#magical restraints

[aspens-whump]

Okay, this is still kind of messy and I'm not completely sure about the colors, but here's that drawing I was working on yesterday, with blood and without. I kind of want to use it as a profile picture on this blog but I wonder if it would be a bit much, lol.

[tropesaregoodsoup]

Pleasant Dream (2)

Pt.1

CW: Restrained

Whumpee woke up on a cot. They ached everywhere and felt like they needed another ten years of sleep, but any sleep at all was a godsend after the week they had. They were sore, and it took a moment to remember everything that happened, a lot of it was still a blur but Villains words rang in Whumpee’s ears 

“Okay then.”

 They were going to get that god awful rune removed, they just had to tell him what it did, easy, they had tried to fight it enough times they knew exactly what it did. They tried to sit up but were forced back down as the world tilted. Footsteps echoed through the room and Villain appeared over them.

“You’re awake. You can sit at the desk and write down what it does, I don’t want to have to memorize all of it. I’m going to have enough to focus on as is.”

Villain didn’t wait for a response and scooped up Whumpee bridal style, sitting them down in a chair and pushing them closer to a desk that was prepped with a paper and pencil. It took them some time to write everything the rune did, most of that time was spent trying to remember how to write in a way that wasn’t complete chicken scratch.

Finally, they got it down. The large marking was really a combination of five separate runes. It had taken three out of the five ‘heroes’ and an entire week to finish branding the rune. They only knew the pictures so well because they could feel each one searing itself onto their soul. That was the first symbol they used. Then one for body, locking, freezing, and increasing temperature. The perfectly hellish combination to stop Whumpee from doing anything they thought was detrimental, including using their power. 

Villain loomed over them the whole time and Whumpee tried to push away feelings of comfort, this was the man that had them kidnapped, physically and mentally tortured, and drugged, but this was also the man that had treated Whumpee with more kindness and attention than they had received in years. They went to sit back in the chair once they were done, but Villain wasted no time picking them up and placing them on the bench-like seat, away from the rest of the room. They were leaning on the 45 degree slanted end while their legs straddling the flat bottom of the bench. Their feet barely touched the ground, an obnoxiously familiar feeling as a result of their height, but Whumpee didn’t dare move from the position Villain put them in. It didn’t stop their mind from wandering though, and soon it began to spiral.

 What if this was some elaborate way to more torture? 

Their knowledge of runes was barely enough to be considered novice. 

What if knowing what they do will just make them easier to use against me. 

They could hear Villains footsteps walking around the room. The swish of paper being picked up, the sound of a drawer opening and closing. Then the agonizing sound of footsteps getting closer and closer. Their heart rate and breath were getting more erratic with each click of boot on stone. Thoughts of what Villain could do to them, had done to them, kept running through their mind, and they were near tears when the footsteps finally stopped. The air around them displaced as the Villain sat directly behind Whumpee. 

“Calm down.” Villain placed a hand on Whumpee’s back, but they couldn’t help flinching, and couldn’t stop the small fear induced whimper from escaping their lips. 

Villain sighed, “Hold these.” He guided their hands up to two pegs on either side of the bench. “It will help to have something to hold onto.”

They didn’t have time to process what that meant before Villain started chanting and their entire body was on fire. They tried to thrash, to push their body away from the bench, away from Villain’s hand but their wrists were kept in place by invisible binds and their feet barely touching the group meant they couldn’t get enough traction to even try to stand, much less run. Even their screaming was muffled as some sort of magic gag materialized in their mouth. They felt the pain everywhere, their arms, their legs, every muscle, every vein, but even that was dwarfed by their back. It felt like someone was dragging a hot poker over every inch of the rune. 

They woke up to Villain shaking them awake. They could feel the remnants of the chant, everything was sore and they could still feel tears falling down their face. But at least it was over.

“I need you awake for this.” Panic. Replaced as quickly as it came by scorching heat and eclectic pulses overtaking their mind body as the rune was painstakingly extracted. And it kept on like that, Whumpee passing out into sweet oblivion, only to wake up to more excruciating agony. Finally, they woke up to Villains assurances that it was over, but it only lasted long enough for Whumpee to calm down. Just long enough to get some semblance of normalcy in their breath pattern.

“Now tell me. Where is Superhero?”

They just wanted to pass out again, tired, still not fully recovered from anything Villain had put them through. 

“He’s-” They waited for their pain, their temperature to skyrocket, for their limbs to be frozen in place. Nothing. They were in pain, but not because of the rune, not because they couldn’t control their own voice, and that was enough. The knowledge that, for the first time in years, they were in control, was enough to push them to talk. “He’s with the dryads.” Their voice was weak, small, but enough for Villain to hear. “Hiding in the Fylenn woods.” 

Villain didn’t say anything, but Whumpee could feel them get up, heard them rummage around, then more footsteps, and a doorknob being turned.

“D-Don’t hurt them… Please.” Their words came between heaves of breath.

“Superhero?” Villain didn’t bother turning around.

“Dryads. I think- I don’t think they know who he is.”

“I don’t plan to.” but I will if I have to. The implication was there as they heard the door close. Their hands were still bound to the pegs above the machine. It was uncomfortable, but not necessarily straining or painful, more than they could say for Hero. And it was better here, tortured and manipulated, not much changed there, but at least Villain didn’t pretend. Didn’t act like they were serving anyone but themselves. Villain had a single goal, he was terrible, so were his minions, but they owned it. They treated Whumpee like a prisoner, a person that could be broken, not some caged animal meant to be tamed. They could feel their thoughts falling away to exhaustion already, and they didn’t bother putting up a fight.

[castielamigos-whump-side-blog]

Moon Knight - 1x03 - The Friendly Type

[tendertenebrosity]

Some connecting scenes for Illiam and Helis, back during their time at the castle. This follows on from here and here. The next piece chronologically is this one.

Masterpost is Here.

Helis woke up slowly. Their wings and shoulders ached, and the floor was uncomfortably hard against their hip underneath a thin layer of padding, but the blanket lying over them was warm. They could almost have closed their eyes and drifted back to sleep again if they hadn’t… remembered.

They forced their eyes open, to a blurry view of a stone wall and a few folds of woollen blanket.

What in Heaven am I going to do now? they wondered drearily.

They took a deep breath, and might have let themself cry again, if they hadn’t heard a noise from behind them, from somewhere else in the room.

They rolled over immediately, blinking sleep from their eyes. The room snapped into focus; disorientingly, they were in a corner, on the floor. The room was all stone and heavy-framed wooden furniture, including a bed hung about with red curtains, bookshelves to rival those in the workroom, and a desk underneath a glass-panelled window.

Seated at that desk, so that Helis could mostly only see the spare casual angles of his legs and his hunched shoulders, sat Illiam. He hadn’t noticed them; he was pulling a book across the desk towards himself, flicking through the pages, setting it aside. The scritch-scritch of pen on paper filled the room. Morning light streamed in through the window.

Helis slowly sat up, drawing their knees up against their chest and pressing their wings back against the wall. The blanket slid down to the floor; after a moment they pulled it back up.

Silver flashed as they did so; they blinked down at their wrist.

It was hard to tell, they hadn’t been paying attention, but Helis didn’t think this was the same cuff they’d been wearing yesterday in the workroom. It was smaller, lighter; more tightly fitted to their wrist as if designed for them specifically.

The cuff had what looked like a fine hinge on one side. There was no chain attached. It could almost have been mistaken for a crude piece of jewellery, except that there was no way it would fit over the bones of their hand to be taken off. Helis pulled their other hand out from under the blanket and found a matching cuff on that.

There were lines of engraving along the outer and inner surfaces of both cuffs. Bits of spell phrases jumped out at Helis; instinctively they reached for it, and were surprised all over again when nothing happened. They bit their lip, then lifted their left hand and craned their neck to try and find the beginning of the spell with their eyes.

“It’s not a design you’ll be familiar with.”

Helis looked up; Illiam had turned in the chair, one arm hooked over its back, and was watching them dispassionately.

“Did you make this?” Helis asked. Their voice rasped in their throat, and they coughed.

“Yes,” Illiam said. He looked more composed than the last time they had seen him; no longer bright-eyed with fury, not even tousle-haired or unshaven and drawn with tiredness. Helis distrusted the evenness of his voice. “Not something I do often, so I doubt the craftsmanship is up to your standards. But it will suffice for its purpose.”

Helis licked their lips nervously. They got the impression he was waiting for the question, watching Helis and predicting what they would say, and they hated it, but they had to ask. “What purpose?”

“It ties you to me,” he explained, still calm. “There is now a magical link between us. I will always be able to find you, and if you get too far away from me, the cuffs will heat up as a warning.”

“What?” Helis stared at the cuffs, sickened. This really was something like a bad play. “Is this what you took my blood for?”

“And my own,” he agreed. He tapped the bandage at the crook of his elbow. “It’s not taboo here, although it comes with certain risks. I decided it was worth the inconvenience of making the cuffs - I needed to ensure you don’t escape, but are still free to move about the castle, and this is the most practical way of doing that.”

“You have a really…” Helis took a deep breath. “Warped idea of practical, Illiam!”

He shrugged. “Would you prefer a cell? Or chains? Or something a little more permanent? Strictly speaking, I didn’t have to make it a device. Attaching the spell to the cuffs made things a little tricky. Have you ever worked on silver? Challenging. But you need to wear the cuffs anyway, and it seemed preferable to permanently inscribing the spell-lines on you.”

They flinched back. “That’s barbaric,” they hissed. “You’re barbaric.”

He rolled his eyes. “I said I was avoiding it. Pay attention.”

Helis hated being seated on the ground looking up at him. They pushed themselves up, wings spread for balance, letting the blanket fall. “This is the most sick and gross use of magic I have ever seen,” they said. “You -”

Illiam’s eyebrows lifted in cool, sardonic disbelief. “Really? This is the sickest thing? Tsk. Have you seen the kinds of spells that get thrown around on a battlefield?” He stood up, rolled his shoulders. “Compared to that, this is perfectly gentle. It won’t even burn you straight away, you’ll have plenty of notice to come back before the heat gets to injurious levels.”

“You didn’t learn this at the Academy,” Helis said.

Illiam shook his head. “No,” he said, with half of a smile. It wasn’t a pleasant expression at all. “This, I learned here, in the North. Surprised to find that there is more to the world than the Academy’s curriculum? Time to grow up, Helis. There’s no ethics classes out here. I’m nobody’s student or apprentice anymore, and your only value lies in how useful you are. I could do far worse to you and nobody would even blink.”

He stepped forward, across the room towards them. Helis rocked back on their feet, resisting the urge to cringe against the wall, wanting to leave but finding nowhere to go. They couldn’t quite manage to tip their chin up to meet his eyes, instead fixing their gaze somewhere near one of his shirt buttons. Still black, they noted nervously.

He stopped short of touching them, apparently content to loom. “So if I were you,” he said, “I would be resigning myself to the cuffs, thanking my lucky stars that I’m not dead in a ditch, and trying my best to be useful.”

He stood there, for a long impassive silence, until Helis took a deep breath and looked up. He was regarding them with an expectant look, as if waiting for them to say something in return. Still calm, still composed.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, when nothing was forthcoming.

“Yes,” Helis said, reluctantly. “But -”

He raised a finger. “Do I make myself clear. Yes, or no.”

“Yes,” Helis whispered, their gaze blurring as it slid off him, to the side.

He nodded. “Good,” he said briskly, and stepped away. He collected his coat from where it lay folded over a table that they hadn’t noticed, over by the door. There was a stack of fabric beside it, and he indicated that with a faintly contemptuous wave. “Get rid of the uniform; put those on. I’m going downstairs, and you had better not keep me waiting there.”

The door opened smoothly, with barely a whisper; Illiam left, pulling his coat on over his shoulders as he went.

Helis took a deep breath and let it out, shakily. They scrubbed their eyes determinedly, and went to get dressed.

The clothing by the door was thick fabric, shapeless, rough and drab in colour. Somebody had attempted amateurishly to make the tunic wing-compatible. Helis struggled into it with stiff joints, wishing for proper ties. At least, they supposed, it was both warm and obscured their figure into featurelessness.

There was a basin and jug of water, but Helis didn’t dare use it for anything. They opened the door, let it close behind them, and crept with trepidation down the narrow, boxy set of stairs they found themself in. Their nails went click-click on the cold stone floor.

At the foot of the stairs, where it opened out into a wider passageway, they found Illiam. He was not, to their relief, waiting for them impatiently - he was in what looked like a heated conversation with somebody in muted dark grey clothing.

“… don’t care who’s here. I told my father that I wasn’t going to be available for this.”

“I understand, my lord, but somebody -”

“Go and bother Brant with it.” Illiam turned to leave, dismissing the grey-clad man with an impatient gesture. “This is his element, surely. Heaven knows the man must contribute something of worth. You’ll get me tomorrow afternoon and not before; my work is more important.”

He strode down the hallway and past Helis, barely acknowledging them, as the man in grey bowed and murmured something respectful towards his back.

For lack of anything else to do, Helis followed Illiam. The man gave Helis a look of confusion and distaste as they passed.

They caught up as he turned a corner.

“How far away?” they asked, resentfully. “The cuffs. How far away from you am I allowed to go?”

“Far enough,” Illiam said. His suspicious air of calm was starting to fray; Helis caught sight of one of his hands fiddling with a fastening of his coat. “I’m not going to send you out of range. I would advise against experimenting. And that’s all you need to know.”

“And what am I going to be doing?” Helis kept having to lengthen their stride to keep up with him. Their legs protested. “I mean, what is my job? I don’t know why you want me here if -”

“Well, that makes two of us,” he snapped.

The hallways Illiam followed got smaller and colder, with fewer rugs. Another human in dark grey clothing, her arms full of wicker and cloth, put her head down as Illiam passed and gave them a wide berth.

After a couple of corners and another flight of stairs, Helis realised that they were hopelessly lost and would have no idea how to get back to Illiam’s rooms. Or outside, for that matter; this area of the castle had no windows.

Eventually, Illiam came to a door that looked a little familiar. Passing his hand over the doorknob, he unlocked it with a brief flare of magic, then threw it open unceremoniously.

The windowless room full of magic paraphernalia. Helis lingered uneasily on the threshold, hugging their wings around their shoulders. The glittering fragments of conduit stone had been swept up and disposed of, and any trace of Helis’ blood had been cleaned away. The top surface of the table was scarred with little pockmarks and burns.

“My workroom,” Illiam announced, needlessly. “I’ve wasted too much time on Father’s jaunts across the border and dealing with you; it’s time to get back to work.” He glanced at Helis, an irritable line appearing between his brows. “I suppose you can start by fetching me Halliday’s list of energetic constants. Third volume. And then get a fire started.”

Helis inched inside, letting the door close behind them reluctantly. “What exactly are you working on?”

“I’m composing a spell,” he said. “The most ambitious spell, I think, that anybody has ever attempted this side of the Greater Eastern Ocean.” He clicked his fingers and pointed to the bookshelf - and even despite everything, the careless disrespect in the gesture made Helis’ hackles rise under their ugly, uncomfortable clothing. “Halliday. Third volume. Useful.”

Your only value lies in how useful you are. Helis set their teeth, and went to comb through Illiam’s library.

[birindale]

Visual development by Grace Kum

[lazy8whump]

There’s just something about Phlebotinum that can magically drain a character’s energy? Like, whether we’re talking about hijacking someone else’s life force to power the villain’s Doomsday Machine or magical restraints that leave whoever they’re used on feeling weak and drained of their energy... mmmmmmmmmmm.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 9: Shackled

Prompt: Shackled

Fandom: Supernatural

Links: Ao3    FF.net

~~~~~~~

“Don’t bother struggling, angel, you won’t get free.”

           Castiel gritted his teeth, glowering at his captor who was smirking from his position a few feet away, enjoying the struggles of his captive. “Don’t be so sure,” Castiel snarled.

           The man, a witch, laughed. “Oh, I’m pretty sure. These chains are covered in sigils that can keep you there for as long as I want. Trust me, I did my research.”

           He had, damn him. Castiel knew that he wouldn’t get free, no matter how hard he tried. He was bound on his knees, hands shackled behind him and chains wrapped around his torso before attaching to a loop in the floor. The chains only tightened and burned every time he shifted, somehow binding both his vessel and his true form. Every breath tightened them a fraction. He would stop breathing if he could, but with his grace bound, he needed it to sustain his body.

           “Now you just sit tight and play your part. The Winchesters will be here soon, I’m sure, and you’ll be the first thing they see when they walk through that door before I kill them.”

           Castiel growled and shifted forward instinctively before biting back a cry as the chains tightened, biting into his grace with searing heat.

           The witch chuckled and reached out to pat his cheek mockingly, forcing Castiel to shift again to get away from him in disgust. “How adorable. I’d best shut you up though, so you don’t go warning anyone too early.”

           Castiel struggled as much as he dared as the witch shoved a cloth between his teeth and tied it tightly behind his head. He growled, but stayed still after that, the chains so tight now they were biting into his flesh on their own and every tiny shift he made sent them tightening only all the more.

           It was then that he heard the familiar rumble of the Impala and his eyes flew to the door, grunting in distress. If only he could warn Sam and Dean…

           “Show time,” the witch said gleefully and retreated to one side, where he had a table set up with all his magic. Castiel didn’t know what he had planned for the Winchesters, but he knew it wasn’t going to be good.

           He expected the door to burst open, for Sam and Dean to come in and for the witch to activate whatever spell he had ready, but instead there was a knock on the door.

           The witch looked as surprised as Castiel felt and called out. “Come in.”

           The door opened and Sam stepped inside, empty hands visible. His eyes met Castiel’s and he gave a very small nod before moving further in. “Look, we’re here, tell us what you want and let Cas go.”

           The witch stepped toward Sam, smirking. “Let him go? Did you let my sister go? No. No, I’m going to kill him and then you and your brother so you know what it feels like.” He walked over to Castiel and kicked him in the side, forcing the angel to flinch. He cried out as the chains tightened around him even more viciously, cutting into his skin in some parts.

           “The more he moves, the tighter these get,” the witch said, kicking Castiel again and repeating the process. “Eventually, they’ll cut him into little bite-sized pieces. I’d like to see that, wouldn’t you?”

           Before Sam could reply, the window spiderwebbed with cracks around a small hole, and the witch staggered back, a spot of red between his eyes. His stunned face was turned up toward the ceiling as he collapsed on the ground, dead.

           Dean was in the room a second later, gun held at the ready. “Clear?” he called.

           “Clear,” Sam said, turning to Castiel and inspecting the chains as he gently removed the gag. “Cas, you okay?”

           “I will be once these are off, I can’t move,” Castiel told him.

           “What the hell?” Dean demanded, coming closer and inspecting the chains himself. He reached out to tug one, before Castiel could warn him not to.

           “Dean, don’t!” Sam cried, as the runes on the chains flared and they tightened, causing Cas to cry out at the pain.

           Dean snatched his hands away. “He’s dead, how come this is still active?”

           “It’s rune work,” Castiel said stiffly. “Sigils. It’s not directly linked to a casting spell.”

           Sam chewed his lip before turning to the table where a book sat. “Okay, let’s look at this. Maybe there’s something…”

           Before he could go on, Castiel felt the chains tightening without him moving. He grunted, trying to stay still, but the burning runes flared up again, and the chains continued to tighten further and further.

           “Dean, Sam!” he panted, before crying out as it felt like they were crushing not only his vessel but his true form. His ribs were creaking from the strain and his wings, which had also been bound with the rest of him felt like they were going to snap.

           “Screw this,” Dean snarled, yanking an angel blade out of his belt.

           “Dean, wait!” Sam cried, but Dean was already taking the blade to the chains, slashing though the runes on the shackles that bound Castiel’s wrists.

           At the initial attack the chains only tightened further and Castiel screamed breathlessly at the pain. Sam rushed forward, holding him upright so he couldn’t move and hurt himself more than he already was.

           But as Dean gouged the runes, Castiel could start to feel the chains slacken. Runes stopped glowing and he could breathe a little easier.

           “I think it’s working,” Sam said, eyes widening.

           Encouraged, Dean dug the blade in further, and when he had defaced the final sigil, the shackles sprang open by themselves, and the chains clattered to the ground around him.

           Castiel sagged forward into Sam and Dean’s waiting hands, panting for breath. His vessel and his true form were aching. He stretched his wings gladly with a wince and pressed a hand to his chest, shocked there were no broken ribs.

           “You good?” Dean asked, ducking to look into Castiel’s face.

           Still out of breath, Castiel nodded.

           They sat there just holding him up for a few long minutes before Castiel got his breath back and didn’t feel quite so sore. The Winchesters helped him to his feet and he staggered slightly as they latched onto his elbows.

           “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Dean said. “Sam, torch this place.”

           Sam did so gladly as Dean got Castiel into the car. They drove away with the orange glow in their rearview mirror and Castiel couldn’t even be bothered to feel bad about it.

           The witch should have known, after all. You should never mess with the Winchesters and their family.