#for wyatt

[rysttle]

WAUGH I KEEP FORGETTING TO POST THis,, food delivery/exchange thing (it still looks better in my head so sorry fjdndkdm)

VERY LATE BUT IT'S FOR @eyes-of-nine 's bday like 2 weeks ago i thinkd djndjdndkd

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Eerin can’t speak. Can’t make noises like whimpers or whines or screams - some of Nick’s favorite sounds. All he can do, really, is breathe. Take deep low breaths, or short desperate gasps, or jagged syncopated panting.

Luckily, Nick loves to disrupt breathing.

Eerin, slender and stunning in the fragile, earnest sort of way, lies pinned on his back, straddled by his muscle-heavy friend. Coal-dark eyes gaze up at Nick with nothing short of a dire need to be everything Nick wants - and what Nick wants him to be, right now, is breathless.

Two large hands remain wrapped around Eerin’s oh-so-bruisable throat. Probably too much of Nick’s considerable strength, built up for this very hobby, is being used to cut off Eerin’s air. At the thought of the breathing that will eventually be allowed, he leans forward and pushes down, cinches his hands closer together, scrunching up his nose for a second with the force of his maniacal grin.

That jaggedly cut black hair is limp against the floor, those dark eyes wide with fear. No one, no matter how prepared they may be to be choked, is able to hide that fear once they’ve been deprived of oxygen for long enough.

Against his own instincts to comply to the very end, Eerin claws weakly at Nick’s hands. The torturer’s arms quake slightly from the continuous exertion. Oh, these bruises are going to be gorgeous. Dark splotches of black, brown, purple, blue across pale skin, an adam’s apple, that throat wrung for too long, head spinning with aches and dizziness - oh, is he going too far? Crow’s eyes are glazed well beyond panic, his useless tugging coming to an end as his hands spasm and fall.

Nick lets go.

Eerin fights so hard to get his breath back, to suck down all the oxygen he can, but it’s so quiet. The gasps are only air, no frightened sounds. There’s no grunting, no sobbing, no hapless pleading. Just stuttered, textured breaths broken up by involuntary exhales, his own body making it more messy, more complicated. His mouth is wide open, his brows are furrowed with upset.

Sadly, bruises don’t form instantly. Nick supposes he’s just going to have to spend all day with Eerin here on the floor. He’ll have to take breaks so his arms don’t get too tired. Magic will suffice to keep Eerin making wonderfully small, quiet, desperate sounds with only his breaths.

A backhand knocks Eerin’s head to the side. It doesn’t startle a gasp out of him - sudden demoralizing pain doesn’t surprise him. He’s had plenty of it. But no one, no one in his life, has ever spent all day choking him.

No one will ever get to see him as beautiful as he will be by the end of it. A throat ringed with dark bruises, a sheen of sweat across his skin, eyes long since unfocused, arms numb and useless in struggling. He’s going to be the most beautiful thing in the world.

~

Jaw stretched as wide as it’ll go, Crow doesn’t scream. His body tries, but can only force out silent exhales, ragged and raw.

His arms are twisted up behind his back. Nick’s hands are wrapped around his, keeping those arms twisted as far as they’ll go, Crow’s wrists crossed between shoulder blades that stick out like they’ll cut through that dull skin.

The magic in Nick’s hands has shattered his friend’s wrists. He squeezes them, and a rush of adrenaline courses through him as Crow takes a hitching breath.

Such incredible agony the young man must be in, but he can’t voice it. Why stop, then? Why not drive him absolutely mad with boundless, bottomless agony? Why not spend all day, every day, working on him, breaking things? Magic pressed in over and over, snapping bone, twisting joints out of place, crushing fragile things like wrists and ankles? He could do that. He wants to.

Crow does his little not-scream again, and Nick realizes with no ounce of alarm that he’s really cranking those arms too high, too far, twisting the shoulders. He felt the thunk of the joints being shoved out of place and didn’t even notice, he’s so used to doing it.

“Aren’t you sweet,” He murmurs without releasing his forceful shoving grip one bit. “Silent. It’s so peaceful, hurting you. I know you’d like to be able to use these arms again. I just want to ruin them, though, want to see you lying in a pile all shattered. I could do it, you know. Lay you out on the floor here and press magic into you, starting from your feet. Break every inch. And you’d still be alive by the time I reached your head! And still silent. Sweet, sweet Eerin.” Those arms are released, to the sweet music of an uneven inhale loaded with unspoken agony.

“I’m so glad you came to see me today.”

[magnusfuckingbane]

@ the Coventry’s

“Well you look... different.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

“I’ve always wanted to hurt you,” Nick murmurs, an immense satisfaction sweeping over him in waves with each round. The pattern soothes him: cinch his hands tight around that throat, squeeze, wait, wait, wait, squeeze harder, then release. Keep his hands on that throat as Crow gasps raggedly, coughs, wheezes. Allow him enough air to remain conscious, and then start again.

The shifter nods slightly as his lips take on an unhealthy grey tinge. He’s gorgeous like this. His hair is unevenly shorn and messy, his body weak from little food and injuries that have made walking difficult. His skin is dull and pale, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He’s worn down and weak and stunningly vulnerable.

Nick squeezes as hard as he can, pressing his fingers into the sides of Crow’s neck instead of crushing his windpipe beyond repair. How long has it been this time around? Fifty, sixty seconds? The week, impulsive struggling toward the end sends his heart racing with glee. He leans down closer to watch.

“Your throat will bruise,” He muses, smiling at his friend’s pained grimace. “Pretty, dark colors. Black and blue and purple. The faded parts, the yellow and green, you won’t see those even after a few days. It’ll stay all dark, because I’m going to choke you every day that you’re here. You’re so gorgeous when you can’t breathe, I could just crush you.” Crow’s eyes are fluttering and rolling back, his body’s spasms fading. Nick lets up his grip and listens to the weakest gasps yet. Time for a break - which means, really, time to watch Crow breathe for as long as he wants.

“I was worried that hurting you for fun would change things. That we would stop being friends. But we haven’t, have we?” His grip tightens just slightly in an unconscious threat.

Crow shakes his head a fraction, and the grip lets up. Glassy dark eyes look up at Nick, and it makes the far larger man smile again.

“Such a pretty bird. You used to hide your bruises with makeup, but you know I like seeing them - you won’t hide these ones, will you? I won’t hurt you anywhere else, won’t bruise your wrists or your ribs. I can control myself. Are you ready for more? We’re going to go for longer this time, I really want you to last longer. It’s no fun when it’s too short. Little gasps in between, maybe? We’ll try that. Take a deep breath first, go on.”

With wild eyes, pupils wide, the Hunter watches Crow take a measured breath, then squeezes his throat to close it off again. He can feel the chest he’s straddling jerk from the start with failed attempts at breathing, can feel the throat under his hands tensing up.

A minute in, he allows Crow a single rasping inhale. A minute later, an exhale. Then, he gives Crow several seconds to breathe as much as he can - they’re rapid, shallow, whistling wheezes, so fast that it resembles hyperventilating. The choking continues too soon, and Crow can’t help but struggle with all his meager strength.

Tears are running down the shifter’s face now. He nearly passes out again, body shuddering; the grip on his throat leaves, and he dry sobs silently.

“I can’t stop.” Nick traces the bruises adoringly, and wipes away his friend’s tears. “I just can’t. Let’s go for hours and hours. I’ve waited so long, I held off, I was patient - I earned this, earned your… participation. Listen, I know… at this point, it’s not worth it to you anymore. You’re scared, you want to go. Some part of you does. But just try to be a good friend and stay, won’t you? Say yes.” There’s a pause, and then, “Ready for more?”

Crow takes a tremulous breath, then nods. Yes, he mouths, obedient like a friend should be.

Nick beams madly and grips so hard, presses down with such force, that he hears a crack and feels Crow go limp.

No. No. Nick jolts awake, hands flying out to find no dead body, no other body near him at all. The sheets are twisted around his legs and the air is stuffy around him, nearly suffocating. Crow isn’t here. No one’s here, except for a warlock in the basement, probably passed out.

Nick would be sick if he did that to Crow, if he gave in to the compulsion to hurt him. His hands still curl inward with the desire to crush, though, and he needs to overwrite this guilt, this horror, with something distracting.

He supposes that he can go on downstairs and choke that warlock until he’s blue in the face and spluttering soundless pleas. Some nameless prisoner, he can choke on and off for hours, can eventually crush into silence without an ounce of regret.

The Hunter stands to do just that.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

a non-canon continuation of this amazing drabble by @clockworknightmares! crow/eerin is their oc, not mine.

Eerin didn’t recognize him. This is his chance.

Nick grins, excited. He can hurt Crow and then wipe his memory, and help him, ease the pain, rescue him. He can have both.

He presses down on that shoulder again, harder. Shoves down on it until the joint that’s already dislocated grinds further out of place, and Crow’s face is sickly pale from the agony. That handsome face is twisted into a glorious silent scream.

It’s difficult maneuvering the boxed shifter, but he manages to make that other shoulder accessible and shove down on it too, press in on it with his fingers. He’s pushing so hard that he’s wedging Eerin deeper into the box, getting him stuck worse. The boxed boy is gasping weakly in growing panic.

“Hmm, you know, I think I’ll leave you in there for a while. I’m not quite in the mood to break bones right now.” Voice nearly trembling with excitement, the Hunter puts his hands on Crow’s head and shoves it down, wedging it back into the box and closing the lid. The nails are slammed back down into the wood with a spell and, there, he’s got a boxed Eerin, ready to be hurt whenever he feels like it.

He’s got to prepare the cellar. This one is special.

Three hours later, the Hunter stops wasting time and returns to the crate by his front door. He kicks the side of it, jarring the one trapped inside. Crow can’t make a sound, can’t speak. Maybe he’s crying in there. Oh, Nick can’t wait to make him sob.

He pries the lid off the crate and looks down on the folded young man. His fingertips trace over tightly-wound, spasming muscles. Eerin was made for this, he is absolutely beautiful when he’s in agony.

The Hunter takes his prize by the shoulders and hauls him out, bundling the poor starved thing up in his arms. For a second, as he holds Crow, he fantasizes about being gentle, comforting him, soothing his aches. But Eerin doesn’t remember him. Apparently, all the times he helped his friend weren’t memorable. So Nick wants to hurt him, hurt him bad, before erasing it and starting over.

He carries Crow down into the cellar, unable to be anything other than gentle on the way down. This is his friend, after all, and permanent damage is not the goal. No tossing him down the stairs to see how many of his bones will break.

Nick drops Crow to the floor and follows, pinning him. The need to control, to crush, is strong right now. First of all, if Eerin can form coherent thoughts, can grow resigned or judge or check out mentally, then the Hunter needs to prevent that straight off. He grabs one of Crow’s arms and twists it up behind his back until the shoulder creaks in warning; i’s already been dislocated, but it can still break.

“You can’t scream,” Nick says, leaning down, anger in his voice. It is an annoying fact, after all. “You can’t speak. But you can lose your breath, and twist, and cry. So, right now, I’m going to make you do those things. You look sweet enough crying that it just might make up for the silence.”

He twists that arm until something in it snaps - he doesn’t care what. Is Crow crying yet? It’s not enough pain. More pain, he can do. Nick kneels heavily on the back of Crow’s ribcage, ready to let his weight do half the work.

One spell, and one of those ribs cracks. Then another. They won’t buckle in, won’t puncture a lung, but it must hurt tremendously. It must be scary. It must be difficult to breathe.

But it’s not enough.

Nick flips Eerin over and straddles him once more. Now, he can see the tears. Now, he can better hear the hitching breaths. He places his hands at Crow’s hips and, with a blast of magic, dislocates them simultaneously.

Eerin erupts into a silent, stunning display of pain. His back arches up off the floor; his eyes go glassy and glitter with tears; his mouth stretches wide, his chest is paralyzed around a breath he can’t force out, his head tips back against the floor.

Nick keeps him from passing out with sated, winding magic slipping into his head, just so he can take all the time he wants putting slow, heavy pressure on those hips. He watches Eerin sob madly, soundlessly, cheeks soaked with tears and mouth forming pleas desperately.

Nick spends the whole afternoon breaking Crow, dislocating and twisting and crushing things, watching him closely for every reaction. He heals the worst of it as he goes so he can fix it all later. So he can see Crow cry in relief and lean close and communicate fondly in his mind that Nick is his friend, he trusts Nick, and he feels safe here. Comfortable. Nick can have both.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

here’s the link to the rp which leads up to this drabble - in which @clockworknightmares ‘ oc jamie meets lux in captivity.

He doesn’t have shoes. Lux looks around, for anyone who might notice him. He’s doing his best to stay out of sight and away from anywhere people might be, as he walks, one arm wrapped around his middle. He doesn’t have shoes. That’s strange, it would be strange to see. The blood, how pale he is, how tired and unsteady he is on his feet - those things, he supposes, are more alarming than bare feet.

Lux found a gem. He found one, and with it, he was able to scry for a friend. His hand shook as he said the spell, each of the dozen times it took before his magic would work. It’s always hesitant and finicky after, after being punished for his magic, like he’s been.

“You aren’t weak Lux. You aren’t. You’re so strong and I don’t know how I would have managed in here without you.”

To find someone, to scry for them, you need to have something of theirs, if you have no idea where to look. Lux has something. He clings to it, as he walks toward the house that the gem indicates. Digs his fingers into the thin fabric and pushes himself to make it.

Once he reaches the front door, Lux raises a hand to knock. He hesitates, at the sight of the raw bruising around his wrist, at how moving his arm makes the gashes across his back sting and burn, how it makes his ribs ache and his breaths come shallower. Will he be welcome? Maybe, in his captivitfor y, the fear and the pain, he was clinging to the last kindnesses he was shown before he was back in the cellar. Maybe he has imagined, this whole time, more patience and sympathy than he was really shown.

It doesn’t matter. He’s looked forward to this, and what’s more, he’s actually managed to remember this goal, this plan, for if he ever got back out. It’s worth trying. He got this far.

He clings to the bloody, tattered shirt that Jamie draped over him after a rough torture session, in a moment of kindness and empathy that was a microcosm of Jamie as a whole. He closes the stained shirt to hide his battered chest with one hand, and knocks with the other.

[slaved-violetevans]

-left for Wyatt with a note-

Sir Wyatt - 

A fabric book cover to protect your favorite books, and some book marks I made from a distressed and wrecked copy of Wuthering Heights from the library. Merry Christmas.

-Violet

@sirwyattsylvester