Reblogging this one because it had the links to all the other ones but holy shit hhhhhhhhhhhhh I have not had whumperflies in a really long time but this series of drabbles did it for me. I love seeing a hurt Antoni.

It’s fun to see the usually more quiet and controlled whumpees get knocked down and roughed up good. I like seeing them slowly (or quickly) be broken down even as they actively fight it before giving in and being that person they still think they are deep down.

@ashintheairlikesnow your wonderful antoni drabbles inspired me to draw and animate our precious guilt ridden boy 💕✨

I love your stories with all my heart never forget that even if I always curse out the whumpers ;3 even they are amazing and I love to hate them 💕

Theo, I am left speechless. I cannot even begin to describe how fucking beautiful this is. I just. I'm just gonna stare at it forever.

Whump Prompt 090

“T- tired…”

“I know, I know [whumpee],” the caregiver whispered between sniffles, gently stroking the whumpee’s tangled locks of hair. “Please stay awake for me,” they choked.

“Tr- try…in…”

For what is meant to be a powerful, honorable being, oh, he is lowly now. Fingers clasped weakly around his friend’s, chest fluttering with shuddering breaths that strive to be sobs, Nadeem looks up at his Paladin friend, face twisted in misery.

At his abdomen, the old healed brand’s intricate design is red and raised with fresh burns. The rune has been cruelly brought back to life to keep him deprived of sleep.

“T-… tired,” He whines, silver-white hair splayed across her lap. Her hands are so warm as they wipe away the tears on his cheeks.

Pitiful, dishonorable djinn, he thinks, chest tightening in his shame. HE can imagine one of his Brothers sentenced to the same fate, sitting cross-legged on the floor and meditating without a worry in the world - or pacing the room in a flurry of long pristine hair and sweeping robes, all untouchable fury and power waiting to be unleashed.

“Oh, Nadeem, I know,” Answers his friend, and he can’t help the little hiccup that squeaks out of him as he looks up at her with teary aqua eyes. “I know, I’m sorry. Can you at least… here, let’s try something. I know it hurts, but try to focus with me, okay? You with me?”

His heart flutters, and Nadeem squeezes her hand, sniffles and clears his throat and whispers, “Yes.”

“Okay. Close your eyes.”

He does, face still tense, but now his brows are drawn in something more like confusion than anger directed at himself. “Alright.”

“Is it okay if I touch your hair, Nadeem?”

A thoughtful, faint hum. “Yes.”

Warm fingers slip into smooth, jumbled locks, and the djinn shivers. His head tips back as she slides her hands through, evening and sifting and untangling patiently.

“Try slow breaths,” She guides, massaging his head lightly, experimentally. Brushing through people’s hair isn’t exactly a skill taught to Paladins upon their creation, but calming the frightened, the hurting, the scared? That’s something she’s meant to do with as much ease as mounting her horse. It seems to be helping Nadeem, and that’s a relief. One of those momentary, passing things that makes her feel confident she’s a good Paladin, a good friend.

The djinn’s breaths slow down, smooth out, and the hand that he’d kept clawed near his burn has loosened, lying flat on his stomach.

“Thank you, Phoebe.” He’s still in pain, still emotional and exhausted, but he’s as relaxed as he’s going to get and it feels so much better. “I, I… jus’, just want to sleep…” An emotional whimper escapes him, his next words whined. “Why can’t I sleep? Mmh…” He can feel the magic of the rune, just when he’s nearly slipped under, forcing his thoughts back into a flurry and making his body jerk as if he just leaped out of a startling dream. He cannot sleep.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry, Nadeem.” The tension building in him again is carefully massaged away with her sun-warmed hands. “You’ll sleep again. We’ll get out of here soon, I know it. As soon as I can, I’ll cut that rune away, and you’ll sleep. You have my word.”

A lash a day...

“Tie him up,” Orrick ordered.  Two of his men grabbed a struggling Johnny O'Marten and shoved him face first into one of the winecellar’s supporting pillars, knocking the wind out of his lungs and wrapping his arms around it and tying his hands together. Frantically, the young tattoo-artist tried to get out of his binds.

“Good job lads, now leave us to it.” The two men left the cellar, quickly and wordlessly. Johnny looked over his shoulder. His darkgreen eyes were wide-open in fear and his mouth was dry. He’d been defiant all the way down here, but the truth was that he was terrified. What was going to happen to him? “Look, you don’t need to do this,” he tried. “I know who you work for, I know what he does when you don’t do as you’re told - trust me I know - but we can help eachother!” Orrick chuckled softly, slowly walking over to his tied up victim. “Is that so? And how would we do that?” Johnny let out a sigh of relief. He was listening! “Me and my friends, we have places you can stay safely! I know people that could help you start anew, somewhere far away from here!” Orrick circled around the pillar. His light grey eyes focussed on Johnny, who swallowed dry and did his best to keep meeting that icy gaze. Orrick stopped right behind him again and brought his lips very close to Johnny’s ear, while at the same time roughly grabbing him by his throat. “You got one thing right, kid, you do know who I work for. But getting to spend some time with you was a reward, not an order.” Johnny froze. W-what? The man’s warm breath on his skin made him wince. “You and those precious friends of yours have obstructed me long enough.” And with those words he stepped back and ripped open the back of Johnny’s shirt, revealing a back covered in tattoos. “Hey! What the fuck are you doing?” Johnny said, sounding a lot braver than he felt. The cool cellar air made him shiver. Orrick walked away from him.  Johnny tried too see what was going on, but couldn’t look over his shoulder far enough to see where Orrick was going. He didn’t need to see, however.  Only a few moments later, Orrick cracked a whip, somewhere behind him, and Johnny flinched, realizing what awaited him.  No. Oh, God, no. Panicked, he tried to get out of his bounds again. Orrick laughed behind him, slowly coming closer. The sound of the whip dragging across the floor was only increased Johnny’s panic. “Relax, Johnnyboy, you’re not going anywhere.” Johnny rested his forehead against the cold concrete of the pillar, taking deep breaths in an attempt to stay calm. There had to be a way out, this couldn’t really be happening.  Could it?  “Are you ready?"  "No- wait-” but his pleas were cut short by his own scream, when the whip suddenly came down on his back. The pain rendered him breathless for a moment and he involuntarily arched his back. “Real shame about all that pretty ink you got,” Orrick commented.  Johnny shot a incredulous look over his shoulder. He was about to retort, but was cut short by the whip coming down again. This time it was multiple lashes. The only sounds Johnny was aware of were the cracking of the whip, his own screams and Orrick’s laughter.  When it stopped, he was barely able to stand on his own two legs. He gritted his teeth, but couldn’t stop pained little sounds from coming out every now and then. He squeezed his eyes shut, taking deep breath while shaking all over his body. The feeling of blood running down his back was almost surreal. Orrick came closer. “Look at that. Not even ten lashes in and you’re a shivering mess. Did you really think you’d get away with your shit, O'Marten?” He tossed the whip onto the ground and lit up a cigarette. He walked up to Johnny and exhaled the smoke in his face. Johnny coughed and turned his face away, wrinkling his nose at the stench of the smoke. “Oohh, that’s right, you don’t like this sort of thing, I remember. Help me out here, you’re- what was it called again?” “Straight edge,” Johnny answered through gritted teeth.  “Ah, yeah.” Orrick blew some more smoke in his prisoner’s face. “Straight edge. The only kind of straight you are.” He chuckled at the piercing glare that earned him. “Pipe the fuck down, kid,” he said dismissively. He looked at the cigarette between his fingers and tilted his head. “Think I’m done with this.” Johnny hissed through clenched teeth when Orrick grabbed him by his hair and put out the cigarette in his neck. “There we go. You make a pretty ashtray, with all them drawings you got on you.” He picked up the whip again. Johnny swore, his breathing speeding up. “No- please-” Orrick, who’d raised the whip already, stopped mid-movement. “What was that, O'Marten, did I hear a please?” “Please… Stop,” Johnny said quietly, his cheeks reddening with shame.  “I don’t think so,” Orrick responded with a soft laugh. “But I much prefer this attitude from you.” And so the whip came down on Johnny’s back again and again. His screams echoed through the winecellar and he sank to his knees, sliding down the pillar, his legs no longer able to carry him. When Orrick finally stopped, Johnny’s back was a mess of thick, bleeding welts. Red streaks that had turned the piece of art that his skin used to be in an agonizing mess.  The pain was overwhelming and the young man had collapsed as far as his position allowed him to. His already slender frame now looked small and broken. “That’s it,” Orrick said, panting, “much, much better.” He knelt down next to Johnny, whose head hung down in pain, submission and shame. He took him by his chin and forced him to look at him.  “The pain reflects really well in your eyes, did you know that?"  Johnny said nothing. "This is just the start, O'Marten. You’re mine now. And I intend on making you pay.”

Witness

[For @whumptober2019 ‘shackles’…and because Alistair made a promise.]

Ellis watches, and he does not speak. I must make no noise unless invited to by Master.

Nic is sitting on the landing, their back to the stairs. Two slim arms are pulled back against the banisters, thick metal shackles around each one. The tension in the chains keeps them taut, stretched out to either side. They are kneeling, because they were told to kneel. Their ankles are bound together, and the link between the cuffs loops around one of the banister’s struts.

Seeing Nic kneel makes Ellis’s chest hurt in a strange, hollow way, as if part of him has collapsed inwards. The feeling worsens when Nic raises their chin and looks him in the eye.

Ellis looks back, and he does not move. I must kneel and submit to Master.

The flicker of the lighter draws Nic’s eyes away, and Ellis can see the yellow glimmer reflected in their near-black gaze. Their face is strangely calm, natural panic tempered by sheer disbelief at the situation, the shackles, the weapon before them. Ellis wished Master hadn’t taped their mouth closed. He’d like to hear what Nic had to say.

Slowly, the cigarette is lit. Master savours it deliberately, releasing smoke into the air that will linger for days. Ellis thinks he can smell the sour, sharp scent. Then he leans over, and presses the tip against Nic’s skin, twisting slightly,   Nic’s brow furrows, eyes focusing on the middle distance.

Ellis watches, because this is for him. I must always obey Master.

Master is silent, and slow, as he makes another burn on Nic’s ribs, over the still-fading purple bruises from when – from when Ellis kicked them, beat them, put them in the hospital.

Nic looks exhausted. They wince at the injury, but they don’t otherwise react. Ellis is stunned by how brave they’re being, and ashamed, too. Ellis would be grovelling by now.

But then, Ellis has rules. Ellis needs rules. Nic is different, Nic is…is whole.

Ellis watches, and he’s not crying. I must treasure Master’s marks.

He’s been told to kneel, to stay, to watch. He must. This is his fault, his punishment for disobeying his rules, showing Nic his scars, and this is for him to see. Nic doesn’t deserve this, would never deserve this, Nic is good, but that’s why Master threatened them. It was meant to work. It should have been enough to stop him being bad, and it wasn’t, and so this, this is his fault.

Nic isn’t looking at him anymore. He lifts the cigarette, pushes it down. Their skin sizzles, and he twists harder this time, and their arms jerk, rattling the shackles. The cigarette crushes in his fingers. His eyes go to their face, lingering on the tension to their jaw, the vein at their temple, the tightness of their lips and the faint line of sweat at their hairline. He lets go.

“Thank you.”

Ellis whispers, because Nic can’t. I must always thank Master for punishment.

Everything slips away in a moment, and he is back in Master’s house, lying on the rug in the dark. His face is damp. His chest aches.

The image of Nic’s skin, dark brown blemished by circular red burns, lingers in his head. He doesn’t know if it’s a memory, or a vision, or a nightmare.

Whump Prompt #81

The whumpee is a blacksmith. The whumper, knowing this, uses the whumpee's own forge to heat iron rods to brand the whumpee. Taking the whumpee's trade and turning it against them.

Bonus if the whumper forces the whumpee to forge words on the rods to brand into their skin.

“Is it done?” The blacksmith jumped when the customer appeared in their doorway.

“You scarin’ people on purpose?” The blacksmith brushed off their hands, turning to find the order. Their words were ignored by the customer who stepped into the shop, shutting the door behind them.

“Is it done?”

“Now, now, don’t be getting’ hasty.” The blacksmith picked up the order. It wasn’t unusual, a branding iron with the customers seal at the end. It was the customer that was unusual, and the blacksmith was ready to get this fella off their back and out the door. “S’all done.” They turned towards the customer. “That’ll be three gold ones.”

“Heat it up.”

“I- what?”

“Heat it up. I want to test it.”

The blacksmith frowned. Reaching over to their desk, they tugged out a flap of leather and held it out to the customer. “I’ve done a test, s’as good as any of my work.”

The leather was ignored, and the blacksmiths skin pricked under the intense stare of the customer. “I want to test it.” They insisted.

The blacksmith pursed their lips, then turned with a huff to stick the iron into the fire. They’d hoped to hurry this customer out the door so they could get on home. They didn’t want to be late to supper again, their partner was sure give ‘em a chewing if they were. But now it looked like they’d be stuck here until the customer was satisfied the product worked.

They turned, opening their mouth to start a conversation but startled when they realized the customer had walked further into the shop, and was holding a pair of shackles, a freshly made order for another customer.

“Please don’t handle the orders.” The blacksmith bit out, crossing their arms. They were getting tired of this.

“You make these?” the customer asked, stepping closer.

“Of course.”

“They strong quality?”

“Of course!” Who was this person, to think they could walk into their shop and question th- “Hey, ow!”

In a quick move, the customer had stepped forwards, pushing the blacksmith into a pole. Their head hit the wood, and in their moment of disorientation the customer had their wrists in the shackles, looped around the pole.

The blacksmith was about to protest when a fist collided heavily with their gut. They doubled over, their knees giving out as they slid to the ground.

“Whadd’er you doin’?” Their words slurred as they gasped, trying to catch their breath as they looked up at the customer.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The customer caught their chin in their hand, pulling the blacksmiths head up to meet their gaze. The blacksmith squirmed, uncomfortable under those sharp piercing eyes.

“No, no, I don’t know you! I never met you before last week!”

“You have.”

“I didn’t! I don’t remember, I swear!” They twisted, pulling their wrists against the shackles. They’d have better luck biting through the pole than loosening the metal. They suddenly regretted being so good at their craft.

The customer released their chin and stood, making their way to the heading iron. The blacksmiths eyes widened as the customer turned around, a long grin stretched out on their face.

“You will. I’ll make you remember.”

Whump Prompt #23

“Hey, hey, don’t look at them. Look at me, okay? Just keep looking at me. It’ll be over soon. Keep looking at me. C’mon, focus on me.”

“Don’t look,” Talvos repeats, and it’s just as much for him as it is for Iesin, pinned by cruel hands and crueller iron. “Beloved, don’t watch, just look at me. Just at me.” He locks his eyes onto Iesin, feeling his own shackles dig into his wrists as he leans forward, wetting the ground beneath him with the blood drawn by his fruitless struggles.

Iesin drags his eyes up and away, back to Talvos’ face. He’s shaking, snatching frantic, broken gasps that aren’t enough to fill his lungs in the thick, smoky air of the low-roofed hut.

“That’s it, stay with me.” Talvos’ voice breaks, and he swallows thickly, making sure not to look away, not to look at what’s approaching.

“Tal…vos, Tal, hhh, Tal-vos,” Iesin’s chest heaves with every attempt at speech, his lungs seeking the air that fear steals from them.

Talvos blinks furiously, clearing his vision of the tears that threaten to take his only way to help his beloved away. “I’m right here, I’m here, I’m with you. Just look at me, just look right at me.”

All around them, their captors jeer and laugh. Talvos ignores them, reduces them to noise, just anger and spite breaking against the walls of his communication with Iesin. He holds Iesin’s gaze even as his face is thrown into shadow, backlit by the torch brought closer behind him.

The man bearing the torch lowers it slowly, watching Iesin’s outstretched wings twitch and shiver as the heat comes closer. Iesin’s gasps grow choppier, breaking into breathless, frantic sobs, but he keeps looking at Talvos.

“Don’t look, don’t watch, just look at me,” Talvos repeats, his voice rasping with the effort of keeping it level enough to be coherent. “Just me, just look at me, I’m here-”

The torch meets the edge of Iesin’s wing, and he screams, high and shrill, pure agony climbing in pitch till it passes the range of human hearing, but still his face contorts and his back jerks and spasms, bucking against the fire’s greedy touch, and the air shakes with the reverberations of his pain. Talvos yells too, he thinks - his jaw stretches, his chest aches, but he can’t hear anything beyond a high and constant ringing; not the flame’s crackle, not the shouts of the gang members as they collapse or flee, not even the shattering of the windows that crash around them. Darkness circles him, tugging at him to succumb to unconsciousness, but Iesin is still burning, still pinned by black iron to the centerpost of the hut, slumping forward now as his manic, tortured struggles subside towards jerking, mindless agony, and still he screams.

Talvos throws himself forwards, feeling skin slough and fold away from his wrists as he strains to reach the belt of the gang member who fell in front of him. He hooks the keys with one bare toe - now their petty cruelty in removing his shoes turns against them - and maneuvers the key back to his hand. It’s the work of moments, the space between breaths, and it’s too long by miles, by years, by an eternity before he’s free and staggering across the hut to beat out the flames devouring Iesin’s wings. Feathers, glowing at the edges as they shrivel and crisp, fall to the ground around Iesin, circling him in brief, dying points of light. Talvos smothers the flames, kicking the torch aside where it was dropped near Iesin’s leg, and Iesin’s scream peters out, grinding to a rasping, choking halt.

“Iesin, Iesin-” Talvos gasps, fighting his body’s desire to flee the touch of the aftereffects of the fae’s voice. He still has to get his beloved free, get them both away from here.

Iesin’s eyes, glazed and streaming with pain, follow Talvos’ hands as his breath rasps harshly in his throat. He shakes, his entire body giving silent voice to his pain, and as Talvos turns his attention to the iron shackles whose burn is lesser upon Iesin’s flesh but more insidious against his soul, Iesin slumps forward, tipping into unconsciousness across Talvos’ knees. It’s a mercy, and it’s terrifying, watching such utter stillness take the place of the locked, contorted muscles that shook and spasmed with agony just a breath ago.

Talvos throws the last manacle aside and battles indecision for a fraught moment on how to pick Iesin up. The charred surface of his wings, bare in large, brightly burnt patches and singed or half-burnt away everywhere else, can’t be folded up, tucked into Iesin’s usual positioning for walking or not using them. Nor can he wrap an arm around them, or rest Iesin’s back against anything.

He ends up scooping Iesin up across his front, draping Iesin’s arms down his back and settling his head on one shoulder, balancing him with one hand on his lower back and the other under his knees. Iesin’s wings drag to either side of them, but the long, swooping primaries no longer have the reach to catch on the ground. Talvos picks his way over unconscious bodies and broken glass, out into the chilled night air. A breeze scrapes across the surface of Iesin’s wings, and he awakens with a high, shuddering keen, fingers and wings spasming weakly.

“I’ve got you,” Talvos says immediately, pressing his hand against Iesin’s back to stabilize him. His wrist burns and bleeds, leaking red across Iesin’s skin. “I’ve got you, it’s over. It’s over.”

“Ta-, Tal-vos,” Iesin rasps. “Hh, hurts,”

“I know.” Silently, Talvos vows vengeance against the band of ruffians who set upon them for sport.

“Looked,” Iesin coughs, and the jolt of it tears a dry sob from him. “Looked at you,” he tries again after a moment. “Didn’t- hhh, didn’t watch, Talvos, how bad-”

“Fixable,” Talvos says promptly. It has to be. 

Iesin hums, fright and pain bleeding together as they keep moving away. “Fix…able,” he repeats hazily. 

“Yes,” Talvos says, and the fierceness in his voice stems from terror, from rage, but more than those from love. “I’m going to fix this, realtsolais.”

unreality, part one

anders and alex are @whump-sprite ‘s ocs.

“Please…” Lux whines as he’s moved, pulled up limply from the floor back up to the chair. “Please, don’, don’t.”

He’s boneless in their grips on his arms. Someone puts a hand into his curls and pushes so his head tips to the side; he feels a pinch at his neck. The needle slides back out, and Lux feels that dizzying fog clogging up his mind. It’s so disorienting, he barely registers the light touch at his temple. Something’s pressed into his hand, after the manacles click shut around his wrists, and someone whispers in his mind, It’s Alex.

Lux’s vision swims, and he sees his friend, the healer, collapsed on the floor. His skin is gray, dark circles etched under his eyes, shallow breaths huffing out from his nose. Lux falls to his knees next to him, hands hovering in worry.

“Alex - Alex - what happened?”

Lips drained and pale form the breathless words, “Healed ‘em… healed too many… people, needed my help…” in a faint whisper. Alex is shivering with the cold of having rooted out too much magic.

“Okay, I’ll - Alex, I’ll help, I’ll give you some of mine, don’t - don’t stop breathing.” Lux takes his friend’s frigid fingers in his hand and focuses hard, starts pouring his magic into the healer.

“Please… please, they - they’re gonna -” Alex trembles. “Ran out of magic… gonna hurt me.”

“No, nobody’s gonna h-hurt you.” Lux shivers, once, beginning to feel cold himself. “Nobody’s gonna hurt you, I promise, I’ll - you need more - no, I have, I have lots of m-magic, you’ll be okay…”

The caretakers, in their uniforms, watch Lux to make sure he doesn’t kill himself yet as he pours his magic into the gem. He’s one hell of a power source. The woman who slipped easily into his mind stands behind him, one finger brushing against his temple now and again to whisper encouragements in his mind, painting the image of Lux sacrificing his strength to save a friend.

“‘onna help y-you, I - I prom-mise,” Lux slurs deliriously, eyes lost. His magic flows slower and slower, into the crystal, until it’s taken from him and he frowns in confusion.

You healed him, whispers the mind-strider, and Lux sees color return to Alex before him, sees Alex breathing better and muttering, “Thank you, thank you, Lux.”

Lux gives a wobbly smile, relaxing in the chair he’s strapped into. Then, another crystal’s pressed to his palm, and his fingers are pressed down around it to keep it there.

It’s Anders, he hears in his head, and everything warps before him. Now, Anders is crumpled on the floor, his leg twisted and mangled, his chest hitching in agony.

“Lux,” He pants, eyes wide with pain - he looks like that when Maura’s hurt him - Lux can smell the burns, can see them around the edges of Anders’ back where it’s pressed to the floor.

“Lux, f-fuck - please.”

With a cry of distress, Lux thrusts his palms toward his ruined friend and pours healing magic into him, gasping at how deeply it hurts, how cold he feels, like he’ll never be warm again. Anders is begging, his voice cracking - Lux’s magic, in healing that leg, cracks and twists it back into place to set it straight, and Anders starts crying.

Lux starts crying too, so someone whispers, It’s working, it’s getting better, and Lux sees Anders sigh in relief as his leg finally clunks into a position that doesn’t grate nerves between shards of bone. Both of Lux’s hands are over that leg, pouring and pouring magic, mending and weaving - Anders hisses, “My back, it’s - fucked, it’s -”  So Lux scoots forward and turns him onto his side, apologizing, then trying to repair the wrecked burnt up skin there.

“I’m so s-sorry, Anders, I know it hurts, I’ll fix it,” He promises. But then his vision swims, and his stomach drops as the hallucination melts away.

“W-what…” Lux blinks drowsily, looking around for Anders. He’s gone now. “He - he’s…”

“You healed him,” A woman answers calmly, patting his cheek. Lux flinches. “You healed his leg, and the burns. You did a good job, Lux. You saved Anders.”

“I - s-saved him? ‘s okay?”

“Yes, you did.”

“Is he m-m-mad at me?”

“No, no, he loves you very much. You’re a wonderful friend. You even saved Alex.” Lux’s cold fingers are held in very warm hands as the metal releases his wrists and his limp arms are held so he can be lifted to his feet. He sways, and is lowered to the ground, where he doesn’t even bother to curl up. “You saved your friends.”

Lux chokes back a dry sob of relief. The room is emptied of people he didn’t notice yet, and she doesn’t look back. Lux presses his forehead against the floor and breathes shakily, curling his fingers into his shirt so he can try to warm them. “‘s okay,” He whispers to himself. “‘s okay, did - did a, a g-good job.” Alex and Anders, they’re alive, they’re healed, they’re not aching with depleted magic or crying with the pain of burns and shattered bodies. “‘s okay.”

reunion.

Anders’ lips jerk frantic, shuddering breaths into lungs hampered by broken ribs. His wrists chafe against tightly latched magic-suppression handcuffs. Leg broken in god-knows how many places, he whimpers pitifully as he’s dragged across the room, groans as he’s thrust roughly into — some sort of a metal box.

A bit smaller than a coffin, Anders thinks, and a hell of a lot less comfortable.

The guard yanks that knee to bend unnaturally to the side, sticks it up and under him, and Anders’ mouth contorts into a silent scream.

“How’s that, fucker? And don’t think you’re gonna be found, this box is warded, just like this building. Oh, your Mistress will love you like this.”

The lid slams closed. He can feel the sickly hum of the wards around him, destroying, interfering, with magic.

No. No.

Immediately, Anders suffocates.

He’s not dead, somehow, but surely, he’s suffocating, there’s no air in here, and the pain is — well, it’s about to get a whole lot worse, that’s for goddamn sure, because as much as he can’t stop shaking and spasming and whimpering from the agony of the last week of beatings, he doesn’t have any burns, yet.

He will soon have many.

His hands scrabble at the cold metal of the box below him. He doesn’t breathe, for a few moments, then takes short, strangled, unsatisfying gasps. There’s not a pinch of light. There’s the sound of the guards laughing, and the smell of his own terror.

The box is lifted, tossed.

The sound of the ignition, and they’re going. To *her*.

No. No no no *god* no.

He swears his heart stops, multiple times on the way, but somehow he’s still there, still alive, still able to feel his knee exploding all over again with every turn, every bump in the road. It’s an eternity, in there, as the box gets tighter and the pain gets louder, but he wishes it could last longer, somehow, because every moment in here he’s not with her.

And then the car stops. There’s a sound like gunshots, or fireworks, but they don’t make any sense, to Anders. He barely registers them.

What he hears is the key in the lock, loud and crunching and deadly. He knows he’s about to see her face, and he will burn, and he will suffer, and he will beg her for mercy that will come far too late, and —

That’s not Mistress.

“Nnnghh — hnnn,” Anders can’t breathe, can’t think well enough to form words.

The voice comes to him as if from the end of a long tunnel, the shadow materializes as Anders’ bloodshot eyes adjust to the light. “Reyan. Hey. Easy. She’s dead. Breathe.”

*Dev?*

~

It had taken a week.

A week of constant, brutal agony, a week of apologies and thank yous and my name is Twelve. A few sips of water to keep them alive, only to leave them crying because it was so, so far from enough, because the one hint of relief on their tongue only made losing it more horrifying. A week of burning, and whipping, and burning again, until they weren’t sure if there was anything left of their back, at all.

Finally, finally, she unchained them, let them be carried upstairs. She laid them first in a bathtub, let their head slump onto the porcelain rim of the tub. She turned on the cool water, let it run over the flaming agony that was their back and shoulders. She held sips of water from a bottle to their lips, and rinsed their face and hair with more cold water from a sponge.

Does that feel good, Twelve, darling?

Yes, mistress, thank you.

You may have it as long as you like. I think you’ve learned your lesson well.

When they were clean and bandaged and felt something close to cool, she put them in a bathrobe, brought them into bed with her, let them rest in her lap and stroked their hair and murmured just like old times, Twelve. She gave them morphine, and it — wasn’t much, really. Enough to dull the pain a bit, enough to stave off the withdrawals. Not enough to knock them out. Not anymore. Their tolerance was too goddamn high.

As she smiled down at them, they wished, for a moment, that the love  written on her face was something other than cruelty. They wished, for a moment, they could stay.

But they could not.

They waited, until she thought they were asleep. Then long-lashed eyes fluttered just a hint, their finger twitched in a way that might have been involuntary.

A pink line appeared, ever so gently, across that pristine neck.

Her eyes widened in horror, recognizing the betrayal, for only a moment. Then the wound split, and burst.

And then there was blood. Blood everywhere.

~

She was only ever a human.

She died like any other, in that most human of ways. Overestimating her own power.

And then she was gone, and Dev could no longer love her, nor hate her, nor fear her, nor crave her.

~

Dev’s not, on the face of it, a terribly comforting person. But Anders looks so goddamn terrible, delirious with pain and wide-eyed from terror, that Dev’s moving their hands up and down Anders’ upper arms and repeating things like easy and breathe. Anders sucks in breath, shaking, as if he hasn’t inhaled or exhaled since he was told this was where he was headed.

Which, likely, Dev knows, he hasn’t. “She’s dead,” they repeat.

The first word Anders manages is “H-how?”

“I killed her.” Dev draws a hand across their throat.

“Th-th-thank you.”

“Didn’t do it for you,” Dev mutters, starting to help Anders out of the box. “Don’t thank me — nhhhh, don’t touch my shoulders, little fuckin’ crispy, all right?” Nevertheless, Dev lifts Anders out of the box and puts him into the back seat. Tiny whimpers escape Anders’ contorted lips as his leg is unbent and placed back down. “Although I did pick up the phone when the feds called about you, talked to them in a creepy ass falsetto, of course I want Anders Reyan. You can thank me for that — actually don’t. Don’t thank me for anything. Damn, your leg looks fucked —“ Dev pulls a pile of syringes out of their pocket. “You want?”

“Please.” Anders is beyond snark, beyond the automatic no.

Dev passes it to him. “Give it to yourself, I gotta get the dead people out of my new car — shit.”

As Anders realizes that yes, there are two corpses in the front of the car, those were the gunshots, Dev turns to the woods, stops short, and stares.

Coming out of the forest at a sprint, with glimmering, blinding white light in his hands, is Lux.

Upon seeing the expression on the young warlock’s face, Dev throws up their scarred hands in a gesture of immediate surrender.

let’s talk about branding

- how was it done? did they use an actual brand and burn it into their victim? or did they painstakingly carve it into them, letter by letter and stroke by stroke?

- what was it? simply their name or initials, a reminder of their time together? some kind of identification? what meaning does it hold for the victim? if it’s a normal word, can the victim not stand to hear it without remembering the excruciating pain of the brand?

- location, location! is it some place public, where everyone can see and cast pitying glances their way? or is it tucked away where it can be hidden, where only people the victim are close to can see it?

anyways this is a criminally underused trope. branding.

Please consider the following:

- The victim almost forgetting about it until it’s touched or mentioned or glimpsed in a reflection and then they get a pang of painful remembrance and hatred towards the scar.

- Does the scar ever itch? Sting? Can the victim do anything to ease this or can they not bear to touch it?

- The branded word being a mocking nickname that their captor always calls them - something they’ll now always be reminded of. (Some ideas: pipsqueak, shortstop, birdie, freak, prude, angel, mine, etc)

- If this is the case, imagine the captor just clicking their tongue and touching or tapping the scar lightly with a mock pout instead of actually saying the name. Whenever the branded nickname is touched, the victim’s eyes fill with tears of shame and embarrassment. They hate it.

- The feeling of helplessness as they’re tied down and they know what’s about to happen. Their eyes go wide, a pitiful moan escapes their covered mouth - that is, until the screaming starts.

- After the branding, the victim just sits and shakes, silent tears falling down their face.

- In a case of stockholm syndrome, the victim eventually comes to consider the scar as a sort of sentimental tattoo, rubbing it gently for comfort whenever they’re scared.

If anybody cares to talk more about this, (you too, OP) I will gladly think of more.