a nightshirt. He wrapped his arms around himself again, blinking up at Wyatt, expression something of a cross between apprehension and gratitude. 
“What’s your name?” 
“Sir—I—” His eyes darted around Wyatt’s face.
“It’s not a trick.” 
He reddened at his fear being called out so plainly. “August.” 
“August.” 
The boy chewed his lip, clearly mustering up courage to speak. 
“Go on then.” 
He shook his head. “I’m sorry—I—” 
“My name is Wyatt.” 
August only nodded. Wyatt wondered how long he’d err on the side of caution and keep calling him ‘sir’. Probably for as long as he imagined he might wind up back in the cellar. 
“Rest now. We’ll talk in the morning and you can wash up when it's not so cold.” He moved to stand but one of the boy’s hands made a start toward him. Almost like he was going to catch Wyatt’s arm before he’d remembered himself. He tucked it back around his middle with a mumbled apology, glancing sideways at the door.  
“No one will hurt you again.” His words didn’t seem to carry much weight, despite being as good as law, so Wyatt tried another angle. “This is my room, I’ll not be leaving.” He tipped his head toward the desk. 
The boy nodded thoughtfully. He looked grateful for each piece of information given, accepting it carefully as he stashed it away. His wide eyes scanned the room once more, just as mindfully taking everything in, before they returned to his lap. He was hesitating to meet Wyatt’s gaze. 
“You can sleep by the fire if you’d rather,” Wyatt guessed. A bed to oneself was not a comfort familiar to everyone, especially those who were only there to warm them. 
Again, August acted as if waiting to be stopped as he slipped off the bed to tread across the room. The old floorboards, which normally creaked, hardly made a sound under his feet. Once he reached the carpet, his passage was completely inaudible. He faltered beside the armchair, well-nigh looking over his shoulder to Wyatt but stopping himself before he did. 
“Take the chair,” Wyatt said quickly before the wretched thing resolved to curling up on the floor. He followed with the bedcovers. 
August sank into the chair gingerly before pulling his gangly legs up along with him and wrapping his arms around them. Wyatt settled the covers around his shoulders. 
“Thank you. Thank you, sir.” The sincerity of his thanks was not in keeping with the mistrust in his eyes. 
Wyatt looked away. 
It was plain the boy wouldn’t be sleeping anytime soon. Wyatt pulled his own chair away from his desk and sat across from August, who pretended to not be wholly unsettled by the arrangement.
Part III
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