Whumpee with their hands tied over their head and their legs tied behind them so they can only squirm and flinch, kicks coming down on their torso and thighs from all sides, till their grunts of pain turn into something that sounds more like clenched down sobbing
Whumpee in a ball as tightly rolled as they can get, no longer pleading for mercy as the gang of whumpers heel-kicks down on their back and shoulders and arms
"Hold them back." Henchmen holding whumpee up by the arms as whumper just punches them in the torso and face. The sound of the punches landing rhythmically, whumpee's gasps turning into panicked shudders and groans
"Get up." Only to get knocked back down with a brass-knuckled punch. And then, "I said, get up." Trembling, whumpee does, because what will happen if they disobey is much worse.
When whumpee is on the ground, injured, edging away with an arm over their head and whumper comes in swinging a belt and starts whipping their whole body with it, and whumpee starts screaming into the ground as they can't squirm away any further, so they just ball up as the belt keeps hitting over their body
Whumpee naked and covered in bruises, flinching as someone comes in to feed them
Or, naked and covered in bruises, lowering their head with a whimpered curse in defeat, as whumper walks in with a belt
hi! I've been loving your prompt lists! how about a list with things that hint to a character having been domestically abused, for their team to notice👀
Thank you!! And i like this!
Domestic whump reveal
Content: a bit realistic, domestic whump, belt beating marks, PTSD
A pile of seemingly innocuous lies victim believes, which together keep them from trusting police, healthcare workers, or anyone that would report whumper
"No! I can't go the hospital, those are dangerous!!"
Victim's sleeves ride up when they're taking off their sweatshirt, exposing square, red-mottled welts from a folded belt.
Hastily hiding marks of abuse with a terrified expression. "It was just an accident!"
"Anyone who says 'you can trust me' is about to spout a load of bull."
Flinching when someone suddenly moves into their space. "What? You moved fast, I thought you were gonna... You know..." "Gonna what?" "...you weren't gonna. Doesn't matter."
Friend: "Did someone... Do this to you?" Victim, tearing up as they speak: "please stop. You're not supposed to see this." Friend: "Shit, someone did this to you."
Victim protesting the lies aggressor told them as if friend is espousing the same thing, stuck in flashback.
Mighty is published!!! I'm so excited! And it's free on kindle unlimited!
Leader before the enemy king:
Before her words were even translated, the king backhanded her in the face.
“Fucking bully.” Buckeye spat the words, knowing better than to physically attack with the soldiers now clutching her arms in crushing fingers.
He raised his hand again and she flinched, then shook her head, staring at the ground; he didn’t hit her the second time.
But he did speak again. Buckeye noticed several repeating words as he was talking, giving her a basic sense of the grammar structure.
“It’s good that you are ready to die. By that statement, we know you have bigger fears.”
There was a pause as he spoke to the interpreter. He touched her chin and she jerked away with a glare.
“Bigger fears, like pain.”
When it was translated, her stomach twisted. She grimaced and turned her face away. She hadn’t prepared for this. She’d expected something less… villainous, given their reputation for grandstanding on their honor code. She couldn’t handle this, not right now. She was trembling, this time in pure terror.
And of course, when she most wanted to speak, her fucking mouth wasn’t working. She could hear the king chuckling. She realized she was clutching her body defensively.
He was giving orders–orders to Carius, the stern officer.
The memory of that man backhanding Maya came back to her as the soldiers started dragging her away, Carius pacing toward her.
“Wait!” She shouted.
To her surprise, they did, seeming amused that she’d used one of “their” words. She was shaking with every breath as she tried to get the words.
She raised a hand to point at the king.
“Make peace with us, king of Jaiu.”
Mighty is about a clearly autistic soldier who begins to lose hope after she is captured and tortured for information. But she can't allow the enemy to destroy the morale of the prisoners, her fellow Forest people. She struggles to bear the brunt of despair alone while insisting that she will lead the captive soldiers to victory.
Here is Mighty! free rn
Content includes: war, captivity, torture, beatings and whippings, autistic whumpee (nonverbal episodes), leader whump, degradation, stoic whumpee
Content: belt beating, bloody violence, child abuse, choking, losing consciousness, child abuse apologetics, sadistic whumper, self wound care, character death
Nife
He was panting against her, moving something around with his arm.
Blood was covering her throat, she tasted it, and it was delicious.
Her eyes opened wide; she grinned with it all over her teeth, her eyes blazed, and she saw Amlee–who was crushing the shit out of her chest–jump in horror at the renewed light in her eyes, now brighter than ever at the taste of his blood.
He raised the belt tried to hit her across the front of the legs, but it missed as she kicked a leg out to the side. Two powerful, stinging strikes landed before she could get the right opportunity to leverage the mass of the table enough to use her superstrength to throw him off her.
“Whoah!” He shouted as he flailed with the belt, trying to catch himself.
“Fuck!” She limped sideways, fumbling for her knives. Had she dropped them?
“Stings, doesn’t it!” Amlee said, with an excited, angry grin on his face.
Cretta’s eyes were wide at the sight of Nife, covered in Amlee's blood, finally grabbing a knife where it had skidded across the table and flipping it hand-to-hand as she tried to think. Amlee's wound from Nife's knife was running freely with blood all down his bare abdomen and onto his waistline. But he was still standing there, seeming momentarily shocked.
"You know I didn't know you could fight," He panted. “No one’s ever done that to me before. You must be special for Greeviss to take that much for you.”
Nife looked behind her for guards, trying to feign disinterest.
“Aw, he must’ve been embarrassed.” Lord Amlee said. “He didn’t tell you the deal he worked out with me?”
Nife bit her lip, looking back at Amlee.
“He was going to be punished for going out anyway. Stubborn little ass. So I’d give him his punishment every night beforehand.” He gestured at the living room, giving her a clear image of how it might have happened. “With this exact belt, actually–”
"I'll kill you." She growled.
The thought raced blindingly around her mind.
I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, I’ll kill you, you piece of shit!
And the knife was fucking stuck to her hand. Tears sprung to her eyes as she woodenly moved her arm.
Not like that, idiot! Dance it! Fuck!
A second passed as slowly as a minute.
Fuck, fuck, fucking hell.
She really could kill him, no consequences; in fact, she had to if she wanted to live. She had the strength. She had the reason. But how could she choose to kill a man instead of walk away?
Fuck. A tear dripped down her face, she jerked her hand, and prayed that her hesitation didn't--
Oh, no, oh hell.
Too late.
His hand caught around her throat, slamming her into the wall what felt like dozens of times, the blackness blinking like a sputtering candle, and then a skip in time as she remembered the bruises around Greeviss' neck and realized how they got there. Then her eyes worked again and she saw a bloody fist raised above her, and she realized her head was going to get bashed in.
"You bastard." She squeaked as her throat popped back out, blood from her nose spattering off her lips, and she could hear the anguished twist in her voice. "I’ll kill you for that!”
“For what?” He said, feigning genuine confusion.
“For what you did to him." She croaked through her gritted teeth, and she hated the taste of her own blood.
"What makes you think you can dictate how I discipline my own son?" He acted gently insulted, even while his fingers tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe till there was another pop. She flailed against his grip in pain.
He trembled with the strength it took to hold her there–this man who was Striker’s superior in strength. Why couldn’t she just fucking kill her enemies?
"I think it’s time for some much-needed correction on your ass, Nife. I’ve always thought it would help you…"
She writhed, unable to breathe.
“Mmm.” He sighed, fingers trembling against her throat, as if this was relaxing, like it was hard to even keep his grip tight. “Mm, mm, mm.” Like eating a delicious meal. “Don’t get too excited now; I haven’t even started on you yet.”
The next second she had her teeth buried in his forearm, feet kicking over and over, relentlessly, into the soft groin that had been erect and naked only a half minute ago, now crushing under a hard wooden boot heel Caboodle had given her.
He cursed, then whined as he staggered back, face twitching in unsuppressed pain.
"Oh, now you’re in trouble," he groaned, "you’ll be begging for mercy, just like he does," He reached to his left, finding a hammer on the table. “But I know when you’re done, and you,” he paused with his finger shaking, to finish the sentence. “You need to be straightened. I feel sorry for you, …”
The hammer was the perfect size to make the perfect break, and that table was the perfect place to lay someone out to do it–just slightly longer than Greeviss was tall.
And then it was his head that was crushing.
Stomping, over and over, blood running down her face once again from a broken nose that was already healing, and when his head was no longer that three-dimensional, she realized guards were everywhere in the room and crossbow bolts were flying, there was a spear through the wall and she had all the projectiles in her bolt-ridden arms that she needed.
Her body kept working when it should have fucking stopped.
She was walking. Not dancing, not dodging. Too tired to run, panting. Taking an arrow in the arm that jolted her backward with the momentum, looking the shooter straight in the eye and walking right past her.
She sped up. She had to get out of there. And then she was in the hall, stomping forward until she was running faster than a horse in those boots, dodging through Diamond guards before they became aware of her, jumping out the window, literally throwing herself at the chasm. Only then did she remember the jump.
The suicide.
She screamed, throat trilling and then breaking, the rest of the scream silent and awful, and then she was caught, and caught onto, another DJ's hand, swung, and caught herself in a bruising roll onto 10th street.
She gagged on a gasp in, hearing the DJ kid behind her going,
"Getta fuck up, yer the last one and I don't wanna be caught dead riskin’ my skin fer a damn dog--"
Nife was on her feet, and she could see the other kid's face get cold for a second.
Oh yeah, I've got blood all over me.
Her eyes were wide open and dilated, ready to kill, ready to die trying. She realized the boy she was looking at was Rebel.
"Right, yeah," He panted. "Now I git where ya git that rep." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, jogging backward down the street. "C'mon. Y'gotta jump agin."
Nife still had tears making streaks down the blood on her face, she realized.
"I--I can't--" She choked. "I'm scared'a heights."
Rebel sputtered into a laugh, now over twenty feet away.
"Don' be a fool!" He said. "You j’s fucking--never mind, j’s follow me!"
Before Nife could object, he tossed his weight over the railing, caught himself on the bottom rail, and went hand-to-foot loping downward and under.
Nife gritted her teeth as a crossbow bolt zacked into the wall above her.
Just kill yourself already. She told herself. It was the only way she could convince herself to try that shit again, the way she was shaking right now.
Now, now, now!
She jumped over the side just like Rebel had, heart in her throat. Suddenly she was loping downward hand-to-foot like muscle memory, following the same track, her body going into autopilot even as her mind was screaming "no, no no!" One of the bolts in her arms caught on railing, and she gasped and dropped, but the road he'd landed on below caught her feet. She twisted and hit a knee as she fell.
"C'mon, in 'ere, t'sa Quickway." Rebel said “Quickway” as one word, gesturing frantically toward a black hole in the wall like he wanted to scoop her up with his arm and throw her inside.
It looked very inviting right now with the crossbow bolts and the screams behind them.
She threw herself into the tunnel, miasma curling up around their knees as they crawled forward.
They thrust themselves through the old sewer pipe, pausing and panting in a section that widened out, around the corner, and paused there panting.
"Yer chock-fulla bolts." He commented, panting. "Damn, I bet Beauty kills you on top of the Amlee lordling..." He leaned his overheated head against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. "You know how many people died today? We lost a few fifties, Nife a’ the Souls, hell."
"I got 'im." Nife murmured.
He jerked up his head, breath catching.
"What?"
She grimaced, pain from the crossbow bolts setting in, her freshly-fueled body already starting to heal around them. She was gonna have to pull them out herself, too--no way Rebel was strong enough on his own, not at that bodyweight, not even with his three rings.
"I said I got him." She groaned.
"You are fuckin serious." He sounded like he couldn't believe it.
"Ah, fuck!" Nife exclaimed as she set her nose straight. "Sh-shit--" She broke the head off the bolt that was still stuck in her upper arm.
"Idiot!" Rebel grabbed her bloody arm, thumb knocking against a crossbow bolt and making her hiss in pain. "Quiet the hell--"
"This way!" Came a voice from down the tunnel, and Nife found his hand slipping down the blood on her wrist until she closed her hand around his as tightly as she could.
"Come on, come on," He pulled.
She followed him into the darkness.
“She’s such a kid.” Nife overheard the DJ’s talking about her in the other room–well, she could hear murmuring and read their lips with nightsight, to fill in the rest.
She stifled a sigh, burying her head in her hands.
It was so strange to be treated normally and also have people openly acknowledge her age. She used to be able to mask that through sheer intelligent commentary. And yet the same people who didn’t treat her worse because of being a kid, were also the people who recognized the way it impacted her (terrible) decision-making.
“Well, one blindness begets another.” She muttered. “You make a person inhuman because of one of their attributes, and they then prove themselves human… So that cancels the attribute, of course, because of course, you can’t be fucking wrong, can you…”
Hence all the nobility treating her like a powerful adult that must be blazing annihilated until she was too miserable to want to live, because that was an appropriate reaction to a teenager making fun of you for beating a different teenager.
Ughhhh…
Laying back on the bed, closing her eyes, the imprint of the ceiling spun in her head, trying to draw her into sleep.
Her thoughts raced in the back, too many to give voice to even one.
I killed someone.
On purpose.
Just too much.
She forced herself to follow one of the spinning ceiling beams in her mind, letting it drag her into an uneasy sleep.
Here's Miasma on kindle
Let me know if you want to be tagged in future chapters!
Tag list: @bamber344 @sorcererfen @iamheretohurt @notlikeothernurses
[this chapter canonically has a rape scene. For the nsfw version, you can find the full book on amazon, and this part on ao3. This version is a similarly intense alternative; content warnings below.]
Content: restraints, slapping, knife, HUMILIATION, belt whipping, forced to count, dissociation, hurt/comfort
"Wait, Enimee," Nife pleaded, "you're not going to leave me alone with--"
She was cut off by the slam of the door as Enimee did leave.
Striker was undoing his belt as he stepped closer to the already-injured girl huddled in the corner.
It had been a couple months since Nife even considered fighting back, given the damn tattoos. But Striker didn't have one. And whatever he was planning to do, she couldn't let him. She didn't like the grim look on his face as he pulled his belt off.
She tried once more to get up on her own, but the sting down her welted back when she tried made her crumple back with a small whine.
Striker wordlessly took her by a horn and yanked her back toward the middle of the room. She landed on her chest and his boot was planted lightly on her back, stopping her from getting up. Even that pressure was enough to make her whimper.
"You whip me with that belt, your sister will be angry," Nife said desperately. "They're not supposed to break my skin."
"Just your bones." Striker said, and Nife heard the buckle clink.
She shivered.
"I'll fight you." She said softly. "I'm not just your victim. And I can't tell you shit about the magic–agh!"
She broke off into a cry when he ground his heel into her bruised ribs.
Striker removed his foot and squatted down next to her, knee leaning onto her left shoulder just enough to threaten, without actually making the throbbing ache worse.
She felt a hand on the back of her head and winced, but nothing happened, and a stupid hope burst from her positive little heart, telling her that maybe, he wasn't going to hurt her at all. His hand patted lightly–no punching, no pulling.
"You brought this on yourself." He said.
"Okay, yay, I'm scared." Nife said in a monotone, but her voice trembled. "What part of 'I don't know' don't you understand?" She rasped, tasting floor dust that had gotten onto the side of her mouth. He was pushing her face gently into the floor as his fingers tangled in her hair with slowly-increasing pressure.
"Nife, I don't think you understand what is happening right now." He said. He reached over her and grabbed her right hand, pulling it behind her back despite her struggles. "I'm not trying to intimidate you."
"Well, you're failing." She let him press her wrist against the small of her back, knowing she wasn't even going to try to fight. She couldn't even stand, let alone throw a punch. Still, it made her hate herself a little more.
The belt clinked again and she felt it lightly tossed across her rear.
"Your lordship," Her voice hitched in a sob. "Please. I'll do whatever you want."
Except tell the truth about the magic.
"It's a little late for that." He said.
"What do you mean it's too late?" She struggled as her other wrist was crossed over the right one, pinned under his long fingers. "I'm scared! Okay? I'm scared. Just tell me what you want."
She could see him smile with her heat vision. It was a sickening grin. She realized he was stretching this out because he enjoyed it.
"Fuck you, just tell me what you want!" She said through a strangled sob. "I'll do whatever!"
"Like I said, this isn't intimidation." The belt eased under her wrists and got even tighter around them with a clink as the latch fell into place. "This is punishment."
His hands traced up her bruised sides, pressing in just enough to hurt. She held her breath so she didn't give him the satisfaction of a whimper of pain.
When he reached her shoulders, he gripped down on them like the way you grab a jar before unscrewing the lid--very fucking tight.
"I don't want you cursing now," He said into her ear, and she realized he was standing over her body, straddling her. "For every curse, there'll be another lash."
"Fantastic." She muttered. "I, lordship, I think they'll want–"
"This is about what I want." He said, gripped a little tighter, and flipped her over onto her back.
He got down on his knees, resting some weight on her stomach and making her nauseous. She watched his heat increase in his face and hands as he reached for her, and he was so hot by the time his fingers touched her temple that she expected him to rip her face off. They touched firmly, without causing harm.
"I don't want you speaking and distracting yourself from what I'm about to do." He said. "You're only allowed to say what I tell you to say. Do you understand?"
Nife could hardly make sense of the words. The weight on her stomach was pressing against the bruised rib on her back and it made all the words in her mind mix up. The nails pressed into her temple and she grimaced and turned her head, but he jabbed his thumb into her eye socket and dug in deeper.
"Do you understand?" He said, his voice even and calm, his face hot with rage.
"Yes–" She gritted out. "Sort of."
"That's two lashes."
"What–you asked me!"
"Six."
Nife bit her lip so she didn't curse and blinked a tear out of her eyes. Knowing Striker could see the pain face she was making in the lamplight didn't make her feel any better.
"Now do you understand?"
"...Yes." Nife guessed that was what he wanted to hear.
"You're missing something."
"Lordship." Nife said. She was almost grateful that he hadn't added a lash for that. It was infuriating to be grateful for that shit.
Striker leaned back, pressing into her stomach until she grunted. He eased up and scooted forward, knees on either side of her bound arms, and sat down higher on her chest, crushing her hands and the injured ribs. She wheezed out her air and nearly asked for mercy, but she was biting her lip to keep herself quiet.
"Is that better?"
"No, lordship."
"That's seven. Is it better?"
"F–" Nife bit her lip before she cursed at him. "Yes. Yes your lordship."
This fucking bastard wouldn't even let her use her mouth. Angry tears spilled out of her eyes as she tried not to sob under his oppressive weight.
He pulled out a knife.
"You Druids name yourselves when you turn thirteen, right?" Striker said calmly, placing the tip to her temple where he'd just been scratching.
"Yes. Lordship." Nife said in a monotone.
"You really like knives, then, don't you?"
"Yes lordship."
He put the tip to her temple.
"Do you want it here?" He moved it to her mouth and tapped the hilt against her teeth through her lips, just hard enough to make them ache in her skull and she grunted and jerked away.
"Eight."
Nife groaned wordlessly and a little sob came through her teeth. She was trying so hard not to cry. She couldn't break now.
"Here, or here?" He tapped the two places again, and this time she kept her face still. Before she could answer, he said, "I can either knock out a tooth with the hilt, or I can cut a nice little mark in your forehead. That one is much less painful. Yeah?"
"Yes lordship." She closed her eyes to roll them.
"Then you're going to sit up against the wall and let me. But the moment you struggle, I'll take one of your teeth. Understand?"
Nife licked her lips.
"Yes lordship."
"That's enough. No more talking." Striker got off her and she took a deeper breath.
He helpfully shoved her back onto her stomach with his foot and she wormed her way toward the wall. The effort to get herself up to the wall was so painful she almost wanted to give up and let him take a tooth. But she didn't. She was completely breathless and moaning by the time she got her back up against the wall.
All she heard in her head was her own voice saying "yes, lordship" over and over. Nothing funny, nothing clever, nothing to keep her sanity or remember who she was.
He knelt down over her legs and took her face in his hands, pressing her head back to the wall in a way that hardly let her breathe around his hand. He pressed the tip of the knife to her forehead and watched her flinch, then dug it across the edge of her forehead. She whimpered and hissed a breath through her teeth, forcing the noise down. Whatever he did, she wasn't going to scream. That would just get her more lashes anyway.
It must've been deep, because blood flowed and itched down the side of her head, into her eyebrow and over her eye, which she squinted to keep the blood out.
He leaned back, appraising her face.
"I expected you to mouth off already." He said thoughtfully. "You're so disgusting with blood running down your face. But don't worry. I don't mind getting my hands dirty." He slapped her, and a small smile flashed over his features before he hid it again.
She felt a flush coming to that side of her face, a stinging and tingling on top of everything else that was just very irritating. Maybe he wasn't planning on doing more than the whole... cutting, slapping, whipping thing. She could... maybe... handle that.
I can. She told herself. I can handle it.
She realized Striker was donning leather gloves; she'd seen him wear them before on horseback. She winced as he raised his hand, and again that tiny smirk twitched his mouth before he hid it again.
"I'm going to slap you." He said.
Yeah no shit.
"And every time I slap you, you're going to say, 'I am worthless'."
Her eyes widened as she looked up at him, perhaps having momentarily forgotten what an absolute jackass he was. Well, now she was reminded.
"Go ahead. I'm waiting."
She opened her mouth to speak, but froze before the first word came out.
"Nine."
She licked her lips and gritted her teeth. Fuck it, it was just another lie. She lied all the time.
"I... am... worthless." She said, and her head ached for some reason.
He slapped her again.
She hesitated.
"Hm." The smile was more noticeable this time. "Perhaps you don't believe me?"
He reached back to the table and pulled something off it. A whip–a small one, maybe five feet long.
"Perhaps you think I'm afraid to hurt you?" He added. "My sister wants you to be miserable. I'm here with permission. Don't worry. I'm almost done."
Slap.
"I am worthless."
Slap.
"I'm worthless."
"That's eleven. I didn't tell you to say 'I'm', I told you to say 'I am'." And he slapped her again.
"I am worthless." Tears were running down both cheeks, and it wasn't from the slaps.
“What’s wrong?” He frowned mockingly, and hit her again. “It’s just a slap.”
“...I am worthless.” She said.
He kept going. Her face was swollen and stinging and numb all at once. She was sobbing every time he slapped her. She would sob hard and it would keep her from speaking, and then he'd add another lash to the tally. She was terrified. She almost wanted him to keep slapping her so that he never got to the whipping. Her head felt like it was sloshing against her skull now. The raised places from the slapping had bruises underneath.
"I am worthless." She slurred through swollen lips.
“And pathetic. And gross.” Striker looked at his bloody glove, rubbing sticky fingers together, and sniffed it as if to confirm.
He looked up at her, his mouth pressing itself against that cruel smile.
She braced for another slap, head against the wall, chin tucked, teeth clenched, tears drenching the sides of her face and shoulders.
He smiled briefly, stood up with a sigh, and removed the gloves. Then he took her by the hair and the beads and pulled her back onto her stomach. She winced as her cracked lips touched the cold boards.
"Alright," He said rather enthusiastically. "Now, your twenty-one lashes."
"You're going to want to open your hands. Show your palms. Unless you want your fingers broken."
Or you could just not whip me. She thought. It took a force of willpower to open her hands, knowing how much more it would hurt to be hit across the palms. But no, she did not want her fingers broken, not when she knew she'd be forced to work even while injured.
Crack.
Her body lurched and she rotated sideways to protect her back. If only her hands were free, she could at least squeeze them over her mouth.
Crack.
"Count."
Crack. If only her hands were free, she could at least squeeze them over her mouth to keep from screaming. But she couldn't.
Crack. It hit her palm and her body jerked sideways, hand reflexively closing into a tight fist.
“You’d better count.”
Crack.
"Fuck you!" She screamed, breaking into sobs as the whip came down over and over. "Five!"
"Start over."
She groaned, melting into a series of loud sobs and screams.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
She wasn't coherent anymore. Nothing made sense, and she didn't want it to. She didn't want to say that she was worthless anymore, she didn't want to participate in the torture anymore. He'd get tired eventually.
She screamed and writhed, and he planted his foot on her calf to keep her from going further, no longer giving her orders. No longer anything but lashes coming down over and over, harder when she screamed. She became too tired to scream anymore, even though the pain only increased. It was like the cuff, but endless. It didn't stop after the torturer stopped. The cuts stayed and burned and layered on each other.
Finally she heard the whip toss on the floor–no, it was thrown, he was angry.
It still hurt, stung and burned and cut, everywhere. She felt sure she was bleeding; there were cold and hot places all over her legs and arms. At some point she'd rolled back enough that the lash had landed on the front of her thighs. One had caught her in the face and left a bloated welt on her jaw.
She tried to think. To remember who she was. Say something clever.
I am worthless.
That's all she could think. She'd said it herself. Why would she say that?
She couldn't think straight through the pain.
Finally he knelt again by her head.
"I want to hear one thing from you." He said in a soft tone. "One thing."
She closed her eyes and waited for him to finish, still out of breath from her struggles, and just from all the pain. Maybe he wanted to hear her scream one more time, but she wasn't going to give him that so easily.
"How did you stop the magic." He said. "You answer that question. If I hear anything else, I'll break a rib for every word. Understand?"
She could hardly think, but she knew she wasn't telling him that.
"Do you understand?" He repeated in a harder tone.
"Uhuh." She said hoarsely.
He pushed her sideways and took her chin in his hand, tilting her puffy face up toward his. He was backlit, golden eyes nearly black in his dark shadowed face. For a moment she felt like a piece of mud being observed by a prince.
"Answer the question." He snarled.
She panted, squinting at him, crying silently.
"You're not going to answer, are you." He said.
She swallowed and closed her eyes. She would take anything, rather than give up her chance at escape. She’d rather die.
"No." She whispered.
He stood up slowly and she braced herself. Eyes closed to watch him with her nightsight, she saw him bend forward a little like he was inspecting her body as she lay there, shuddering. She didn’t even have the strength to cringe. He moved one foot, and she braced for a kick. But nothing came.
He picked up the whip and put it in his back pocket, hiding it with his coat.
He stepped softly toward the door, then paused, looking back at her on the floor, hands still bound by his belt.
He tilted his head at her, wearing the same expression Gaylord had when she said something clever, then he grimaced angrily.
“You will.” He said.
Then he opened the door and left her there, alone.
In a few minutes, Enimee returned. She silently freed Nife, shaking a little. Nife could tell, with a few furtive glances at the woman's face, that she was scared–likely scared of Striker, Nife thought.
Once her arms were free, the girl curled up with her face away from Enimee, putting a hand over her swollen mouth. She didn’t want anyone to see her face.
"Are you... bleeding anywhere?" Enimee said.
"No." Nife lied, voice still hoarse and painful from screaming. She didn’t want to be touched or seen by this woman.
"Good." Enimee said. "Broken bones?"
"How should I know?" Nife snapped. "Is that why you're here? Make sure I can't fucking work for another–" She stopped short, feeling a scowl growing on Enimee's face.
"--I’m sorry!" She burst into tears, but she couldn’t even cry, it just sounded like a whine. She wanted to beg, but there was nothing left for that.
"You wanna try that one again?"
Nife groaned and dragged her body away from Enimee. The woman stepped toward her, then saw the state of Nife’s body a bit clearer as she moved out of the light. Nife felt her mouth open and close, then her shoulders drooped a little.
“Nife,” She said. “Broken bones.”
“My knee,” Nife cried. “And my rib.”
“What makes you think they’re broken?”
“Because they hurt!” Nife wailed hoarsely. “Please… please…”
“Please what?”
Nife couldn’t–she didn’t know what to say, she’d already forgotten. She just wanted the pain to end.
Enimee was looking over her body, which trembled with exhaustion and agony. The swelling and blood on Nife’s face that she tried to cover by rolling out of the light. The girl was destroyed. They both knew it.
Enimee huffed and looked off to the side. She did that when she was deciding to "look the other way", Nife had noticed.
"Here," Enimee said, shoving a glass bottle onto the table. "Take this, and... Rest up a bit. I'll throw in some bedding in a few. Back to work in the morning."
"I–I can't move." Nife squeaked.
How was she supposed to even get to the bottle from there on the floor? Let alone work tomorrow?
Enimee was already leaving.
"Do you hear me?” Nife groaned. “I can't move!"
Enimee was in the hall now, clearly pretending not to hear for Nife's own sake. Somehow rationality wasn't present anymore–hell, Nife herself wasn't present. She heard her own distant voice screeching in a rib-splitting cry, something stupid–something she'd immediately forget.
"Do you fucking hear anything?” Her voice broke and she pushed against the sobs that tried to overtake her body. Every movement made her back feel like it was being beaten with a hammer.
Her words and groans reverberated down the hallway as the door slowly fell closed on its own. Nife listened for Enimee’s footsteps to turn, to come back. Because naturally, Nife should get the beating of a lifetime for that.
But there was nothing. Nife dropped her head back into the cold puddle of tears and bit her lips to keep from groaning anymore, whispering “Don’t. Don’t.” Over and over.
It had been about half an hour. The tolling of the hallway grandfather clocks told Nife that it was eight, time for the slaves' legally mandated rest time. Time that Enimee would probably be locking the slaves in their quarters.
Nife's door hadn't even been locked. Obviously Enimee understood exactly how fucked Nife was. That just made it worse that she expected Nife to blazing work tomorrow.
Her bruises were setting now, cuts failing to scab over. Her free hand hovered over the worst one on her other arm as she tried to focus her magic there. Apparently some people who had had near-death experiences could heal themselves using magic, but apparently none of Nife's marvelous adventures had equipped her for that. The blue line leading down toward the cuff flickered.
She reached an arm toward the table where Enimee had left the bottle and the whole other half of her body just gave out. She writhed on the floor, clenching her fists, feeling the warmth in the hand that had been struck by the whip. It still stung like mad.
She tried again. If she didn’t treat her wounds she’d get infected; she was probably already going to get sick. When she moved her legs, her knee ground sideways and she choked off a scream, hitting the ground and rolling onto her side.
With groans forcing their way down her raw throat, she almost didn't notice the warmth of a busty young woman making her way down the passage in her direction. She was only a few steps away when Nife recognized who she was–Iridiss.
The girl stepped in almost silently, lifting a finger to her lips as Nife looked up at her. Then Iridiss froze, looking at the indecisive way the heat was spreading over Nife's body. Nife could feel it too–concentrated in her back and the outsides of her arms and legs, but there were other injuries too. Iridiss could probably see all of them. Especially judging from the way her shoulders went limp and her face warmed behind the eyes in the shape of anger.
"Herdja hollerin way up in the kitchen." Was all she said.
Nife lowered her head to the ground again. She wanted to say something. Maybe a self-deprecating joke or something. But all that came out was a dog-like whine.
Iridiss came in and knelt down in front of Nife with a small sigh, which she did before she started a fresh task.
"It's dangerous." Nife said, finding her tongue swollen and her lips puffed partly open. Her friend could be seriously punished for being out here after dark.
"Not that dan'jrous." She shrugged, gently touching the top of Nife's head. It was one of the few places that wasn't blazing with pain. "Mind if I getcha lil cleaned up?"
"Gonna have to touch me?" Nife said with a broken voice.
It was supposed to be rhetorical.
"I'll be gentle, I promise."
Nife groaned weakly.
"There's a, uh," She licked her lips to make herself speak even though it hurt to even breathe. "A bottle. On the thing."
Since it was the only piece of furniture in the room, Iridiss didn't have to look far before she found it. She turned it around in her hands, blindly tracing the outside with her fingers. She couldn't read, but it wouldn't have mattered, because they didn't have any light.
"I know what this stuff is." She said after a pause. "Seen the bottle."
She opened it and dipped a finger in, sniffed and nodded. Then she sighed and reached for Nife's back without so much as asking. Nife tried not to recoil as she put whatever it was on the bruises.
Iridiss doesn’t know that I’m worthless. The thought came up by itself and she frowned. Ridiculous–that was just lies for Striker’s stupid sadist ego trip. She thought. I haven’t changed. I can make myself at least look like a human.
Iridiss touched the worst spot, a rib on Nife's right side, and Nife gasped and flinched away.
"Not there not there not there." She whispered, squeezing her eyes shut. More tears coursed down her cold cheeks.
"I know I know, but yer makin it worse." Iridiss said.
Nife nearly broke into sobbing again; the only thing stopping it was that she knew how much it would hurt to let it out. Instead she shuddered softly.
"Tell me what it's like bein a noble." Iridiss said. "Always wanted to be rich."
Nife knew she was trying to distract her. She didn't answer.
"Come on, Nife." Iridiss said, petting her hair. "You thinkin about the bruises makes em worse."
"If this is another old wives' tale..."
"'Ts a sayin for a reason, 's all I'm sayin." Iridiss shrugged and put the ointment on the worst place.
Nife flinched and dragged herself away.
"I said don’t.” She whispered. “So don’t.”
Iridiss's eyes immediately got hot but the rest went cold. She was sad and scared.
"I just... I just asked you not to..." Nife said.
"'M only tryna help." Iridiss said.
Nife rubbed tears away, and her hand came away bloody. She cursed under her breath. Then again, and again.
“I’ll blazing kill that bastard. Making me… That… Bastard.”
Iridiss just sat there with the ointment jar on the floor and her hand held in an awkward pose like she was ready to spread it for Nife.
Nife turned her face away, covering it as well as she could.
There was a sniffle. Nife felt Iridiss wipe a tear away.
"Think yer alone, do ya?" Iridiss said. "Think you're the only one knows his lordship that well?"
"I should hope." Nife said softly.
"Yer not." Iridiss said.
Something about the coldness in Iridiss' tone felt strong. Nife wanted to ask her how she did it, and how she felt like she wasn't alone, but talking hurt so much right now.
"I was so happy when they bought me." She said. "Slave to a wealthy noble. Only dreamed of somethin that good."
Nife scooted back closer to Iridiss, who began spreading the ointment again.
"So 'magine my sprise when I wasn't good enough." She sighed. "Right?"
Nife nodded, digging her nails into her palms to keep from flinching away as Iridiss finished the bad ones on her leg.
"This one's a little broke, Nife." Iridiss' hand hovered over the worst place. "Imma fix it fer ya, right?"
"No–" Nife grunted. "You're not even a–"
"Doctor? You think they send'em for us?" Iridiss pulled back.
"How do you do it?" Nife said.
"Bandage it up tight fer the swellin."
Nife groaned.
"Not the damn bandage, the..." Nife swallowed and winced. "Lonliness."
"Oh, that." Iridiss said, pulling something out of her pants pocket. She'd actually brought a bandage. "I kinda don't. One a these days Imma kill myself, that's what keeps me goin." She laughed harshly, passing the bandage around Nife's torso and moving the beads. "I'm not really havin a fun time."
The bandage tightened with a yank that made Nife want to both puke and scream. Her breath wheezed out weakly instead.
"Sorry." Iridiss said. "Better all at a time, right?"
"You are not a doctor." Nife hissed.
Iridiss left her as softly as she had come after treating Nife as well as she could. She left the bottle on the floor so that it looked like Nife had been the one to use it.
Nife stayed face-down to keep off her back, periodically grimacing under waves of horrible aching. She liked focusing on it. That was so much better than the other thing.
She tried not to think about what would happen when the pain was gone.
First chapter: next chapter:
Taglist: @tildeathiwillwrite @mimostic @fleur-a-whump @a-n-j-a-maria @bamber344 per Tumblr's content policy, this is the non-nsfw version, but you can find the canon Dance of Death on Amazon and this chapter on ao3 (which I'm updating shabbily as fast as I can). Also if you want, it would mean so much to me if you leave a review or comment while you're there.
