The snap of your ankle breaking echoed. It was followed by your scream â both of pain and frustration. It wasnât the first bone the Unsub had broken and you doubt that it will be the last either â unless you got lucky and the team miraculously finds you. You didnât think the cards were in your favor though.
From what you could remember from the briefing from before you were taken, the team would be looking in a different direction altogether. Although, your capture might be able to help them. You knew that Garcia was fiercely protective and capable of frankly scary things regarding computers and you donât think the Unsub would have been careful enough to escape the net sheâd cast.
You just had to hold out long enough for them to find you.
While you waited for the Unsub to come back into your line of sight, you did your best to memorize everything you could see. It was a technique developed to help keep you in the moment as well as a good way to help the team later in case he got away.
It was about the only thing that you could do in your current state, tied down to a medical board. From the quick glance you had gotten of it before you were detained, it was an EMT bed.
That would certainly explain how the Unsub had been grabbing people â nobody would blink with an EMT moving a body although it might suggest a partner.
Your thoughts scrambled when your left shoulder was yanked hard, dislocating it. A second pair of hands grabbed your right arm and repeated the movement.
Now you knew there were two Unsubs and it looked like your situation just got worse.
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TWs: Like the last, this is a very heavy chapter. Overall TW for gore and graphic descriptions of the breaking and dislocation of bones. You are welcome to DM me for a chapter summary if this one isnât your thing!
Elora wasnât somewhere familiar when she awoke.
She didnât open her eyes to yellowing tile and fluorescent light, but to a messy bedroom, with an unmade bed and beer cans scattered across the floor. Chains didnât hold her to the faucet of a bathtub, rather, ropes bound her securely to an office chair. Each of her wrists were tied to the arms of the chair, though the right was much looser than the left. Mercy. Her hand was throbbing horribly enough on its own-she didnât need the additional pressure of tight ropes. She wouldnât dare move it even if it werenât secured, too afraid sheâd injure it further. Her chest was bound to the back of the chair and her right leg was tied to a bottom leg, but the left one was free. Why did he leave it free? She wriggled to test the ropes, but there was no hope of slipping out of them.
She tried to be as quiet as she could; if he didnât know she was awake, he wouldnât come in and hurt her. In the first few days, sheâd always wake up screaming and thrashing, demanding her freedom-but now, she just wanted him to stay away. She was in so much pain between the throbbing of her hand, which was starting to swell and turn purple, and the aching of her head, she didnât know if she could handle anything more without crumbling entirely. And this seemed awfully sinister; nothing good was going to come from her being tied up in an unfamiliar room.
As much as she tried to silence herself, she couldnât help but let a few groans escape her lips when sudden waves of pain or nausea hit her. She never knew when theyâd come, but when they did, it was awful; her hand would suddenly start feeling like itâd implode, and her stomach twisted in knots, all at random intervals. The man must have heard one of her pained cries, because a few moments later, he waltzed into the room, a menacing look in his eyes and the familiar mallet looking heavy in his hands.
Her expression fell immediately as she began to shake her head rapidly. Her heart was hammering inside her chest; out of everything heâd done, all of the pain heâd caused her, sheâd take anything over the agony of her bones being smashed to pieces by the heavy tool. She didnât know if she could take any more hits on her hand- it looked sickening enough as it was-but what else could he want from her?
Her leg. Her free leg. He didnât make a mistake. It was untied for a reason. He broke her fingers for stealing, heâd-for running-he would-
Tears began to well in her eyes as she realized what was going to happen and how helpless she was to it all. She was terrified, her vision blurring with tears of pure fear as he started walking towards her.
âIâm sorry,â she told him. He didnât stop advancing. âIâmsorryIâmsorryIâmsorry, I learned, you donât have to-â
She felt a rough-skinned finger at her lips and let out a weak, broken sob, tears falling down her face and dripping on his hand.
âHow could you possibly have learned? I didnât punish you for running. Only for stealing.â The manâs voice was matter-of-fact, showing little sympathy for her plight. Fear so potent it made her chest feel tight ran through Elora as she continued to shake her head, breathing unevenly. Her hand hurt so badly. So, so badly already. But her ankle? That was bigger-that would be-heâd have to do more-hit it harder-
She began to cry even more, wailing, not holding on to even a shred of dignity in her terror. âPlease. Please, it hurts. I canât-I learned-I canât do-again-â her words were choppy as she inhaled and sobbed between each one, desperately pleading for her safety. âIâm scared,â she whispered, her shoulders shaking as she cried.
The man paused for a moment, like he was thinking. She started to let relief seep into her, but then he uttered one word that made her go stone cold.
âGood.â
He spun the chair around, so she was facing the wall and an old wooden desk. Elora began to scream, but he ignored her as if he couldnât hear her, going scarily calm like he did when he broke her fingers. He ducked beneath the chair and pulled the lever to lift it up high, until her hips were almost level with the desk. At that point, he reached for her free leg. She kicked it wildly, trying to escape his grasp, even managing to nail him in the chin at one point. The terrifying glare and intimidating donât that came after stopped her in clear her tracks, long enough for him to grab her leg with a tight grip.
âYou donât have to,â she pleaded as he set her left foot on the desk. âI learned. I know-I wonât try it again. Ever. I promise.â She was lying through her teeth, but god, sheâd do anything to save herself.
âI donât give a shit,â he replied coolly, standing at her side and lining up the mallet with her ankle. He lifted it up above his head and Elora squeezed her eyes shut, preparing for a world of pain.
But nothing could have prepared her. Not any deep breaths, not any shut eyes, not even knowing the agony from her hand. The pain was explosive even from the first strike as the man brought the mallet down with as much force as it seemed was humanly possible. And her ankle, of course, was much less fragile than her fingers-it would take much more force to shatter it, more hits, more pain-none of which she was equipped to handle.
She screamed even with the first hit, dissolving into hiccuping sobs. âYou d-donât have to,â she pleaded, making the man stop for just a moment, staring intently at her. His gaze felt like fire and she wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor and never come back..
âYes, I do,â he chided firmly. âShut up.â
Her words must have had the opposite effect of what she wanted, because the second strike felt even more violent, as did the third and fourth as he picked up the pace, with little care for her ear-piercing screams and fervent thrashing. At first, the bones merely fractured, but with each strike they splintered and cracked further until sharp shards of bone poked dangerously close to the surface of her skin. And like the last time, the man seemed barely cognizant of what he was doing-he just kept going, with absolutely no awareness of her reactions.
Her vision was beginning to blur and darken as time went on and the pain continued to skyrocket with every hit, her mind spinning as the brutality of it all was just too much for her to handle. Just when she thought she might pass out, a loud crack resounded through the room. At first, she feared the worst, thinking it had been the sound of one of her own bones breaking. But when she blinked the floaters out of her vision and grounded herself, looking ahead, she saw that the desk had begun to split and splinter from the mere force of the mallet coming down on it. It was thick-it looked sturdy, but even the wood couldnât withstand the force of the missed strikes of the mallet. The man, of course, paid no attention, continuing to strike at her mangled ankle.
He hit her again and again, missing her ankle half of the time in his daze until the desk finally gave out, the wooden surface simply splitting in half and caving in with an even louder crack. Her leg fell in an instant and her butchered ankle hit the floor with so much force from the sudden drop that the shattered bones slipped out of the joint, leaving it now both badly broken and dislocated.
Elora couldnât even scream as the horrific pain exploded all up and down her leg. The noise that came from her throat sounded like inhuman-she let out a strangled, animalistic gasp as all the air pushed out of her lungs with the force. Her vision instantly blackened to the point of total darkness with the intense pain, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as her body went limp and lax against the ropes binding her to the chair. The man must have realized the gravity of the situation-his mistake- at that point, because in an instant, she heard the mallet hit the floor and felt rough hands against her face, grabbing and stabilizing her head from either side.
âHey now,â she heard his voice call. âAlright, all done. Wake up.â
But she didn't. Her hearing, too, slipped, as she let her eyelids shut, not unconscious but not quite awake, either. She was swimming in blackness, the pain so immense it was too much to bear. She was relieved to finally just rest, but moments later, she felt cold water splash across her face and run down her chest, soaking her shirt. She shivered and her eyes opened, seeing the man standing in front of the broken desk, staring down at her like some kind of giant.
âWelcome back,â he grumbled. âCome on, now, weâre done. Itâs over.â
Elora looked up at him, making eye contact for all but a moment before her chin dropped down and she brokenly sobbed. She trembled, shutting her eyes tightly as bitter terror ran through her veins.
The man sighed heavily and she felt the ropes around her chest loosen. They fell to the floor and she slumped forward, but he was there in an instant to catch her, supporting her with his shoulder as he turned to the side to untie the ropes around her wrists. She wanted to move away from him, a faint feeling of disgust clouding her mind as her body rested against his, but she was too exhausted, too drunk on pain and fear to do anything about it.
âAlmost done,â he muttered, crouching down to untie her left leg. She bitterly thought that she should kick him again, but she didnât have the energy to even move her leg. She didnât protest as he lifted her out of the chair, lifting her over a shoulder before carrying her to the bed. He set her down with a surprising amount of caution, careful to support her head and not jostle her hand or her ankle on the way down. Elora was only dimly aware of what was going on, lost to the pain as he tucked the blankets around her and slipped a pillow underneath her head.
She wanted to be comforted by the bed-she hadnât slept anywhere comfortable in a week, it should have felt like sweet relief-but she couldnât. Something felt so viscerally wrong-the bed smelled like cigarettes and old sweat, the sheets were scratchy, and she could feel his gaze on her. It didnât feel right. And something about the fact that it wasnât just a bed, but his, sparked a fear so potent she was afraid to even sleep.
But he didnât join her, rather settling down on the floor beside her with his back against the wall.
âI wish it didnât have to be this way,â he said. âI really do. But you never learn. Thatâs the problem with you, Elora. I keep trying to reach you better, but you never learn.â
She felt a lump form in her throat. There were so many things she wanted to say, so much anger, so much hate, but she knew stepping out of line was the last thing she should do.
âI know,â she mumbled. âIâm sorry.â
She wasnât really sorry.
âIf you just did what I asked, it wouldnât be this way.â
She thought about that for a moment, but in the end, she knew he was lying. This wasnât about her. It never had been. It was always about him. She stayed silent.
âIf you canât learn not to steal, not to run yourself, I just have to take away the option. Thatâs how it is.â
Elora turned on her side and curled up into a tight ball, facing away from him. âStop,â she mumbled. Her voice and her eyes were teary.
âItâs been a hard day, hasn't it?â the man asked, getting up from the ground to sit beside her on the bed. She cringed as his hands began to comb through her hair, painfully catching on knots several times before he sighed and gave up on the endeavor.
âYou should clean yourself up soon. Brush through your hair, get some fresh clothes. Maybe we could do that tomorrow, if youâre good.â
She shook her head. She didnât want any of that. She just wanted to sleep.
âItâs hard now, but think about it. In a few weeks, months, youâll be so well-behaved. We wonât have to do anything like this ever again. Look at you now. Youâre already breaking and weâve hardly done a thing. Just imagine it.â
The mere thought made Elora press her face into the pillow and bawl.
The man sighed and stood. âAlright, alright. Iâll give you some space. Get some rest.â
He left for the door and Elora heard it shut behind him as he walked off. It didnât take long before sheâd cried herself to sleep.
You know what Iâm feeling lately? Dislocation. Slowly.Â
The whumpeeâs joint twisted in a painful position, the pressure increasing bit by bit. They can feel their muscles strain, but theyâre held tight, unable to find a position that offers relief. The burning, the building stress, crying out as it creeps closer, closer, closer.
Then crack.
The tension breaks, and the joint pops out. The limb slides easily into the position forced upon it, but there is no relief, only stark white, blinding agony burning away every thought in the whumpeeâs head.Â
Martenâs arm is shaking. Itâs odd to think of him that way, of being scared or upset or even just struggling. He always seems so self possessed, so self assured in the way he does things that for Tyr, seeing him shake is something he finds difficult to comprehend. âDonât let go!â Marten grinds out, the ground underneath him slipping as Tyr struggles to make his useless leg work, the pain of the break somewhere between ouch and oh gods damn. âDonât, youâre going to fall-â He starts to say and Martenâs eyes narrow, his mouth flattens into a flat line and with a heavy, awful haul he pulls Tyr up further, the dislocation in his shoulder relieved by the other elfâs now painfully tight grip on his shirt. âIf you give up, Iâm going to kick your ass.ââSorry, I-ââShut the fuck up, Tyr.âIt hurts, and he wants to cry but Marten pulls him up, lets him bury his face in his neck while they wait for Url to find them and itâs enough. For now.
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Oh there are so many. I think my favorite overall trope is the Breaking Point(tm).
Most of the time when you hear about a breaking point in whump, itâs the whumpee that comes to mind. That moment when the whumpee canât be defiant anymore, when their bravado falters and they utter that first âplease.â
That is only an example. Iâm talking about Breaking Points in the broadest sense of the term. Iâm talking the build up of a thing, and the moment when that thing buckles.
A trembling joint pulled too far out until the bone finally slips from its socket. Muscles strained to the point the whumpee feels them tear. That awful pop followed by a scream.
The whumperâs patience tested until they lash out. The whumpeeâs self-control reaching its end and driving them to violence against the whumper. The moment that the whumper does that ONE THING that puts the caretaker into murder-mode.
That moment when something, either physical or emotional, is strained to the point that it gives way. That sheer build-up. That moment of relief, of terror, of rage.Â
My favorite whump trope is the moment of breaking.
If you were a character in a whump scene, would you be the caretaker, the whumper, or the whumpee?
As much as I would like to say Iâd be the caretaker, itâs probably closer to the truth to say Iâd be the whumpee. It depends on the scene, though.
In the one EAA mission he led that gone all wrong, it was then he lost feeling in his left shoulder and that was the last he knew before only waking up in the hospital days later. It was all a blur, he didn't remember what happened other than the way it was explained to him, bullet lodged in his shoulder, broken bones, full dislocation, injury too close to comfort to his heart, no one else survived, lucky to be alive. Noah was the one that saved his life with putting his shoulder back together again. Even with physiotherapy and a lot of work put in to get it back in working order, despite being used as a disguise further during his time in the labs, Ashton's left shoulder wouldn't ever really be the same, once in awhile he might still here a pop from movement, if he isn't careful, dislocations happen more easily now, a bone deep soreness aches through if he exerts too much in a short period of time. He does his best to hide it if a spell of pain creeps up, no one needed to know or worry that he couldn't do his job. But he's learnt to manage it, and nothing else to do but live with the pain be glad he's still standing here alive.
đŻÂ HUNDRED POINTS SYMBOL â share three random facts about your oc that others may not know.
Ashton once as a teenager early on tried to run away from the EAA after being taken away and went back to his old home by Burnington's outskirts, hoping to search for his mother if these idiots here couldn't find her like Dio kept telling him so. But the home had been picked clean, unimportant things left being, trinkets, mementos, Ashton took and hid them all before he was caught and brought back and punished. Once the missing was presumed dead and her name added go his father's memorial, Ashton lost a lot of the fight and rebellion to keep looking.
Ash actually likes sports and wouldn't mind a friendly match of whatever. Skating and ice hockey would be fun if a lake ever froze over, but ask the man and he'd honestly be up to play any sport, some competitive nature in him that perhaps he never knew that he didn't let go.
Ash's favorite book in his old collection of space books, isn't actually one of the scientific ones, it's a 2016 book called The Voyager Record: A Transmission by Anthony Michael Morena. It was about encapsulating the beauty of The Voyagerâs Golden Record mission back in the 1970s, a history in fragments exploring how legendary astronomer Carl Sagan and his team attempted to press the entire human race into a single groove. Ash has always been a man of science, of numbers, hard cold facts and calculations of space. But this book was about the human and philosophical aspects of space, to consider humanityâs need to nail down our context in the universe, and humanity's attempts to matter. It was a profound book that is still a favorite of Ashtonâs, and still sits on his book shelf. He's read it more times than he wants to admit.
đ§ĄÂ ORANGE HEART â does your oc tend to prioritize family or friends?
Family is one of the most important aspects of his life having been an only child, he was incredibly close to his parents, only having a few friends around him but he was happy with everyone that cared. Having been in the position to have all of that stripped away from him, Ashton now holds on to bonds even tighter, sometimes wondering when they might strip it all away from him again. Maybe end up back in the lab. He cherishes them wild he can. Now, his found family and friends will always be a priority over himself, a lot of things in fact take priority over himself. It was the way he was raised, the way he was trained, the way he believed he should live his life. There are so many things much bigger than him.
"I can handle the pain. Just help me patch it up quickly."
Only a Flesh Wound starters for @49125
--- dean was no stranger to pain himself and when you were in the middle of a tense moment there wasn't always time to stop and focus on it. it didn't mean he wasn't concerned, though. sure, this kid might be a vigilante but that didn't make him immune to feeling. dean knew that they couldn't just leave his arm like though. something had to be done and it had to be done now before they were closed in on.
"putting your shoulder back in ain't gonna be no picnic, but alright. let's do this. just...don't look, okay? trust me, looking always makes it worse."
dean took tim's arm in his hands. one hand braced on his wrist and the other along his bicep. in one smooth moment the hunter snapped his shoulder back into place with a sickening pop. he squinted an eye in sympathy and his warm hand came to rest over the joint just in case tim needed the support and just because he knew the warmth would feel good in the moment. dean had dislocated his own shoulder enough times to know just how badly that actually hurt. he figured he'd rather break his leg again than go through another dislocation.
"you good?" he asked because either way they needed to get on the move.
