lately ive been into epithet erased (which is REALLY GOOD you should watch it if u havent) and been lookin all over for whump but have found none so. did it myself.
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Percival King is Not Afraid of Pain / Rated PG for violence / angst/hurt/comfort / feat. finger whump, fire whump (is there a name for that? I don’t know)
Percival King was not afraid of pain.
Pain was nothing more than a natural response of the body, often following an action that caused physical harm. An alarm system, if you will, to ensure that one ceased the dangerous activity as soon as possible to avoid further damage.
Percival King was not afraid of pain.
Or, at least, that is what she told herself, as she was backhanded across the face for the fifth time since she had woken up fifteen minutes before.
“Do you think I’m playin’?!” The masked figure shouted, leaning uncomfortably close to her face. “I’m not afraid to kill you! I’ve killed before!”
“Regardless of their criminal record, anyone is capable of taking a life.” Was the officer’s nonchalant response. “Admitting to having committed such a heinous crime in the past only digs your grave deeper, my friend.”
“I am no friend of a cop!!” The young man slammed his fist down on the table beside her - which, seemed to be its’ only purpose, as the surface was bare. “And I’m not getting caught!! Tell me where the amulet is, now!!”
“That information is classified.” Percy replied firmly, shifting her wrists where they were locked in the cuffs behind her back. “You may as well give up. I am not going to give in.”
“We’ll see about that.” Fuming, the boy turned and stomped away into the darkness. Blinking into the bright light aimed at her face, Percy twisted her wrists once more, trying to get a better view of her surroundings.
She wasn’t entirely sure how, but approximately seventeen minutes ago now she had awoken in a dark room, chained to a chair with Eraser cuffs and very disoriented. Her captor - face hidden by a ski mask - had soon discovered she was awake, and had set to interrogating her in the hopes of finding a lead on the Arsene Amulet.
It was pitch-black other than the light in her eyes, so she had no clue as to what time of day it was, but the detective was confident that she would soon be found and rescued. Otherwise… she wasn’t sure how to get out. Her epithet was as good as gone, and her sword was nowhere to be found. Unless her captor slipped up, she was, unfortunately, rather helpless.
Speak of the devil, her captor appeared once more from the darkness, brandishing a lighter in one hand.
“Fire?” Percy questioned in amusement. “An amateur move, to be sure.”
“Maybe so, but I’ll take it if it gets you to talk.” He spat. She caught another voice in the darkness to her right - he wasn’t alone. Reaching out, the young man grabbed a shock of her hair, yanking her head to the right as he flicked the lighter open. Percy didn’t fight him, only tracked the dancing flame with her eyes as he held it close to her cheek.
“Where is the Arsene Amulet?” He demanded once more. Percy did not respond. “Tell me!” Nothing. “Now!” He edged the lighter closer. The heat on her face wasn’t painful, not yet, but it was getting to be quite uncomfortable. Still, she didn’t speak. “You really don’t want me to do this, cop!” He yelled, getting in her face once more. Her only response was to raise one corner of her mouth in a grimace.
He pressed the lighter against her cheek.
Percy was disappointed to hear a pained sound come from her mouth, her face scrunching up into a wince as she tried to jerk away. Unfortunately, though, the hand in her hair was strong, and all she accomplished was additional pain from the tugging of her hair from her scalp before the lighter flicked off.
“You see?!” Before she could recover, his hand struck her across the face again. “I’m not playing!!”
“I can see that.” She responded through gritted teeth.
“Then talk!!”
“No.” He hit her again, then whirled around, retreating into the darkness once more.
Rolling one shoulder, Percy craned her neck to press her burned cheek against the fabric of her jacket. While she obviously couldn’t see the damage, the wound felt raw and open. Most likely second-degree.
Returning once more, her masked captor set a pair of pliers down on the table beside her before coming around behind her and beginning to work at her cuffs. Percy waited with bated breath as one wrist was freed- her left. The now-empty cuff was then locked to a leg of her chair before the young man crossed into her field of vision again, her limp wrist held firmly in his grasp.
Snatching up the pliers, the man slammed her hand down onto the arm of the chair, positioning the pliers around her pinky finger - bare and unprotected, her gloves were missing. Percy winced in apprehension, but didn’t fight it.
“Talk.” His voice was low, and his eyes through the mask burned with intensity and rage. Percy shook her head once. He squeezed.
Percy let out a pained grunt as an audible crunch came from her pinky finger, pain shooting up her arm and into her body. The man released her for a moment, and she clutched her hand to her chest, bending over her shattered finger as pained tears threatened to flood her vision.
The next moment, she was on her feet, kicking her chair backwards and causing the other cuff to slip free before hurling a fist into her captor’s face.
The young man let out a startled yell as her punch landed straight on his nose, and she was already throwing another by the time he opened his eyes. Her second punch sent him crashing to the ground, but the next moment she found herself tackled to the ground by a second figure in a ski mask.
“Pin ‘er!!” The first voice snarled, and she twisted, trying to get a leg underneath her to unbalance her opponent. Abruptly, she was cut off by her own yelp of pain as one of her captor’s hands landed squarely on her broken finger, grinding it into the concrete floor.
Her right hand flew to her left, trying to protect her damaged hand, but this only alerted her captor to her pain and caused him to press harder. A pained wail escaping her throat, Percy scrabbled at the hand pinning her down, desperately trying to stop the pain that blinded her senses. A second hand seized her right wrist, slamming it onto the cold floor, and she looked up with wide eyes as the first man aligned the pliers with her right little finger.
“No-!” The single syllable escaped her before she could stop it, but it was no use as it was cut off by another yell, accompanied by the sound of her bone shattering. She struggled, fighting against both of the men holding her down, but her stamina was too low, she was just too weak-
A loud crash of metal on metal rang out through the cavernous room, and Percy looked up with tear-filled eyes to see a new light source illuminating the room behind her captors.
“None o’ that now. Folks are tryin’a work.” The next moment, something cracked against the head of the first man, and he slumped forward on top of her. Percy began to scramble away as the second jerked up, spinning around to try and defend himself from this new contender. Unfortunately for him, he was no match against the force that took out his partner, and a solid force slammed into his head which sent him crashing to the ground.
Pushing herself up into a sitting position, Percy grimaced, holding her injured hands tightly to her chest. A silhouette appeared against the new light, and she blinked up at them as they approached.
“Percy King.” Howie Honeyglow squatted down beside her, casting a disdainful glance at her broken and bruised pinky fingers. “Should’a guessed it was you causin’ all that racket.”
“Believe me, it was not my intent.” Her voice was raised in pitch, and she swallowed to force it back down to normal. “I am- not sure how I ended up in this situation, but-” She flinched away as he reached for her hands, and he stopped. “Those two were attempting to wrest from me any information I would give them on the Arsene Amulet.”
“That the magical doo-hickey everyone been fightin’ over?” Howie rumbled. “Waste of time, ‘ask me.”
“Hmm.” Slowly, painstakingly, Percy got to her feet, Howie keeping a watchful eye trained on her should she stumble and fall. “I need to get back to the station. Those two- I need to restrain them. They cannot be allowed to escape.”
“You need a doctor.” Howie corrected sternly. “They’ll be out for long enough, you get those bones set. Ya didn’t win the fight, ya didn’t get healed.”
“I’m aware.” Percy gave in, guarding her broken hands as she began to make her way towards the door. Barely a moment passed before she heard the shuffle of leather on concrete, Howie catching up to her with ease as she limped towards the exit. He eyed her for a moment, then slipped an arm under hers, supporting her as she made her way towards the street.
“Did you tell ‘em?” He asked, his voice low. She shook her head.
“No.”
“Good.” His tone left no room for argument. “Y’did yer job.”
Loiral whines as he feels the chains on his ankles shift, stammers another useless “no no no please-!” as his legs are lifted, then screams as his body comes off the floor, forcing the broken limbs to bear his weight. He loses all other awareness as he swings from his ankles. Each break is alight with agony, stretched to the point of rupture. The already-torn-and-swollen tissues cannot bear the strain, he is almost certain that his legs are going to come off. The agony makes him jerk and writhe helplessly, and the motion redoubles the agony in turn. His throat is already raw but he screams and screams, panicked and shameless with desperation.
Suddenly fresh pain slams into his side from hip to armpit, stinging and bruising at the same time. The force knocks him sideways, jolting the strained breaks yet further. The cuffs on his wrists jerk him back, stopping him from swinging freely, yanking hard on the breaks in his arms.
Again, and this time the swathe of pain falls across his back. Again the impact slams him sideways, pulling his body taut between his ankles and wrists. Again, across the belly. Loiral’s arms are chained to the floor with little slack and he cannot lift his arms to defend his exposed body. His hands twitch and spasm frantically, catching at the chain and tangling in the links. He’s oblivious to the force of the metal on his fragile fingers, utterly consumed by the greater agony in his limbs.
The blows keep falling. Loiral can’t even tell what kind of injury is being done to his skin. Each time it’s a broad tract of stinging heat across his body, littered with sharper stabs of pain. It pales at first beside the effects of the sheer force, each impact translated by the chains into a blindingly hard tug on each and every break. He can’t think, can’t breathe past his own screaming. In scattered, fragmented thoughts he longs to black out. But it goes on and on and on without respite.
The fire across his skin gets worse with every impact. Lacerations layer across lacerations, leaving him raw and burning. There is no warning as to where the blows will fall next. Back, chest, back again. Sides, thighs, shoulders, arms. Blood drips across his skin and forms rivulets down his arms. Sometimes the agony stabs hard into particularly sensitive points and rivals even the breaks. Occasionally his face is struck and the weapon leaves deep burning gashes across cheek, chin, scalp. He twists and struggles helplessly, driven by raw instinct.
His voice gives out long before the punishment ends. His thrashing grows weaker. He is all agony. All awful, over-extended breaks and shredded, searing skin. There’s no thought left, no hope, no reason, no understanding, no sense of self. There is only pain layered over pain, and the torment gets worse and worse and worse without end.
---
Marcus loves the way his prisoner’s strength fails. He loves the helpless tremor, and the way the back-arching tension gives way into feeble limpness. He loves the wet sound of the scourge against bloodied flesh, and the near-silent straining gasps. The drow’s mouth is stretched wide, lips peeled back from the teeth as he tries to scream, but his voice has cracked and splintered and faded and now there is only the quiet whistle of air forced through his tight throat.
Marcus loves the opportunity to let loose, to abandon careful restraint and break his fragile little toy. He works the whip up and down across that narrow, frail-boned body until the skin hangs in ragged scraps and strips from the lacerated flesh and the drow is coated evenly in crimson, seeping blood from his knees down to the tips of his fingers where they just barely brush the floor. There was more than a handspan of clearance when Marcus started. The breaks in the long bones of the drow’s legs are horribly elongated, the soft tissues stretched grotesquely by his body weight and the constant jolt of the whip.
Eventually Marcus stands back to simply watch Loiral tremble. There’s no visible reaction to the respite from the whipping. Only the frantic, irregular pace of his breath gives away that he is still conscious, though Marcus knows that he will be. It is difficult to pass out while suspended head-down.
Unhurriedly he kneels down in front of his victim. He traces his fingers along the edge of the blindfold to the back of the head, and unpicks the knots with gentle, precise care. The cloth is sodden with blood as it peels away from the skin.The drow’s pupils constrict to pin-pricks at the sudden onslaught of light. But the eyes remain wide and glazed, unseeing. Loiral is lost in the agony, rendered all but insensible. Just the way Marcus wants him.
He pauses to stroke the drow’s cheek, unable to resist pressing firmly enough to pull wide the gash left there by a stray hook. Blood flows freely over and around his fingers. Loiral reacts not at all. Marcus did not mean to tear up his face, but all in all he is quite pleased with how few strikes landed off target. The new scourge is not yet familiar, and placing all nine tails precisely is not trivial.
Still smiling to himself, he stands and unlatches the chain that suspends his prisoner from the ceiling. He lowers Loiral to the floor slowly, relishing every feeble twitch and agonised gasp. The drow’s chest heaves, sucking in air. Marcus can see the broken ribs shifting beneath the patchwork of shredded skin and exposed muscle. It is beautiful. He could just watch his prisoner shudder and struggle to breathe for hours.
But he only waits until the frantic gasping slows a little. He cannot be sure how conscious Loiral is, and he doesn’t want to leave him too long to recover.
“How are you feeling, drow?” he asks, smirking fractionally at his own humour. “Are you still in there, or have I driven you out of your mind altogether?”
There is no answer – not unexpected – so he puts a little more edge into his tone.
“Do you hear me, drow? I asked you a question, I expect an answer.”
Loiral’s mouth twitches, but no sound emerges. His eyes slide sideways, searching, but fail to settle and focus. Marcus crouches beside him and gently turns his face to help him make eye contact. His gaze wavers, eyes still dull.
“Do you hear me, drow?” Marcus repeats patiently.
“—hhhh—” whistles Loiral’s breath as his abused voicebox fails to engage.
“Words, drow. The answer you are looking for is ‘yes, master’.”
“—ss—” he manages faintly “—ss — mmhh—sr—”
“Good,” Marcus purrs, amused. “Have you learned your lesson yet?”
Another near-silent whistle of a whimper. “—mmhh — plhhh — sss — plea—hsss—”
Marcus chuckles.
But amusing as the incoherent attempts at pleading are, there is little evidence of understanding. Marcus wants to speak to his prisoner. He anticipated this. After all, he deliberately took Loiral past the point of reason, it is no surprise that he is not recovering fast. So Marcus incants a spell-prayer. Just a small thing, a little expenditure of power. He touches his fingers to Loiral’s forehead. To his irritation, the magic fizzles out against the drow’s skin. Marcus frowns. He casts again, and this time delivers the spellcharge into the exposed muscle at the base of the neck. The enchantment will find the mind regardless, it does not need to be delivered directly to the cranium. A minor nuisance.
As the magic takes effect, Loiral’s eyes clear and find focus. He does not look happy to be forced into lucidity. His mouth works uselessly. The utter terror written across his face is gratifying. He will learn from this experience. Now he just needs reminding what lesson it is that he is meant to be learning.
“Are you hearing me now, drow?”
“… yes, master…” Loiral whispers. A shudder ripples through his flesh and makes his eyes roll back for a moment despite the magical aid.
“Good. Do you remember why you are suffering like this?”
“… yes, mmh– master.”
Marcus waits, wondering idly if his silence will be cue enough, or if the drow will need more explicit prompting.
“… tried … to run …” comes the confession at last, “ss-- I’m-- I’m sorry, master… so sorry, please, ple-ease…”
Satisfaction is warm in Marcus’ chest. He has picked his victim well, this time. Loiral breaks so beautifully into shards of panic and servility.
“I do so enjoy your submission, drow,” he tells him fondly. “Show me more of this in future and less defiance, and I will not have to keep breaking you so.”
Silent sobs break Loiral’s breath up into shuddering gasps. “…please,” he mouths, “please, please…”
“Make no mistake, though. Your screams bring me just as much pleasure. Do you think that you are at the limits of your endurance? You know nothing of the limits of pain, not yet.”
“Listen very closely.”
Loiral’s breath is very fast again, shallow and irregular with terror. But his eyes are still focused.
“If this were solely for joy,” Marcus tells him, speaking slowly, clearly and with unconcealed relish, “I would next finish breaking your limbs. Six or seven breaks for each of the long bones. Or perhaps I would take a hammer and reduce them to shards, as I did your feet.
“Once shattered like that, a prisoner can be restrained by weaving the limbs through cage bars or the spokes of a wheel. Can you imagine how that would feel? I doubt your imagination captures the full intensity.
“I might crack your teeth next, or finish the flaying that I have started with the whip. Or perhaps I would just leave you alone with your pain for a few hours. I wonder if you would beg for death, in the end? I would grant it to you eventually, of course. I have a busy schedule, after all, and my goddess loves sacrifice just as yours does.”
It is a shame that his prisoner has no voice left. Marcus considers healing his throat so as to hear his whimpers. He is a perfect picture of terror and suffering.
Tragically, though, it is time to lift him back out of despair and offer him some mercy to cling to. Loiral is not merely a sacrifice, despite his recent transgression.
“But,” and he touches the drow’s face gently again as he lets his tone warm. “This is not an exercise in self-indulgence, and I do not mean to kill you. This is a lesson for you. And if you learn it well, this will be the end of it. What do you think of that, hmm?”
“—please—!” Loiral begs urgently, “please, please—!”
Marcus laughs softly. “Very good. I want you to remember this, drow. I want you to remember this point that we have reached. How bad it is, and how it can still get worse. Will you remember?”
“—yes,” he sobs, “yes, master, yes—!”
“Good. Remember this also: if I must bring you to this point again, I will show a little less restraint. I will take you a little further down the path of agony. You will learn new depths of misery and desperation. Do you understand?”
“—yes, master, yes, I— I understand—”
“Very good.”
Marcus smiles as he invokes his divine patron again, channeling her healing power. He wants his prisoner witless a little longer, so he crafts a variant spell-prayer that will deliver the required energy over perhaps an hour. The pain will be less intense than a single burst, but it should be more than enough to keep the exhausted drow insensate, especially once the artificial clarity wears off. This time he remembers to deliver the magic to the exposed flesh, bypassing the properties of drow skin.
Loiral convulses as the reddish energy envelops him. His strength is already spent and he can barely lift his back from the floor, but the tortured motions still convey the depth of his agony beautifully.
“—mercy—!” he gasps voicelessly, hopelessly “—please please — I’ve learned — please—!”
Marcus watches impassively until the attempts at speech stop and the light vanishes from his eyes again.
Then he kneels down to set the broken bones back into place and to lay the limbs out straight. Without proper care, injuries like this are at risk of leaving debilitating scars, even with magical healing. The slow delivery will reduce the risk. Still, he’ll have one of the initiates come and tend to Loiral as he heals.
It will be interesting to see how he takes that, as he starts to return to lucidity.
> You promptly hunch over, your hand flying to your mouth. You gag, frantically trying to exit the window. You somehow manage to press the red X, even though your eyes are locked away from the screen.
> Who in their right mind would submit something like this to you??
> You've been having nightmares since you were a child, and even then they were still extremely vivid and terrifying. The earliest had to have been when you were around 6 or 7 years old.
> Your hands had been glued to a windowsill. Or at least, they felt like they were glued. You couldn't move them at all, and all your fingers were splayed out equidistant from each other. That's when the window came down hard on your fingers, cracking and crushing them beneath the wood. You screamed, desperately trying to pull your damaged fingers from the window sill but they wouldn't budge. The window lifted back up, then slammed back down. And it happened again. And again, and again. This continued, completely mangling your fingers no matter how much you cried or pleaded for release. You woke up sobbing, your fingers still stinging from the subconscious abuse.
