#hit them harder

[cyberwhumper]

Baxter had been particularly agitated lately. Seems the old client had finally been released from the hospital and was all too eager to contact private law enforcement unless some agreement was reached. Dealing with the aftermath of one's lapses in judgment seems to not be one of his stronger suits though, as he immediately places all the blame on Whiskey.

If he hadn't started all this shit, he thinks to himself, I could be home right now.

The beatings come at random times, so often now he had opted to keep his captive's hands permanently bound so it'd be easier to string him up whenever he wanted to let off some steam. His gang mates joined him often, taking turns tenderizing flesh and spilling blood, provoking agonized screams until Whiskey had no voice or strength to scream anymore. As he had gotten weaker and weaker the defiance in his eyes faded away into resignation, and he barely reacted beyond groaning despite the ever-escalating violence.

Baxter hated him and hated the lack of response even more. He wants the man to suffer, to howl in pain and beg for his life but he never did. He wants that bruised and broken body to crawl on his feet and beg for the pain to stop, to wrap the same chain that binds his ankle around his neck and choke him with it so that he knows even in death he is at the mercy of someone else.

The rage fills his head as he brings the metal pipe down on Whiskey's body over and over again. Beg. Beg to be spared. Beg for your life, you fucker! BEG! BEG! The flesh bruises easily under the weight of the metal, he coughs up blood, bones crack. Stubborn as a fucking mule. Baxter lets his thoughts consume him, lets his friends egg him on, lets the violence escalate over and over again.

It isn't until hours later, when they cut him down, that someone finally notices he's cold to the touch.

"Oh fuck, Bax. I think he's fuckin' dead."

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[set-phasers-to-whump]

i've been trying very hard to be brave

prompt: tortured for information, "hit them harder"

whumpee: peter sutherland

fandom: the night agent

here's something different for a change :) it's tentatively part 1 with a second bit later this month but i cannot make any promises lol. title from st. cecilia's by animal flag

Peter Sutherland is utterly alone. He is in the middle of the desert, in the middle of the night, and there is absolutely nothing around him. No movement, no light. Just him and the stars. 

He wishes he knew what he was doing here. He’d been told to come here, and that is all that he knows. 

He’s beginning to wonder why he’d listened. Why he’s here, in a more general sense. 

He isn’t sure that he wants this. 

He doesn’t want to be alone. 

A sound - far off, but like a gunshot in the silence. An engine. 

At least something’s going to happen, now. 

Headlights appear on the horizon, blinding and high up. A military vehicle, maybe. 

They hadn’t said anything about the military, but he figures he should’ve guessed. 

He approaches the vehicle, waves, then wonders whether it’s stupid to wave in a situation like this. 

The vehicle stops. Peter goes to open the door, but it swings open from the inside before he grabs the handle. A few men get out, and he tries to greet them, but they don’t say anything. 

His skin starts to crawl. Something is wrong. 

But it’s too late, and there’s nowhere to run. 

Someone throws a cloth bag over his head and ties a thick rope around his wrists, and then he’s being manhandled into the vehicle and can do little more than wriggle around in the grips of his captors. 

He tries to talk to them, at first. But no one says a word. He falls silent and tries to keep track of where they’re going, counting left and right turns, but the journey drags on forever and in total silence and he’s fucking afraid, and at some point he just stops paying attention. 

After an eternity, the vehicle stops. Dead silence. Hands pull him out of his seat and shove him down. He hits the ground hard, unable to break his fall. His body sinks slightly into soft sand that does very little to lessen the impact. 

He’s hauled to his feet and dragged along, stumbling and desperately trying to keep to his feet. They walk for a long time. It’s cold, and Peter feels numb. 

The squeak of a metal door opening. Clattering. Footsteps echoing in a hallway. There are a lot of them, Peter realizes. He’s horribly outnumbered. 

He’s forced to sit on what can only be a metal chair. He immediately tries to move it, but nothing happens. It must be bolted to the ground. 

A rope around his chest, securing him to the chair. More rope around his ankles. He is clearly not going anywhere anytime soon. 

“Who are you,” says a voice, somewhere to his right. There’s a slight accent to the words, but he can’t put his finger on it. 

He says nothing. Let me see how much they already know, he thinks. 

“I said, who are you.”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

A cold laugh. “You’re not in any position to be asking questions.”

Peter remains silent. 

A fist connects with the side of his head. It takes him by surprise, and his neck jerks so violently he swears something cracks. 

“My name is Chris.”

Another hit to the other side of his head. “No, it’s not.”

“Why are you asking my name if you already know it?”

He pictures a shrug to fill the silence. Receives a kick to the shin that really fucking hurts. 

“Fine. My name is Peter.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re willing to give us.”

He really doesn’t like the sound of that. 

“Last name?”

“Seems like you already know who I am.”

Another kick, this time to the other shin. 

“Answer my questions. Don’t bother saying anything else.”

“Jenkins,” Peter says, like a challenge. He’ll make them fight for every word, if that’s how they want to play. 

A punch to the shoulder that feels almost gentle, compared to the other hits he’s received. 

“Hit him harder,” he hears a different voice say quietly. It sounds…almost familiar, in a strange way. Peter strains to hear whether it’ll say anything else, but the only thing that happens is that a fist drives into his stomach with such force that he cannot breathe for several seconds. 

By the time he can breathe again, his interrogator has already moved on. 

“Who do you work for?”

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t really want to waste his newly-regained ability to breathe properly on responding to a question that the asker surely already knows the answer to. 

A punch to the chest, painful and solid but not horrible. 

“Who do you work for?”

The question is repeated by several other voices, echoing around him. 

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

“Who do you work for?”

The noise is nearly overwhelming. He doubts that they’d even be able to hear his answer over all of it. 

Eventually the echoes die away. His feet are starting to go numb from the rope binding his ankles. He’s long since stopped feeling his hands. 

“Once more. Who do you work for?” The singular voice is quiet, now. And very serious. 

Footsteps behind him, and then an arm wraps around his neck, not squeezing, not yet, but there. It’s a clear warning. 

Peter barely breathes as he forces the words from his mouth. “The United States government.”

The arm disappears. Peter takes a deep breath, the cloth bag sticking to his face so that the breath is not as deep as it otherwise might be. 

And then the arm is back, and it is squeezing this time. He chokes and tries in vain to get away, to gain any room at all to breathe. 

He’s on the verge of passing out when the pressure stops. He gasps and coughs in the confines of his cloth prison. 

There is not enough air. He keeps trying to breathe and it isn’t working properly. He’s on the verge of hyperventilation, panicking and thrashing uselessly against the ropes binding him. 

The bag is removed from his head almost gently. He catches a flash of light, mottled colors and shapes that are too bright and too much, and then a blindfold is tied around his head, plunging him into darkness again, but at least he can breathe. 

He gulps in air like he is never going to get the chance to breathe again, and eventually, his lungs stop burning and his head stops spinning. 

“You will tell us what we want to know now, I think.”

Peter barely even parses the statement, too caught up in the relief of breathing fresh, unobstructed air. 

The relief does not last long. They ask another question, and he doesn’t quite hear it, and then a fist drives into his stomach, even harder than before, nearly making him vomit. 

The question is repeated - “what part of the government do you work for?” - and Peter answers truthfully. The words taste like bile, like betrayal. 

This process continues for an eternity. A question. A brief period of time in which to answer. If he answers, usually nothing happens. Sometimes they smack him, but nothing more. If he doesn’t answer, if they think he’s lying, they hit him. The locations vary. The intensity does not. 

He lies, sometimes. When they ask for specifics, when he’s pretty sure they don’t know the answer already. Bases his answers in truth, but dresses them up or down. 

They swallow every lie he feeds them, not to mention the few truths they don’t believe. He’s not giving up too much. Nothing overly damaging. 

And then, the questions and the attack stop. Just like that. He’s untied from the chair, far too exhausted to even think about kicking out at his captors, and then he’s bundled back into (presumably) the same vehicle. 

He hadn’t really cared about how bumpy the ride had been before. But now, his entire body aches and every jolt of the vehicle sends a wave of pain from his head through his feet. He feels a million different things at once. Exhausted and nauseous and numb and resigned and afraid and angry and helpless. 

He wants to go home. Wants his mom, his dad. Wants Rose. 

They dump him in the sand again. He lies with his face pressed to it, slightly warm and unpleasantly itchy, and listens as the sound of an engine grows further and further away. 

He can feel the sun beating down on him, growing steadily more intense. He needs to move. He can barely feel his legs. 

After a long struggle, he makes it to his knees. He spends some time trying to untie his wrists, not stopping until he feels them start to bleed. 

Resigned to that particular fate, he very slowly gets to his feet. His head spins, and he nearly falls right back down to his knees. 

Instead, he makes it all of ten steps before he trips over something and falls, his knees and chin connecting with something hard. 

For a few seconds, he doesn’t move, immobilized by the shock and the pain of the fall. But when he starts shifting, he discovers something wonderful - he’s hit a rock, and its shape is such that he can rub the ropes against a fairly sharp edge until they break at last. 

The second the rope falls away, he reaches up and pulls off the blindfold. 

The sunlight is blinding and dizzying. He sinks down to sit on the rock that has freed him and looks down at his hands. His palms are streaked with blood and both wrists are encircled with red loops, deep indents in the skin showing how tightly he’d been bound. 

He looks down until his eyes adjust to the light. Then he takes a glance at his surroundings. 

He’s not sure what he’d expected. The middle of nowhere, probably. Nothing around him for miles, just sand and sun and the endless sky. 

He is not more than a quarter mile from an airport. He can see its buildings, watches a plane land, watches another one take off. 

He walks towards it, noticing all the time how much everything hurts. He cannot breathe without pain. Every step is a fresh agony, but at least he’s moving. 

He doesn’t stop moving until he’s through the doors. The air conditioning hits him like a blast, and he nearly sinks to the ground right then and there. 

As it is, he manages to stagger to a single-user bathroom and bolt the door behind him before his legs give out. 

He sits propped up against the door, breathing in the cool air, for several minutes. Eventually, he gets back to his feet and leans against the sink, examining his face in the mirror. 

They’d been relatively kind to him there, actually. There’s a scrape below his left eye and a bruise on his right cheek, but he’s looked worse. 

Less good is the blood on his chin - his own doing, from the rock that had turned out to be his salvation - and the bruise already forming across his neck. 

He does what he can. Washes away the blood and blots it out of his clothing as much as he can. Messes with his collar so the bruising on his neck is as obscured as it can be. 

His clothes are sandy and sweaty, but he leaves them as-is. He doesn’t want to look at the patchwork of bruises waiting for him underneath. 

He allows himself one final moment in the bathroom, sticking his mouth beneath the tap and drinking as much water as he feels able to. He’d scarcely noticed the thirst until now. The water tastes like blood and sand and it hurts to swallow. 

The airport is hectic, and hardly anyone even looks at him twice. By some miracle, his passport is still in his pocket, and so is a small amount of cash and his credit cards. His phone is gone, and so is his bag, but at least they’d left him with something. 

It’s a clear signal, to him. Get the hell out and do not come back. 

He doesn’t even think of trying to find the US embassy, of staying here any longer. He can’t. He’s exhausted and hurting and afraid and there is a flight to JFK in half an hour. 

He gets the last available seat, smashed in between a guy the size of a pro football player and a young child belonging to the family across the aisle who won’t stop talking. 

Despite this, he’s asleep before the plane even leaves the ground. 

thanks for reading!!! i had a really great time writing this and i really wanna do a follow-up...i have an Idea but we'll have to wait and see lmao

[kayamark]

Whumptober: No. 18 - "Hit them harder

Kill it (2019)

Ep 10

[oneweirdbookaddict]

Whumptober day eighteen!

Wars gets taken by some people who are upset about the war.

2255 words

Warnings- Lots of talk about death, deserving to die, survivors guilt, injuries, flashbacks. Really really mild torture. (Like just slapping a few times.) Mentions of kids (a teenager) dying, war, battles. Let me know if there’s anything I should add to this list. Stay safe y’all!

~~~~

An itchy blindfold covers his eyes.

That’s the first thing he notices.

Then- wait, I’m tied to a chair and blindfolded. That’s a problem.

He’s got to have a concussion, considering his slow, stupid mind right now and the fact that he has no memory whatsoever of what happened.

Don’t draw attention to the fact that you’re awake… check if you still have the knife in your sleeve…

He mentally runs through his checklist, keeping his chin at his chest.

His arms are tied to the arms of the chair, ankles tied to the legs of the chair, and tied at the waist.

Carefully, he shifts his wrist and presses the trigger to his knife, carefully wiggling the blade into his grasp so he can cut at the binds-

He’s slapped across the face hard enough to make him see stars, someone tearing the knife from his hand.

“Good catch, almost lost him.” A voice chuckles.

“Don’t underestimate him.” A different voice says coldly.

The blindfold is yanked from his face.

He squints in the harsh, unexpected light, a headache pounding into the base of his skull immediately.

“Not so pretty now, is he?” The first voice, coming from a man with a long, filthy beard laughs softly.

“Enough.” The cold voice says, and that one comes from a woman in front of him.

A mask covers her face, so all he can see is brown eyes. Icy and glaring at him.

“Make your demands and let’s get this over with.” He mutters, sighing deeply.

“I have no demands you’ll be able to meet, Hero of Warriors.” The woman says, her ice cold voice even colder.

He leans back, chin tilting up. “I’m good at surprises. Let’s hear it.”

“Colyx Dullac.” The woman says, her icy voice shaking slightly.

The name slices through him like a knife, making him falter.

“Ah, you know him? I expected less, to be honest.”

“From the seventh artillery.” He says, the unwelcome memory slamming into him.

He’s in a tent, well into the night, and there’s a rustling at the entrance.

“Captain, Sir?”

He looks up from his map, meeting the eyes of a kid, a mere kid-

“What can I do for you?” He asks, pushing the thought away.

He doesn’t bother correcting the titles- it doesn’t matter.

“My name is Colyx, Captain, Sir. Colyx Dullac.”

When there's an awkward pause, he nods. “Nice to meet you, Sir Dullac.”

“Ah- well, see, Captain, Sir-”

“Link, Colyx.” He suggests gently. This kid… isn’t much younger than he is. Being called Captain has always made him uncomfortable.

The kid’s eyes widen, but nods. “Link, Captain, Sir, I was wondering if I could serve with you.”

He pauses. “I fail to understand. Serve with me?”

“Yes, Link, Captain, Sir! I’m currently stationed with the seventh artillery, but I was wondering if I could transfer and serve under your command.”

He can’t help but to frown. “The seventh artillery is in training.”

“Yes, Link, Captain, Sir, but we’re almost graduated, and I’m at the top of my class. With special permission… I’d be able to serve with you. I’m excellent with a sword, and a bow, and I-”

He holds up a hand, and Colyx stops immediately.

“I’ll look into your file, I’ll have someone get back to you shortly.” He promises.

The kid looks like he’d offered him a thousand rupees and the door to a different country- one not torn apart by war.

“Thank you Link, Captain, Sir!”

“Yeah.” He says, turning back to his map. Takes a slow breath, looking at where they have troops.

Mostly to himself, mutters, “Ganon’s forces outnumber us three to one here… avoid direct conflict if possible… we have an advantage here, but need more troops before trying an offensive… it’ll take at least a week for that to happen… in the meantime-”

“Keep your troops hidden while watching the enemy. Keep eyes on their movements, see if any of your soldiers can get an idea of their plans.” Colyx says, and he turns to the kid and raises an eyebrow.

“Go on.” He offers.

The kid hesitates, then- “We have an advantage here due to the landscape- they’re working against the hills, but we’re working with them. We can make an attack here. The town is over defended right now- we can evacuate and plan a huge offensive there or send troops to needed areas. To avoid needless casualties I’d suggest-”

The kid cuts off again, looking hesitantly at him.

He nods, smiling for the first time in days. “Suggest sending the troops out? Excellent… you’ve done your reading, haven’t you? You went to academy.”

“Yes, Sir.” Colyx says breathlessly.

He puts a hand on Colyx’s shoulder, offering a smile. “You start training with me tomorrow morning. Sunrise, be only a few minutes late.”

The look the kid gives him makes this whole damn war seem less shitty, the burning world seem less on fire.

There really is something good still- things he can do that aren’t killing people.

Two hours later, the kid is bleeding out in his arms.

“Keep your eyes on me, Soldier.” He orders, but his voice is shaking. He’s seen death before- too much of it- but this kid- this kid- something about it destroys him from the inside.

Colyx’s eyes flicker to him.

“Sir?”

“Colyx?”

“It’s going to be hard, Sir. But you’re going to make it. Don’t let them get you, Sir. Don’t let them win.”

And the kid is gone. Limp, eyes lifeless, chest still.

“I knew him.” He manages. “I remember.”

“My son fought in your pointless war. And he paid his price- his life. He thought you to be a hero- to be the savior of Hyrule as so many did. And he died.”

The woman’s voice trembles.

“He wasn’t seventeen, was he?” He whispers, eyes closing.

A small sob is his answer.

“I was fifteen when I enlisted. Looked older than I was, and I’d been on the streets my whole life… it was my way out.”

He’s punched across the face.

The man in the corner laughs. “Yeah! Hit him harder!”

The woman complies. He makes himself continue.

“Your son was like me. I saw myself in him. I offered to train him to be a captain the night he was killed.”

At that, the woman falters. Looks at him with teary eyes, hand pausing.

“He asked to serve under me and graduate early. I tested him a little bit, pretending like I was confused about a strategy to do… and he made a suggestion. A really good one. I offered to train him myself. Was walking him back to his quarters as the enemy ambushed us…”

His words falter, throat and eyes burning. But he makes himself swallow, takes a shaky breath.

“I held him as he died. He was brave until the end- even when I wasn’t. He’s much more of a hero than I am.”

The woman is crying now, hand still held over his face. “My boy… my brave little boy… he was always so brave… he wanted to enlist so badly, I thought he’d be safe… it was supposed to just be school, so I faked his age, signed his papers…”

The woman sobs, and he takes a shuddering breath.

“He’s dead because of me.” She bawls, knees hitting the ground.

“No,” he says quietly. “He’s dead because of Ganon. Because of the enemies that killed him. It wouldn’t have happened had Ganon not attacked. There’s no fault on you, nor anyone besides Ganon.”

Zelda’s words come back to him, her soft voice helping him through waves and waves of sickening guilt, panic, too many emotions to keep track of.

He’s crying, he’s screaming, he’s breaking anything he can get his hands on, that kids blood is still all over him-

“Link. Link, enough. Look at me, that is an order from your princess.”

He looks up at her, tears dripping down his face.

And she pulls him into a hug.

He completely breaks down, then, sobbing into her shoulder. He’s watched kids die, he’s sent kids to their death, he’s watched people die in much worse ways than Colyx, so why is this one hitting him so hard?

Because he could see himself in that kid. That confidence yet hesitation at the same time, the way he was a prodigy and didn’t know how to handle it, the way he wanted to do good.

Zelda’s arms hold him gently, shushing him softly, rubbing his back until he can’t cry anymore and she gets him to bed and stays with him until he falls asleep.

And they move on. They always move on. There’s no time in war- you move on or you die. Don’t let them get you, Colyx had told him. And he’d be damned if he does.

He pushes the painful thoughts away when they come, distracting himself with battles and troops and letters until he passes out at his desk.

Now he looks at Colyx’s mother, the same way Zelda must’ve looked at him when she’d found him on the floor.

“Tell me.” The woman whispers. “Tell me what happened.”

He takes a steadying breath, looking away. “Don’t.”

Then she’s angry again. “He’s my son. He was my son. I deserve an explanation- especially when the man who said he held him while he died is sitting right in front of me!”

The pain still stabs in his chest- old wounds he’d never really allowed to heal. “Don’t make me tell you.” He says weakly.

He doesn’t want to think about it, he’s already-

And he’s slapped across the face. “He is my son!” The woman screams, grabbing his shoulders and shaking him. “My son is dead! I want an explanation! That’s all I’ve wanted for two years!”

He tastes the metallic taste of blood in his mouth- she must’ve gotten his lip.

“It won’t make it hurt less. It’ll give you nightmares and flashbacks and you’ll hurt worse.” He tells her softly.

She’s crying again, tears on her face. “Please. Tell me what happened. It can’t be worse than what I’ve been imagining for two years.”

His heart hurts for this woman- the guilt that he walked away from the war when so many people didn’t.

So he takes a shuddering breath. “It wasn’t even on the battlefield. We were set up for the night, and he’d come to see me to ask about serving under me. Like I said earlier… I offered to train him as a captain myself. He was thrilled, wouldn’t stop thanking me. I offered to walk him back to his quarters… and we were on the edge of camp. Something flew by- a bomb, though we didn’t know that at the time. We both ducked, I grabbed his arm and yanked him away… then he tackled me. Took the full force of the blast, meaning… his hollow organs ruptured, he had third degree burns all over… and all I could do was hold him.” He manages.

Two years later, the memory still haunts him.

“He bled out in my arms. We weren’t even on the battlefield.” He chokes, a tear slipping down his face to his surprise. Two years… he supposes he never really let himself think about it.

They didn’t have time to grieve back then- there were battles going on, future battles to plan, soldiers to train and feed and instruct. After the war… well, he’d just shoved everything away.

He takes a shaking breath, looking at the woman.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’m sorry I survived and Colyx didn’t. He should have. Not me. I never was supposed to survive.”

The woman sobs again, but takes his hand.

Slowly unties his wrist, then his other one, his legs, then his waist.

“I’m sorry.” She chokes, stepping away from him. “I never imagined… how hard it could've been for you, too. How hard… you didn’t deserve this. I’m sorry. It was his birthday yesterday… he would’ve been eighteen.” She sobs again, sinking to the floor.

He sits there for a moment, too stunned to speak, much less move. But then he slowly kneels next to the woman, Colyx’s mother, putting a hesitant hand on her shoulder.

“You’re not much older than him. I can tell.” She says shakily, wiping her eyes.

If he’d be eighteen, then no, he really isn’t.

“No,” he says quietly. “I’m not. I’d… love to learn more about him, if you’re willing to tell me.”

And it’s the truth- he wants to know the kid that died for him. The kid that looked up to him, had had one conversation with him before dying for him.

Colyx’s mother looks up at him, offering a weak smile.

If Colyx’s birthday is today… that means his is coming up soon, he realizes.

He’d read all of Colyx’s files, any work the military had put into this kid, the essays the kid wrote in school… he feels like he knows the kid pretty well. But there’s always more. There’s always more to do to learn about someone, to get to know more about a person.

“I… I think I’d like that.” She says softly, taking his hand when he offers and getting to her feet.

He has no idea where he is, he realizes stupidly. Glances around, but the woman touches his arm hesitantly. “This way,” she says quietly, leading the way out of the room.

~~~~

[actress4him]

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

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

.

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.”

[yarn-dragon]

Whunptober Day 18! 5 against 1 really isn't fair

[siderealdei]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Characters: Obi-Wan Kenobi Additional Tags: Whumptober 2023, Non-Graphic Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending Series: Part 8 of Whumptober 2023, Part 1 of all trussed up Summary:

No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.” Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”

Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi finds himself captured and at the mercy of the criminal syndicate he was sent to investigate.

[cakeinthevoid]

Whumptober No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”

Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.” (all three!)

Content: interrogation whump, witty whumpee

haha will is such a silly boy. too bad he has such bad migraines :(

It was a bright, sunny day, and Will Thames didn’t even know it, stuck as he was in the basement of a lunatic. 

At least, that’s what he thought the opening line of his biography should be. Get the readers hooked and all that. 

The next line would be: Fortunately, where there was a Will, there was a way out. Then the first chapter would recount how he charmed his captors and outwitted his torturers—making a dramatic escape back into the rich slums of Eschelon. 

Too bad he had yet to do that. He didn’t expect the Rungs to think he had information, of all things.

“Answer the question, vile scum,” someone was saying. It sounded like two someones, with the echo in the dank room and the ringing in Will’s head.

“You know, I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened,” he slurred. 

“Hit ‘him harder,” the Rung in front of him spat. 

He lips didn’t have the time to twist into a wry grin before a bat came knocking at his skull. 

Fuck me, he thought dimly. They were gonna kill him at this rate. Not that he could really tell, what with the thick blindfold over his eyes, but he thought he could feel his vision darkening. 

“—ill him! Idiot,” the Rung was going off. Then Will felt hands pulling his hair, tilting his head back.

“Either you tell me where the shine is, or I let Roy blow you to smithereens.” 

The only word Will’s mind picked up on was ‘shine.’ Which was unfortunate, because smithereens was a much more interesting word in his opinion. Shine was just a drug everyone south of Middlen used when—

“We know what the fuck shine is, you dumbass! Lord, how are they this organized when idiots like—”

Oh lord. “Head hurts,” he tried.

A Rung snorted. The other one continued his screeching.

“Well that’s no damn surprise. The surprise is what you were doing with pockets full of shine up in Toppen.”

“Head hurts,” he said again. “M’grains…”

“He did not just fucking say migraines.” 

“Think he did, boss.” 

The hand gripping his hair finally left. He had forgotten it was there. His head tipped to the side. 

“Oh no you don’t—” a slap to the face. It really didn’t feel like much. 

“Fucking—get his ass to the infirmary!” No sound. “Now!” Then the clatter of metal armour. 

Will felt his chair lift from the ground, which was weird because he couldn’t fly. He didn’t have much more time to pursue the thought before he succumbed to darkness.

[kira-angel24]

Whumptober 2023 Day 18

Blindfold, Tortured For Information, "Hit Them Harder"

The men carried the two girls onto the boat. "Hold on to the little one for me while I take care of the mermaid." The captain tied a blindfold tightly around Kira's head. She whined as she was carried to a different part of the boat.

"Don't worry, we'll take good care of ya." The man holding her walked away from the captain and the rest of the crew. "Captain said to take you to his quarters and I'll be waiting with ya." The man placed her down and tied a rope around a metal loop in the collar. The loose end was tied elsewhere. Kira yanked at the rope trying to pull away. "Hey hey hey, please don't do that. I don't want anyone to hurt you. Lest the captain do something worse." The angel whined as he touched her head. "It's okay, I won't hurt you. My name's Finn." She whined again before someone burst through the door.

"Finn! Don't mess with the girl!"

"I'm sorry captain! She's very afraid that's all."

"As she should be! Now then," he grabbed her face again. "You're a cute little girl you know that." Kira swallowed the lump in her throat, her wings shaking. He pushed the girl back against a pole. "Now then, what are you?" The girl whined and didn't say anything. "Come on answer me!" He knocked the wind out of her, Kira clutching her stomach. She fell forward, tears staining the blindfold. She whined again, her wings moving to cover herself. "Answer me!" A boot collided her head, the girl clutching the wound tightly. "Finn, hit her."

"But, I..."

"Finn! That's an order!" He didn't say anything.

"I'm sorry, little one," another boot hit her. She was sent in the opposite direction of the previous hit. The faint sent of blood filled her nose.

"Come on Finn, hit her harder! She's just only half human!" Kira heard Finn take a deep breath before pulling the girl up by her shirt. He punched her, sending her flying back against the pole again. She collapsed to her side. Her breath growing ragged. "We have all night to continue this you know. You better think about answering before I get back. This time I'll be bringing the whole crew." Their footsteps grew quieter. "Finn come on! Let's let her decide about answering."

[mystery-star]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 18 | "Hit them harder”

Characters: Cort, Ratsy, Foy

Words: 573

 Warnings: violence

A/N: Day eighteen for Whumptober, today’s prompt: “Hit them harder

-

Cort had just meant to call it a day and to start getting ready for bed when he heard loud voices and crashes from outside. He didn’t have a chance to go and see what was going on before the door was slammed open and two men entered his mission forcefully. For a very short moment there was an urge in him to fight but then calm took over and he just wanted to ask what they had but couldn’t even get a word out because they hit him hard and he almost stumbled back a little. Until now a part of him had just thought – and hoped – that maybe there was an emergency and they needed his help. There was no time to ponder about it further because he got a couple more blows to his body and the man beside his attacker even kicked him until he eventually went down, still none the wiser what they even wanted and why they were here.

“Get him up” a hand grabbed his collar and pulled him back to his feet only to hit him in the jaw yet again.

“There’s someone who wants to see you, priest” the other said in a mocking tone before giving him a final hit and then starting to drag him outside. Of course Cort knew he was in trouble already but at these words the feeling increased because he had done things in his life he was not proud of and had made himself a few enemies. But he wasn’t allowed to mull over it further before they put shackles on his wrists and then brought him to the ground again with another couple of hits. Finally, they let off of him but he couldn’t be relieved for long because he soon realized they had done so to burn down his mission instead.

“No!” he exclaimed and tried to get up and save what he held most dear. But his arm was grabbed and something hard collided with the back of his head

“Hit him harder. Make sure he stays there” the other one didn't need to be told twice and instantly started to kick him again until he went back to the sandy ground with a grunt. Apparently, burning the mission wasn’t enough and they also lit up the gardens as well. In horror he stared at the flames and knew even if he came out of this – whatever was gonna happen – he had probably lost everything he’d worked so hard these past years. And it wasn’t just about him. All the people that regularly visited him and sought his help; what would they do now? Helping them had given his life a kind of new sense. And a purpose. “Let’s get out of here ‘fore someone notices and tries to do something” he returned to his friend, using the chains around Cort’s wrists to pull him back up. On one, hand he didn’t like leaving yet he knew that staying and seeing the mission burn down would have been even worse.

“Sure thing” the other one took the lead in pulling him towards the horses and they attached him to one of their saddles. Helplessly, Cort threw a glance back at the fire, his heart making a strange jolt of sadness and anger.

“Hope you’re up for a lil walk, priest. ‘Cause it’s gonna take a long while that you can spend in our care”

[hithertoundreamtof23]

Whumptober day 18

Prompt- Tortured for information | "Hit them harder"

Stephen continues to get interrogated for info on the Talisman of Abraxas. (Chapter 3 of Even Abraxad got Cornered) *Must read chapter 1 (day 11) & 2 (day 14)

~~ Excerpt::

He wasn't backing down, even if it brought upon more pain. 

Ha! 

He laughed in the face of pain.

~~

...final chapter = Day 20

Whumptober 2023 Masterlist

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 18 - "Wrong Place, Right Time" 2/2 (JoJo's Bizarre Adventure)

This is Part 2 of the @whumptober Day 9 prompt. You don't have to read that one first, but if you like this, definitely check the first one out.

This story is set pre-series with the idea that Bucciarati and Abbacchio met when Abbacchio was still with the police.

~~~~~~~

Prompts Used: Tortured for Info, 'Hit them harder' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 Character: Bucciarati

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

Read on FF.net

~~~~~~~

Abbacchio lowered his head tiredly into his hands for a moment before he picked up his pen again, dutifully filling out the rest of the forms and reports for the night.

He was exhausted. It seemed like it was over time every day the last couple weeks. He'd had the mercy to send his partner home an hour ago since he'd nearly been falling asleep in his cold coffee—and now Abbacchio wasn't much better off.

The main reason their work load had exploded was that most of the precinct was busy looking into the unexpected assassination of a local politician, which meant that anyone who wasn't needed on that case specifically was working double beats. The captain had claimed it could be considered a promotion since Abbacchio and his partner had been instrumental in bringing down a drug ring that had been plaguing the city for a long time—thanks to some information from an unexpected quarter. Abbacchio didn't really consider it a promotion since he'd done nothing but work and sleep for the last two weeks—one of those a lot more than the other—but hopefully they would find the culprit soon and things could go back to normal.

He pushed through the current report, rubbing his sticky eyes.

A commotion from the front of the precinct had him looking up curiously, grateful for any distraction.

"Found him lurking around the Conti house—probably trying to take out the man's family too, the bastard," a voice growled.

"Take him in for interrogation immediately," the captain's voice said. "If this is our man, this can't wait for morning."

Two of the homicide detectives made their way through the bullpen with a man held tightly between them. "Alright, scum, let's see if you have anything to sing about."

Abbacchio did a double-take as he saw the cuffed suspect. He looked rough, suit rumpled, face bruised and hair disheveled but Abbacchio could still recognize him.

It was the man he knew only as Bruno—the Mafiosi who had tended to his injuries after his men had jumped Abbacchio. The one who had given him the tip that had led to one of the precincts biggest arrests in months.

He realized he was staring as Bruno's head came up and caught his eye, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Come on." The detectives yanked him forward so hard he stumbled. Abbacchio watched them disappear down the hall, followed by the sound of a door shutting loudly.

Abbacchio felt cold inside. Could the man he had met actually be the one to kill the politician? Honestly, Abbacchio doubted it. Especially since Antonio Conti had been very against the drug trade, making plans to try and put more effort into taking it down. Abbacchio might have been concussed at the time, but he distinctly remembered Bruno's disgust at the mention of drugs and selling them. Something about this didn't add up.

Abbacchio also felt uneasy for some reason about Bruno being in there, after hours, with Battista and Romano. Those two had been lead on this case, and they were looking for promotion—through any means necessary. Abbacchio knew they were dirty—everyone in the precinct did, but of course no one could or would prove it—and they also didn't care about playing nice. If they decided they wanted to pin this on Bruno, then they would, no question. Abbacchio didn't know why that upset him so much, but it did. Maybe it was the fact that Bruno had been so honest with him, even though he hadn't needed to be.

He tried to concentrate on his reports, but found himself constantly looking down the hall. It really wasn't his problem, he tried to tell himself. What did he expect to do anyway?

"Abbacchio!"

The captain's voice startled him as he looked up from his final report, pen clutched tightly in his hand.

"Sir?"

"Since you're still here, take this to Romano and Battista in the interrogation room. Ask if they need anything. I'm heading out for the night."

So the captain was basically washing his hands of anything that happened in that interrogation room tonight. Abbacchio attempted to hide his disgust as he took the file folder that held the assassination case and nodded, standing up. "No problem. Goodnight, sir."

He made his way down the hall, planning to just drop off the file. It wasn't his problem, and he was sure Bruno would be able to wiggle his way out of this, or one of his superiors would pay someone off to get him out.

But as he stopped outside the door to knock, he heard the dull thuds of fists in flesh, and muffled grunts.

"Come on you little shit, we know you're part of Passione—Bucciarati, right? You're real popular around the city."

Bucciarati? That name did ring a bell, Abbacchio thought, though he hadn't put two-and-two together between the well-known Mafiosi and Bruno until now.

There was a muffled reply, followed by another dull, fleshy thud. "Conti was working directly against your boss, so just admit you took him down!"

"On the contrary, you have no idea what my boss does for business." Bruno's voice growled. "But, as it turns out, we're also looking for the man who killed him, so any information would be helpful."

The sound of a metallic clang followed by a sharp cry came from inside and Abbacchio winced, finally reaching out to knock.

"What?" Romano snapped from inside.

Abbacchio stepped in, holding up the folder as he closed the door behind him. Bruno was sitting half in the chair, his face currently shoved against the table, Battista's hand gripping a chuck of his hair.

Abbacchio swallowed hard. "Case file, from the captain," he said.

The two detectives stared at him for a second before Romano, who had been standing in the corner with his arms folded, came forward to take it.

Battista wrenched Bruno's head back up, leaving a smear of blood on the table. He'd already been badly beaten, blood dripping down his nose and one eye nearly swollen.

"You really think he's gonna talk if you beat the shit out of him?" Abbacchio asked blandly.

Battista sneered as he stepped away from the prisoner briefly. "You're too soft, Leone. Hardened criminals need a harder touch. Why don't you sit in, get some pointers?" He tossed a notebook his way. "Take notes for us while you're at it. That way we don't get any blood on the paper."

Abbacchio hesitated but picked up the notebook. It was probably best if someone else was in here tonight to give a witness statement if needed.

"Alright then, you criminal scum," Romano growled, stepping up to Bruno, hemming him in as the Mafiosi looked up balefully with one good eye—the other completely swollen shut. "Why were you skulking around Conti's house tonight? Did you want to console his window or something?"

"Would it really matter if I told you?" Bruno asked.

A fist buried itself into his stomach and he folded over before Battista grabbed his shoulder and pulled him upright again.

"I've had just about enough of you avoiding questions, you prick," Romano growled, reaching down to haul Bruno to his feet and slam him against the wall, hands twisting in his expensive suit. "A good man is dead—shot through the head. Even if you didn't do it, I know you know who did."

"Funny," Bruno said coldly. "Because I was going to say the same about you."

"What was that?" Romano snarled, shoving him harder against the wall as Bruno cringed.

"Only that my Capo and Conti were on rather good terms, and I'm also running an investigation on who killed him. So…" He smiled as pleasantly as he could with a split lip and blood running down his chin. "Would you care to exchange information or would you rather continue with this pointless beating? I won't make something up just to make you happy."

Abbacchio's jaw tightened as he watched the fury surge through Romano.

"You little shit," the detective snarled. He slammed his fist into Bruno's stomach before slamming his head down against his knee when the gangster folded. "You think you can back-talk us? We'll get the truth out of you if we have to beat on you all night!" He threw Bruno into the corner of the room and Battista started to kick him in the ribs and stomach as Bruno tried to curl up and protect himself.

"Enough!" Abbacchio finally snapped, stepping forward. "He didn't do it—beating him isn't going to make him tell you what you want to know."

Romano sneered at him, shoving him out of the way as he pulled his baton out. "Clearly you still have a lot to learn, Leone," he chuckled nastily. He nodded to Battista. "Get him up."

The other detective hauled Bruno back up and dropped him back into the chair. Romano hooked the baton under his chin and hauled his lolling head upright.

"Alright, pretty boy," Battista leaned in, patting Bruno's cheek roughly. "Let's try this again. Who killed Antonio Conti?"

"I don't know," Bruno growled and spat a gob of blood onto the ground.

Another fist to his abused stomach and Bruno folded with a wheezing cough before Romano hauled him back, the baton pressed firmly against his windpipe.

"Where were you on the day he was killed?"

Bruno just shook his head.

"Hit him harder," Romano snapped.

Battista pulled out his own baton and slammed it against Bruno's ribcage with an audible crack. Bruno let out a sharp cry.

"That's enough! He didn't do it!" Abbacchio snapped, finally throwing the unused notebook down on the table.

"And why are you so certain?" Battista demanded. "Why defend a criminal?"

"I'm defending justice," Abbacchio replied and winced at how stupid that sounded. He pushed on with the only thing that had sprung into his mind. "He couldn't have shot Conti because when the assassination happened, Bucciarati was with me."

Everyone, including Bruno looked at him in silent shock after the words left his mouth, and Abbacchio wasn't far off.

"Excuse me?" Romano demanded. "The hell is that supposed to mean?"

Abbacchio swallowed and continued. "He's been working as my informant. He helped me on that drug ring bust. He was supposed to pass me more info that day but the news of the assassination came in and we both had to leave."

"Is that so?" Romano sneered. He grabbed Bruno's chin and pointed at Abbacchio. "You're passing info to this guy?"

"Yes, I am," Bruno said firmly.

"Why the hell didn't you mention that then?" Battista asked.

Bruno smirked. "I didn't think he'd appreciate it. Cops are usually pretty possessive of their informants especially when they give good information. And I can't really let it be going around that I work with the police."

Romano finally released him and strode over to Abbacchio, grabbing his shoulder as he shoved him out of the room. "A word."

As soon as the door closed, Romano pushed Abbacchio back against the wall with his arm across his chest. "What the hell are you playing at, Abbacchio?"

Abbacchio forced his gaze to be steady. "I'm not playing at anything. I can't provide physical proof he didn't do it, but you'll have to take me at my word. If you doubt my story, check that photo from the drug ring bust. It probably still has his prints on it." He knew Romano wasn't about to do actual police work, and as the man backed down he realized he was right.

The detective sneered. "Fine then, but watch yourself, Leone," he shoved Abbacchio more firmly against the wall for a second, leaning in threateningly. "Next time you try to weasel your way into someone else's investigation it might not go so well for you. Do yourself a favor and look the other way."

Abbacchio stared at him firmly. "So, tell me, Romano, if I hadn't walked in there tonight, would you have pinned the assassination on an innocent man?"

"You're a stupid little shit," Romano growled. "He's not innocent. He's killed dozens of men. What does it matter if the thing he gets put away for isn't exactly what he did? It all evens out in the end—on the scale of justice. If you want to get in bed with criminal scum, be my guest, but remember that it has consequences, Leone. Just like everything else."

He pulled away and opened the door to the interrogation room again, waving Abbacchio inside. "Seems you're free to go, Bucciarati," he snapped as Battista glowered at Abbacchio. Romano pushed him forward. "He's your informant, get him back to where he needs to go."

Abbacchio wasn't sure for a moment whether this was a trap or not, but he stepped in and grabbed Bruno's arm, hauling him out of the chair. "Come on," he said.

Bruno staggered, but kept up as much as possible. Abbacchio went quicker than he probably should, but he wanted to get out of there before the detectives decided to change their minds, or tried to follow them.

He felt better once they were outside in open air. "Let me get those cuffs," he said.

The comment was followed by the clatter of the cuffs falling to the ground and Abbacchio watched in surprise as Bruno pulled his hands forward with a wince, rubbing his wrists. "Your co-workers could put my own men to shame, officer," he said, voice slightly slurred and nasally from the split lip and blood-clogged nose.

Abbacchio winced, digging his keys out of his pocket and motioning to his car. "Sorry about that."

He unlocked the car, and Bruno slumped gratefully into the passenger seat, cringing.

"Do you need the hospital?" he asked hesitantly.

Bruno laughed. "No. I've had worse. Fugo can patch me up."

"You have broken ribs!"

"I've had worse," he insisted.

Abbacchio furrowed his brow, but started the car and began driving in the direction he knew Bruno's apartment was.

They were silent for a few minutes until Bruno said. "You lied for me back there, Officer Abbacchio. I have to admit, I'm rather impressed."

Abbacchio gripped the steering wheel tightly. "Don't read into it," he growled.

"Why did you do it?"

Abbacchio sighed. "Because Romano and Battista would have pinned it on you no matter what you said. They had already decided you would be the assassin as soon as they hauled you into the precinct. I'm not a fan of perverted justice."

"But how are you so sure I didn't do it?" Bruno asked.

Abbacchio glanced over at him. "I like to think I'm a good judge of character," he muttered. "And I know you and your capo are actively working to take out the drug dealers in the city. You would hardly take down a man who was doing the same."

"Well, you certainly have more critical thinking skills than your coworkers," Bruno said wryly, wrapping an arm around his abused middle, shifting in the seat with a wince. "You're right, though. I was sent out to look for the possible culprit. Which is what led me to the police. But it seems that it wasn't your people either."

Abbacchio turned to stare at him. "Wait, what? Are you saying you got taken in on purpose?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but I didn't want to miss the opportunity," He winced. "Admittedly, I wasn't expecting such a thorough welcome. But my plan worked out just as well. I figured it was time to make good on that favor and you came through just as I knew you would."

Abbacchio's eyes blew wide in sudden horror. "What? You set me up?!"

"Hardly! I would have gotten out of there one way or another, you just made it slightly easier on me." Bruno smirked. "Besides, that drug bust moved you up, didn't it? Consider this a thank you—we're even now."

Abbacchio gritted his teeth, but in reality, he couldn't really be mad. Bruno did have a point.

The gangster slumped against the seat silently for the rest of the drive, face wan and lined with pain. Abbacchio realized just how bad he was probably hurting and tried to get to the apartment as quickly as possible.

Bruno roused as they pulled up. "So you did remember. I should be more careful."

Abbacchio grunted as Bruno opened his door, making to get out. He almost made it before he doubled over with a soft cry, slamming a hand onto the hood of the car to steady himself.

Abbacchio was out of the car and around it to help him in a second. "Here, it will take you all night to get up there like this."

Bruno looked at him with a wary but grateful expression, and slung his arm around Abbacchio's shoulders as the police officer helped him up the stairs to his apartment.

He fumbled in his pocket and swore. "Seem to have forgotten my key."

He knocked instead and the door was opened seconds later by the blond teen Abbacchio remembered from before.

His eyes flicked over the scene, taking it in in only a second before his eyes blew wide in panic. "Holy shit! Bucciarati! What the hell did you do?" the last was directed at Abbacchio, but Bruno held up a hand.

"It wasn't him, Fugo. Please be civil, I'd like to lay down without you two trying to kill each other."

Abbacchio helped him inside and to the couch where Fugo instantly started to fuss as Bucciarati laid flat with a groan.

"Are you sure you don't need medical help?" Abbacchio asked.

"I'll be fine," Bruno replied wearily, scrunching up his face as Fugo began prodding bruises, swearing under his breath. Bruno's eyes opened briefly. "Thank you, Officer Abbacchio. I appreciate your dedication to justice. I hope we can work together again."

Abbacchio pursed his lips. "That might not be the best idea."

"Oh, I don't know, I thought I made a good informant," Bruno replied with a smirk before he hissed as Fugo found his cracked ribs with a new flurry of expletives. "If you ever need to know anything, or have anything to pass on, you know where to find me."

"Yeah. Look, lay low for a while, okay? I may not be around the next time."

"Oh don't worry about me, I rarely get caught unless I want to be," Bruno said. "Goodnight."

Abbacchio left the apartment and headed silently back to his car. He stopped and stared up at the sky for a long moment, wondering what the hell he was doing with his life. This is not where he was supposed to be. Lying to his co-workers, working with gangsters.

But what happened when those outside the law operated with more justice than those who claimed to uphold it? Was what he had done really in the wrong when it came down to it?

Abbacchio was too tired to dwell on it anymore tonight. He wanted to get home and collapse in bed and hope none of this came back to bite him in the ass.

~~~~~~~

Check out my Whumptober Masterpost HERE for more stories!

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[ladywynne]

Steven Forgets

Jake and Steven have communicated over the years, but Steven always forgets. Because that is what they need.

Part 3/3 - New York - Jake saw something he shouldn't have, and Steven pays the price. They are 25.

A true drabble at exactly 100 words. For Whumptober Day 18 for prompts "blindfold", "tortured for information", and "'Hit them harder'".

Previous

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The blindfold keeps Steven in darkness. His hands are swollen and aching where they are tied behind him, securing him in a chair.

“Hit him harder.”

Steven shakes his head quickly. “You have the wrong man! I don’t know anything about any job. I’m not even from New York. I’m a Brit.”

Suddenly a hand grabs a fistful of hair and jerks his head back, “I don’t know what you’re playing at Lockley, but it ain’t funny. We know you saw what went down at the docks.”

Steven’s head begins to swim. Está bien, hermano. You rest. I got this.

[onyxedskies]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, Fire Emblem: If | Fire Emblem: Fates Rating: Mature Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence Relationships: Azur | Inigo/Lucina, Leon | Leo/Odin/Zero | Niles, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin/Tiamo | Cordelia, Chrom/My Unit | Reflet | Robin, My Unit | Reflet | Robin/Tiamo | Cordelia, Chrom/Tiamo | Cordelia, Noire/Serena | Severa, Henry/Olivia (Fire Emblem) Characters: Zero | Niles, Leon | Leo (Fire Emblem: Fates), Lucina (Fire Emblem), Azur | Inigo, Eudes | Owain, Serena | Severa, Minor Characters, Marc | Morgan, Elise (Fire Emblem), Noire (Fire Emblem), Loran | Laurent Additional Tags: Whump, Angst, Kidnapping, Torture, Gore, Desperation, Starvation, Exhaustion, Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Heavy Angst, Not Beta Read, Rescue, Reunions, Blood, Post-Canon, Hopeful Ending, Love Series: Part 27 of whumptober 2023 Summary:

Leo woke up cold and alone for the tenth day in a row. Niles should have been back by now. Something was wrong.

Lucina hadn't heard from Inigo. He was gone, disappeared into thin air. Something was wrong. [whumptober days 11 & 18: captivity/"no one will find you" & blindfold/tortured for information/"hit them harder"]

[kyanako5972]

Whumptober Day 18

Blindfold / "Hit them harder"

I was about to post a grittier version, but then I chickened out. As with the other gritty stuff, I might post the original on deviantArt. Might.

The scars on Weave's face are all dry. Years old. Maybe they should have faded, but movie logic.

[pigmentedrat]

Whumptober, Day 18

i turned this out in like 45 minutes :D

"Hit them harder", no.3

WHumpers trainee looked back over their shoulder at Whumper, eyes searching for approval. While they wanted Whumper's validation they also hated themself for doing what Whumper told them. Whumpee's wrists were chained to an eye hook in the ground and they strained against it. Their head still turned from the blow whumpers the trainee hit them with. 

"Hit them harder," Whumpee demanded to their trainee's dismay.

"What?"

"You heard me, Hit. them. harder"

Whumpers trainee looked back to Whumpee sympathetically. They would never tell Whumper about their sympathy. For fear of Whumper's violent nature being turned onto them.