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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @someonecommittingcrimes!

Contains: captivity, torture, multiple whumpers, beating, burns, electrical shocks

Token hissed in pain as he awoke in the cell, very aware of his extensive injuries.

How long had it been? How much longer would it be before he was killed? Would Gould even let him die in dignity, or would his father’s old partner not stop until he had ripped Paradise’s location out of Token?

He was not looking forward to finding out.

Ugh, he couldn’t believe he had been stupid enough to think he could just get captured without consequences. He should’ve known it wouldn’t have been this easy.

Ugh, that stupid Element! Why did his father have to be so obsessed with that thing?!

Whatever. It’s not like he could go back now. The only thing being angry over it would do is cause problems.

Gould choose that moment to arrive, grinning maliciously and looking as pristine as ever. His neat hair and tidy coat contrasted heavily with the rough condition Token was in.

“Unless you’ve had a change of heart and want to tell me where Paradise is, we can begin.” Gould gleefully said.

“I haven’t. Just get it over with.”

“Oh, alright. Since you insist.”

——————————————————————————

Token spat blood and glared as fiercely as he could, which honestly wasn’t a lot. Gould had been beating him for the past 10 minutes or so, and although he was doing his best to stay strong, there was only so much Token could do. He was getting beaten for Element’s sake.

“Had enough yet? Tell me where Paradise is and we can be done with this. I take no pleasure in this, you know.”

“Like hell you don’t. You want to get back at my father and this is the only way how, coward.”

Gould neither confirmed nor denied this. He just reared back and punched Token again.

And so it began. He beat in Token’s face, chest, stomach, arms, legs, back, and anywhere else his hands or legs could reach. Pain erupted from Al over, seemingly simultaneous as reality blurred together.

Token is pretty sure the last thing that happened was Gould was kicking him repeatedly in the back. It didn’t feel like he had gotten hit in awhile, but Token had no idea if that was real or if he had gotten smacked so hard that he was slowly losing consciousness.

Where even was Gould-

Agonized screams tore through Token’s throat as his arms were on fire, actually burning, pressed against hot metal. His vision was blurry and spotted, but he was just able to make out Gould figure above him.

Between burns and miserable, excruciating, mind-numbing pain, Token quietly realized that if Gould were to get carried away, he could very easily kill Token before ever even extracting the Element. The captive didn’t know whether he should take comfort in possibly thwarting the business man or be horrified that he could be tortured to death over a years old grudge between former partners.

He didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because he passed out for real just a few moments later. After all, between the energy spent on thinking, getting burned on top of his bruises and blood, and his already very weak body, it was bound to happen.

The world became dark and Token slipped into the void …

…

… Only to have a rather rude awaking just a few minutes later, curtesy of a taser being shoved between his ribs.

Token twitched and screamed once more, now uncomfortably back in the realm of consciousness.

Raptor shocked Token by speaking. He hadn’t even realized the immature man was there.

“If your father could see you now… you’re so pathetic. Just like him.”

Even if Token wanted to respond, he couldn’t, because the taser was turned on again and he shrieked. His body writhed and convulsed against his will, unable to focus on anything but pain. Pure, unrelenting pain consuming through him as sure as the blood corded through his veins. The whole world seemed to melt into shades of red, black, and white as his vision swam and danced. Reality preformed a ballet where the music was his suffering and moves his injuries. The grand finale was Raptor starting to kick him around while Gould continued to tase him relentlessly.

And at last, at long last, Token passed out again and was mercifully left alone. For now.

——————————————————————————

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump writing #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @whumble-beeee!

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @tiaswritingsideblog!

Something to Fight For

Time blurred into a white-hot rush, the seconds marked by bursts of pain.

Makra had speculated that the beatings would stop after a while, that she’d be let up for air, but alas, this was not to be. After the beatings, the demon holding her captive had turned to torture. After that, sleep deprivation.

Her tongue bled from biting down so hard, but she wouldn’t scream. She could not scream. That would be letting the enemy know that it worked, that they were victorious. And she had a job to do.

Time was marked by the methods of torture. One minute, the demon would be slicing into her skin, the next, white-hot pokers would be inserted into the wounds. Salt, to burn her skin further. All of it was part of the job, she just had to stay vigilant.

“For what, though?” This statement interrupted her careful machinations, and for a moment she wasn’t sure if she’d actually heard it, or the unspecified hours without sleep were finally getting to her. When she opened one of her eyes, though, she saw the demon Xlan grinning down at her cruelly, like this was some sort of twisted game.

“What do you bother staying vigilant for? Or, rather, who.” Xlan pushed a blade underneath Makra’s chin, tilting his captive’s head up with a dangerous gleam in his eye. “Not a scream, not a word since you came here…I’m starting to think you’re mute. Shame.”

Makra stayed silent, the rest of her eyes opening and staring blankly at Xlan, refusing to give him any indication of anything at all. Her mission before was to kill Haedra’s informant. But now, her mission was to stay silent, resolute, despite the overwhelming urge to give this demon a big fuck you. Those words though…they carved a well of doubt into her painfully alert mind. For what?

“I don’t like it when I have silent ones.” The blade trailed along Makra’s jawline, then her cheek, stopping just at her eyelid. Makra stayed still, glaring at Xlan with all the affection of cats and dogs.

“Silence always comes with a reason. You, little spy, have something to lose. I’ll find out what it is with or without your help.” And with that, Xlan stabbed his blade into one of Makra’s legs, slicing, slicing deep, and it was all the spider demon could do to bite her tongue as her limb fell to the floor, twitching still.

“You’ll break, they all do! The journey may be long, but oh, will it be painful, don’t you worry…” Makra jerked away, making a low clicking sound under her breath in warning.

“What a pity you only have seven legs left…hm. You could always go for the eyes…” Xlan mused, fiddling with the knife, tracing it haphazardly across Makra’s skin.

“You could always go away,” Makra suggested, her voice strained and hoarse from disuse, but none the less acidic with hatred.

“She talks! Fucking finally!” The demon’s blade was stabbed into her shoulder, left there like she was a scabbard as he circled her. “So you’re not mute, you do have something left to fight for…” He leaned in close, causing Makra to squirm away, disgusted.

“It’s called balance. You should be fighting for it too, without schmoozing up to some whore of a fallen angel.”

Xlan paid no mind to her words, searching her face with an all-knowing smile, a little bit of insanity in his eyes.

“Something to fight for, something left to rip away, something to destroy…oh, this…will…be…fun.”

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump writing #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @shywhumpauthor! (Part two!)

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @shywhumpauthor!

(Your gift is in two parts because there’s too many images for one post!)

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @painsandconfusion!

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @acollectionofcuriousreblogs!

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @newbornwhumperfly!

From your gifter: A/N: This was super fun to write! I hope I did your characters justice, they’re all awesome. The way you write Morja is a beautiful mixture of thoughtfulness and fear, and I did my best to capture that. Enjoy and happy holidays! <3

Title taken from the song My Skin by Natalie Merchant

CW: military whump, mentions of war, injury whump, verbal abuse and threats, kneeling, noncon touch, mentioned past conditioning, non-graphic wound care, blood, references to suicide, gun mention, xenophobia

Promises Sweeten the Blow

Morja hears the cell door slam shut behind him, four locks clicking into place. He’ll be alone now, for who knows how long, while intel he gave up is analyzed and picked apart. Then, he’ll figure out if all the things the captain promised him are even a remote possibility.

The mission went well, for the most part. The infiltration had been easy. New Athens had made a bet on secrecy over defense, and they had lost it. It was the escape where things had gone awry. He’d clambered into the jeep with several new bruises and a massive gash down his bicep.

He sighs, picking himself up off the floor of his cell. He can still feel the ghost of a gun’s barrel on his upper back. A lieutenant had pressed into him the whole way back to base, while he whispered threats in his ear about what he dreamt of doing to “athenian bastards like you.” He’s about seventy percent sure the lieutenant's name is Cuthbert, but it doesn’t really matter. The chances he’ll ever actually use it are low.

For a prisioner’s cell, his room is surprisingly well furnished, though it’s eerily suicide proof. The faucet on the sink is too short to hang anything off of, the bed is smother proof, and his clothing lacks strings or ties. He isn’t even allowed shoelaces: his boots close with zippers and buckles. It makes sense, unfortunately, but the suicide prevention measures also mean that there's no medical supplies available to him to treat his wounds.

Not that he was expecting there to be, but it would’ve been nice, especially since he isn’t supposed to go to the hospital wing because he’s a security risk. Maybe he’ll get seen if the data proves to be fruitful, but he doubts that.

The wound isn’t mortal, and he’ll just have to make do.

It feels wrong to use up one of the shirts that the captain gifted him, but he couldn’t just leave it to bleed. Cleanliness was important. He wouldn’t want to disrespect the space the anóteros had given him by getting his blood everywhere.

He efficiently tears the bottom half of the shirt into strips, and he’s starting to wet them in the sink when he hears the heavy locks on the doors start to slide open. Nerves flare in his gut. Had the analysts finished already? Or was the lieutenant who’d pressed the gun to him back for more?

The door slides open, and Morja knows who it is the moment he catches sight of the gold rimmed glasses. It’s the captain, trailed by a woman carrying a large backpack, and leaning on a sparkly purple cane that matches her outfit. Another anóteros. Both of them step into the room, and the woman’s eyes go straight to the slice on their arm.

He freezes, wet fabric dropping onto the porcelain of the sink with a smack. His legs fold under him automatically and he collapses into a kneeling position with perfect posture. There hasn’t been time for the intel to be analyzed yet. The captain is here for another reason, and his mind races with all the tiny slip ups from the mission. He knew a correction was inevitable, but it still stings when he realizes it’s happening now. After a beat of silence, the captain steps forward and enters the cell.

“Good afternoon, Morja.” Their tone is serious but polite.

He doesn’t get why they act like this towards him, courteous and respectful, but his mind silences the thought before it can turn into something bigger. It doesn’t matter. They're anotero, they can act however they want. He should be thankful that they lean towards mercy.

They crouch down in front of him, and he suppresses a flinch. He hasn’t been with Tyrus that long, but he can feel his behavior already starting to slip. Just because he’s not in New Athens anymore doesn’t mean he can be disrespectful.

“I was worried that you might be hurt,” they start, referencing the blood caked patch of skin on their arm, and Morja swallows. Had he been that bad at hiding it? “Do you remember Sarai? She’s a doctor. She can take care of that, if you’d like.”

Morja doesn’t know how to react. It is a test? To see if he’ll let other people touch him? Or is he to be punished later for taking too much? But the woman is standing right there, and it would be rude to decline the captain’s suggestion.

“If you’ll permit it, she can look at it, captain,” he says, voice whisper quiet, hoping he made the right choice.

The captain nods and waves her over. She smiles and follows his instruction, bending down towards him.

“Hello, Morja, I’m Sarai,” she introduces herself.

“Thank you for offering your aid, anóteros,” he responds politely, averting his eyes.

“How about we get you onto your bed? That will probably be more comfortable for you, don’t you think?” she says, tone just as patient as the captains.

Once again, he finds himself unsure how to answer. But then again, “how about” was less of a question and more of a disguised order. “Yes, anóteros.”

Both her and the captain back away so he can stand, and he quickly rises and sits back down on the edge of his bed. He keeps his head down. If he can’t kneel, this is the next best option.

The doctor sets her bag down next to him, then goes to wash her hands. Once she’s done that, she throws on a pair of gloves and starts to examine the wound. She explains every move she makes, and asks permission to touch, and it's jarring.

Medical care is a privilege, and she is anotero. She doesn’t have to ask.

For some reason, the captain stays, maybe to remind him of his place, though they must have better things to do than watch over their captive diathésimos.

He gets off easy. No stitches are necessary, and the doctor simply uses some tape strips to close the wound after she cleans it. She asks him some questions about allergies and the like, takes his vitals, and checks him over for any other injuries. There's just some minor bruising, though, and the pair leave once he’s been tended to. The captain says they’ll be back later to bring him some food, and update him on the intel they recovered.

Morja wonders why they insist on doing things like that. It’s almost certainly below their station, so if it’s a ploy to earn his trust, then it’s rather see-through. The bandages are too soft against his skin as he lays on the oddly textured anti-suicide sheets, pondering the captain’s endgame.

For a stupid second, he can almost believe their intentions are true. Maybe, things could change.

——————————————————————————

Eventually, he hears the telltale noise of the locks being slid open again. He doesn’t know how long its been, since the cell doesn’t have a clock, but he perks up anyway. He’s absolutely ravenous after the mission.

However, the captain does not step through the door.

Instead, it’s the lieutenant from the boat, the one who’d pressed his gun to him.

Morja falls to his knees. So this is the correction for getting hurt. It was foolish of him to assume he was safe.

The lieutenant closes the door behind him, then walks across the room to where Morja is kneeling. His fingers grip Morja’s chin and pull it up, and he scowls deeper when he notices the fresh bandages.

“I don’t know what kinda game you’re playing, bitch,” he says, voice low and deadly. “But I can see you trying to wrap the captain around your finger.”

His nails dig into Morja’s cheeks as he squeezes his face harder. “They’re a good person, and they’re also smarter than you are.”

The pressure is nearly bruising now. “Whatever scam you’re running, it won’t work.”

He pinches even harder. “And if I catch you fucking with anything, you’ll pay.” The lieutenant pulls his hand away, then swiftly slaps Morja across the face. “Understand me?”

“Yes, anóteros.”

What else is he supposed to say?

Just as he was in New Athens, he is still underneath everyone.

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump writing #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @ash-and-bone-whump!

Art of Sunder

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump art #season’s beatings

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seasons-beatings · 4 months

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Happy holidays, @gallegher!

From your gifter: Authors Note—Hey there! Thank you so much for sharing your characters and their world with me. I enjoyed them so thoroughly, I couldn’t just pick two and had to write about a couple of them. I hope they are true to from and that you enjoy this brief story. Have a wonderful holiday!

Silas had spent the day utterly alone. As far as days in the Ward went, that was unusual, at least for him. Typically, he could never count on solitude. He was always receiving visitors, whether that be Fabian, Mathan, Percival. Primarily Percival, actually. The absence wouldn’t have been so suspicious if it had only been one day, but the past few days had been void of any human contact entirely. He couldn’t tell exactly how long it had been—it was always challenging to keep track of time in the Ward—but he knew it must’ve been at least a week. How odd. The break from Percival’s relentless scrutiny, probing, and testing was welcomed, but Silas found himself at a complete loss of what to do. He missed the company of his friends—no they weren’t quite friends, were they? Fabian and Mathan were as much friends to him as they could be in a place like this, but they were not friends like Dominic, like Celia. Silas’s heart ached as he thought of the two. How he hoped they were safe. He’d thought of them a lot recently. With nothing to do and all the time in the world, his mind wondered at their fates since he’d been taken. How long had they searched? Had they been able to move on? Did they still think of him? Silas didn’t have any answers and after spending hours in this circular procession of anxieties, his mind would turn to other questions. Mainly, why? Why would Percival leave him so isolated? A new technique? Another strategy to break him down? Or maybe he’d finally given up on Silas. Finally accepted that Silas, no matter what he was put through, couldn’t be broken. Silas’s heart swelled with pride at the thought. What did it matter then, if he was sold away? What did it matter if he died? He had survived Percival, he had beaten him, refused to bend to his will, and that was enough. Yet deep down, Silas knew this couldn’t be true. He had come to know Percival so fully that he understood Percival would never give up on him. But it was comforting to believe otherwise. So he sat alone in his cell, heart awash with pride and worries and, despite it all, a mind-numbing boredom.

Another day passed. And another. And another. Silas became so used to the nothingness of his existence that he almost didn’t recognize the familiar sound of footsteps coming down the hall. The noise registered just as a key clicked and the door opened. There, in all his glory, was Percival. He’d come back. Of course, he had. Though he tensed at the sight of this man, Silas remained still on his cot, back against the corner of the bare room, feet outstretched in front of him.

“Hello Silas,” Percival greeted. “How are you?” A friendly smile graced his face. Silas threw one right back at him, silently praying that his voice would hold steady.

“Swell, actually! I’ve had so much free time to catch up on my sleep.” For emphasis, he stretched his muscles, pulling his arms behind his head and flexing his legs. The chain around his ankle, which kept him connected to the wall, rattled with the movement.

“Yes, I apologize for my absence. I got so caught up with some other patients I completely forgot about our visits. I’m afraid I’ve rather neglected you.” Percival settled himself in the small chair that existed exclusively for these chats. “Having pleasant dreams I hope?”

“Of sugar plums and fairies.”

“Wonderful.” Silas watched as Percival pulled a clipboard from within his lab coat and scribbled this down.

“Now my dear, we need to talk. Do you know how long you’ve been in here, Silas?”

Silas shrugged. “Time just seems to stand still with you, Doc.”

Percival wasn’t amused. “3 years, Silas. We’ve been together for 3 years—”

“Cheers.”

“—3 years and yet you remain stubborn and combative. We’ve made no progress.”

“Progress? And what does progress look like? Me falling to your knees like all the other innocent people you crushed in here?”

Percival clicked his tongue and wrote on his clipboard. “And that sort of attitude is exactly what I’m talking about. Listen Silas, you know no one’s coming for you, don’t you?”

Silas sobered. “I beg your pardon?”

“You keep resisting me as if you have something to fight for, some future outside of here. But Silas, my dear, no one has come looking for you. No friends, no family. Nobody. So listen carefully.” Percival slid his chair forward until the two were face to face. His voice came out no louder than a whisper. “The only people in this world are you—” he jabbed Silas in the chest with his finger, “—and me. That’s it. You will never be leaving this Ward, and the sooner you realize that, the sooner we can move on. But if you insist on these delusions, then I refuse to work with you.”

Percival leaned back and reached into his lab coat again. “I want to try something new, Silas.” He pulled out a small jar of pills and folded it into Silas’s palm.

“What is this supposed to be?”

“Medicine, of course. Some patients find it difficult to accept the reality of their situation. You are one such patient. These should help you face the facts in a—” Percival looked up in thought, “—in a soothing way.”

“I’m not taking your drugs.” Silas spat.

Percival laughed. “Oh not now, of course. But give it some time. I can wait. I have plenty of patients to see and work to get done. And solitude does not do you well.” Silas opened his mouth in protest. “Ah ah, you should know better, Silas. I’ve been watching and I know you haven’t been sleeping well this past week. Was that rough? Imagine a month, 3 months, another year all alone.” Percival leaned forward, a hungry glimmer in his eye. “It must be maddening, such a sociable young man like yourself, locked up with nothing but your thoughts. It will be most exciting to watch your progression.”

Percival stood up and brushed himself off. A sure sign they were through.

“Goodbye Silas. I look forward to meeting with you again once you’re more, hm, pliable.”

And with that, he was gone.

Silas poured the pills out onto his hand. That was hardly what he had been expecting. But was it true? Had his friends really not come for him? He supposed that was a good thing. Surely that meant they were alive, safe. But still, despite his wishes for their health, he’d always expected that they would endanger themselves to find him. Dominic and Celia used to always worry him in that way. It was just in their nature, or so he thought. Silas stared at the pills for a moment. He tipped his hand and they fell to the ground where he crushed them beneath his foot. What was it Percival had said? He can wait. Well so can Silas. He would wait as long as it took. With this resolve, he laid down and finally fell asleep.

When he next woke up, there was a fresh bottle of pills lying beside him.

——————————————————————————

Dominic hadn’t been to a bar in years. He hadn’t been anywhere, really, that didn’t have a client to interview or a story to follow. There wasn’t any point in going out, not since Silas disappeared. Celia tried to coerce him out of the office and into a party, a cafe, or a park every so often, but he always declined. He knew it hurt her, and he wished he had the strength to be a better friend, but how could enjoy himself when Silas could still be out there? No, he wouldn’t rest until he found him.

Soon, very soon, Dominic thought to himself, staring up at the neon lights designating Silver Barb Brews. The bar was certainly not the sort of place Dominic would ever choose to attend, even if he was out on the town. It was a rundown sort of place, but a popular spot for those at odds with the law. He’d been sent this way by a woman he knew well, at least second-hand, Evalyne Vanya Vasilieva. Wealthy, corrupt, and politically influential, she perfectly fit Dominic’s niche of reporting. He had investigated plenty of schemes that she had been tied up in. Though he ached to write an expose on her, she was beloved by the public and well-connected to multiple organized crime groups throughout the city. Attempting to take her on without extensive physical and legal protection was a death wish, and Dominic would be no use to Celia or Silas as a dead man. So he held his tongue…for now.

His silence had finally proven useful, however. As an anonymous figure to Evalyne, Dominic was successfully able to pose as a fellow elite without arousing suspicion. In fact, he was rather proud of how convincingly he’d played his new role and garnered her trust. It had only taken 3 days, 1 generous gift of wine, and a few sly hints to get her to schedule him a meeting with someone from The Ward. Dominic had long suspected Silas was within their walls. There was very little motive for an individual to have taken Silas, he had no enemies who would do such a thing, so the most probable solution was that he’d been seized by one of the several gangs who targeted indiscriminately. The illegal happenings within the Ward, in a way similar to Ms. Vasilieva herself, were carefully hidden in plain sight under a veneer of good intentions. Dominic was one of the few people who saw through this. Still, the very nature of the Ward’s existence made an all out seige of the place impossible. If Silas was in there, Dominic would need to be clever to get him out.

Dominic took a deep breath and made his way into the bar. It was packed full with rowdy, inebriated grunts tussling and shoving past one another. Dominic slinked his way through the crowd, searching for the man Evalyne had shown him in a photo. His eyes darted from face to face but found no match. He was beginning to get desperate when a heavy hand dropped on his shoulder. Dominic spun around to find him facing the imposing figure of the man he was meeting. He was tall and muscular, far more intimidating than in the photo. The man winked at him, then whistled to the bartender.

“2 of my usual, please. One for me and my friend.” The bartender swiftly complied, Dominic swore he almost seemed intimidated, and the man handed him a glass. “Here Mr. Kirk, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.” He took the drink. “Alex, I assume?”

“The one and only. Evalyne told me you're interested in our wares.” Dominic nodded. “Wonderful! Let’s talk outside.”

Hand still on Dominic’s shoulder, Alex guided him out a back door. A gust of cold, night wind swept across the two as they entered a small, occupied alleyway. Several people were grouped up, talking or smoking. None of them even glanced towards Dominic or Alex.

“So, what sort of person did you have in mind?” Alex said, leaning against the wall. “Anyone in particular?

“Just basic labor. I suppose anyone healthy will do. However…” Dominic feigned paranoia, glancing around. “I hear you may have a certain individual. Named Silas?”

Alex grinned. “Oh yes, I know exactly who you mean. He’s a friend of yours?”

Dominic's heart skipped a beat. He’d been right! He’d found Silas! And more importantly, he’d found him alive. He desperately willed himself to remain calm. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

“More of an enemy…” he said tentatively. “It would be very gratifying to have him subject to my beck and call.”

“I understand you completely, and would be more than happy to arrange this for you.”

Dominic smiled, genuinely this time. Everything was going to be okay. Silas would be okay.

“A toast then?” He asked, raising his glass.

“Cheers,” Alex accepted, “to good business!”

Alex drank from his cup and set it down on a garbage can behind him. He ran his finger absentmindedly along the rim.

“There’s just one minor complication,” he said.

The alleyway shuffled with movement and Dominic watched as the other people all set down their belongings and turned their attention to him. His throat went dry.

“What’s that?” His voice wavered.

“I want to know why—” Alex said, eyes locked on Dominic. “—why a noble reporter such as yourself would participate in such a trade?”

Dominic went pale. Alex gave a small laugh and the group in the alleyway pressed ever closer.

“I don’t know—”

“Oh come now. Did you really think we could be so easily tricked? Why Evalyn saw right through you. She was kind enough to give me the honors of dealing with you.”

Dominic looked to the door back in but a particularly large goon stood in front of it. Dominic was surrounded. As he desperately cast about for an escape, Alex lunged forward, knocking him to ground. Dominic’s head cracked against the pavement, palms scraping on the rough concrete. The sounds of jeers and laughter came at him from all sides. He began to push himself to his feet when Alex swiftly kicked him in the stomach, sending him falling back to the ground.

“Now here’s the thing, love.” Alex knelt down and seized Dominic’s chin. “I’m not very fond of your sort. Always mucking around in other people’s business. However, since you’ve been so polite, I think I’ll just bring you along with me back to the Ward. We can go see Silas together, hm?”

“You’re not going to get away with this.” Dominic sneered, unable to think of anything else to say.

“How boring; of course I will. You of all people should know better.”

Alex hoisted Dominic to his feet by the front of his shirt and tossed him to the group of gang members surrounding them. They quickly grabbed hold of him, twisting his arms behind his back painfully. Alex checked his watch.

“Hm, we’re done early. The truck won’t be here for another few minutes.” He looked Dominic up and down appraisingly. “However will we pass the time?”

Dominic knew the answer before Alex even began to wind up his punch. He was assaulted from all sides; he lost count of where and how many blows he’d been dealt. Whenever he began to slip, those behind him would pull him again. He had no idea of how much time had passed, but eventually, blissfully, the alleyway filled with the bright glow of headlights.

#season’s beatings gift #whump #whump writing #season’s beatings

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