a continuation of this drabble by @clockworknightmares .

It’s his fault. It’s his fault. Crow made a mistake because he was distracted. He was distracted because the Hunter chose not to visit his mind, let him stew in his worry and panic over whether Nick would choose to beat him or refuse to. The Hunter made a play to ensure Crow was afraid enough to sell the beating, to make it convincing, like a beating alone wouldn’t be enough.

If he’s completely honest with himself, he didn’t give Crow warning ahead of time because this was his chance to hurt Crow, his only blame-free chance, and he wanted the assistant as scared as he could be. He wanted to see utter terror in Crow’s eyes.

He was selfish, cruel, and usually it only makes things more fun, but this time it’s tearing him up inside.

The pain that Crow is in now… Never again. No more half-measures with this. Crow is his friend, and Nick won’t hurt him, and he won’t do things that lead to him getting hurt more than he has to.

…Crow looks good right now.

The Hunter can see him in the mirror, the one placed perfectly so Crow can watch himself suffer. His mind is loud with pain, as he hangs limply from broken wrists, his shoulders popped out of their sockets. His hair hangs in his face, grey eyes reflecting grimly in the mirror. His tattoo, the number and brand, it’s visible by his collarbone. If the Hunter was there, he’d press down on one of those shoulders and listen to Crow keen.

He’s capable of thinking that, alongside the Collector should be gutted for this. It’s just the kind of man he is.

Crow hates seeing his reflection. He hates looking at himself, but here he is, trapped in agony with nothing to look at but his own thin, pallid, trembling frame. Slender arms strung up, shoulders displaced, thin torso unable to expand for deep breaths. The Hunter wants to unbind his arms and pull him into a hug, ease him down to the floor.

I will obey, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I will obey, clean and presentable and calm, I will be good and I will obey and I will be Crow, please let me be Crow, no number, four-nine-four-zero, I want to be Crow, I want to be yours…

Crow’s thoughts are on a conditioned, broken-in loop. The loop only breaks when he figures out that he’s not alone in his head. Then, I want to be Crow, I want to be yours becomes Nick - Nick, I want to be - I want to be yours, I want to be, I want to be hurt, by you, please hurt me, it would be better, I want to be useful, I want to be Crow and I want to be hurt - my arms, please, please - I want, I want, please, Nick, please…

Confused and conditioned and condemned to silence. Crow is suffering so deeply. Crow… What can he say, what can he think, to possibly help? Crow, I’ll never hurt you if I can help it. I’m still your friend. I’m sorry you’re being punished.

It doesn’t work. Crow latches onto only the worst parts, twists Nick’s words. Hurt me… you’re my friend, you can, I want you to, it’s okay, you want to, I know you want to… punished - I messed up, I need to be punished - it hurts, it hurts, it hurts…

Words, thoughts, they’re no use. This is 4940, or something close. Crow broken down to a terrified shell of a person.

The Hunter tries something else. He goes for the route of soothing, how he would with someone he’s ruined. It’s alright. You’ve been good. Very, very good, you are good. You’re special and good. He sends waves of forgiveness, calm, pride. Like he’s praising Crow for taking his punishment so well. I’m proud of you. You’re still being punished, but you’re being so strong, I’m very happy with you. You are being so good, Crow, good job. Very good.

Crow listens, his thoughts quirk a little in rapt attention as the magic in his mind tries to make his panic settle. Good? He asks in a simple single thought, head tipped a bit to the side, loose messy hair swaying with the movement and obscuring one of his teary grey eyes. Good?

Very good. You are good, Crow. You’re obeying. Forgiven, you’ll be forgiven soon. You’ll get a chance to earn it. Keep being good, keep being sorry. It will keep Crow alive, so close to getting his number back and being killed. Crow needs to let himself stay broken and obedient entirely, if he’s going to survive the week, Nick thinks. Be good. I’m proud of you. Make me proud. Have good thoughts. Show you’re sorry when he sees you. Your pain, your fear, they mean you’re being good, you’re being punished. So obedient and accepting the blame. Good, good, good. Wonderfully good.

Crow watches himself in the mirror, tears still on his cheeks, shivering. Good, good… I want to be good. I can be good. Good for Nick?

And your Master, Nick adds helpfully. Good for your Master. You’re making me proud. If you’re good for him, you’re making me proud, Crow.

Okay, Nick, Crow thinks, still watching his reflection, even though he hates it. It’s his punishment. Okay, Nick, I’ll be good, I’ll be very good. Good for Master, good for Nick.

The Hunter glares at the wall from where he sits in his house, skilled enough at telepathy to project calm pride despite his silent outrage. He rewards Crow with more waves of pride, accidentally making his friend cry from relief at just a moment of not feeling loathed and revolting. In the end, Nick needs to leave Crow’s mind before he loses control of his own emotions. He’s truly got no idea if he helped, or only broke Eerin more.

content warning: referenced/implied noncon - more like, it’s clearly the context of the situation, but it’s not described, just led up to.

“There’s a different kind of guest who wants to spend time with you tonight, sweetheart.”

Marlow sits patiently while Sir brushes his hair, the hair cut shorter than Sir used to keep it. “Different, Sir?” His hands are in his lap, and he blinks at the closet door, left open because his owner’s in here with him. “Do they want… different makeup? An expensive dress?” Sometimes, they have preferences like that - lighter makeup so he looks sweeter, or an expensive dress to ruin, that will be replaced along with money as compensation for the loss.

“Actually, this time, no makeup. Nothing done to your hair. And he wants you to wear a pair of boxers.”

Marlow frowns. “That’s - that sounds…”

“Odd, I know. Not like my sweet Marlow.” Sir pets Marlow’s hair, done brushing it, and Marlow leans into the touch. “I think that he wants you to be Christian tonight.”

Now, Marlow freezes. “Sir,” He whispers, holding very still - “Sir, please, I don’t want to -”

“Yes, you do, angel. You want to do whatever the guests ask. You want to do whatever I tell you to.”

The hand in his hair feels like something to fear, now. “Yes, Sir,” Marlow answers, tense and frightened. All it takes is that name said aloud.

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Alex in the cellar, part one

Alex is @whump-sprite ‘s oc.

That day, when the Hunter watched Lux and his friend in the park, talking and laughing, the warlock caught his eye. The one named Alex. There was something about his ragged, crushed down magic, paling so drastically next to his little light’s radiant shine. Something about the faded ends of those scars peeking out from his hoodie, at the back of his neck, that looked a lot like the slender, delicate raised scars along Lux’s back from the whip.

Alex has scars, and his mind is unwarded, and his magic is weak. And the look on Lux’s face when the Hunter forced Alex to choke him that day… the trust his light must have in Alex. It makes him special. If Lux is his friend, then it would be so, so fun for him to find out, one day, what became of Alex.

The Hunter doesn’t plan to let him leave the cellar. Alex will shatter and he’ll beg and maybe, the Hunter can have fun breaking him for a long while before he gets his little light back.

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fuck

unreality, shattered

It’s Alex.

Lux had thought it was over, thought he’d died with the voice of his mother still echoing in his ears. But here the healer is again, and he’s drained, horribly so, his magic is tingling and he’s saying Lux, Lux —

— what if he’s real?

Lux can’t risk it being real. As long as he’s still alive, he still has magic to give; that’s what Alex would say, at least.

He forces energy out through his shattered nerves into the healer’s shaking hands.

~

It’s Anders.

Anders takes Lux’s hands, opening up a conduit between their magic. He’s near tears, murmuring please, and his leg hurts, it hurts so badly, Lux can feel that pulsating pain through their connection. Lux can fix that. He will soothe that pain, if it kills him. Anders deserves a day without pain.

~

It’s Taryn.

Taryn doesn’t need anything, does she? No, no, this must be Jordan. Jordan’s really outdone himself this time. He’s given Lux the feeling of a bed, of warm blankets, of bottles of warm water pressed to his chest. He’s recreated, astoundingly, the feeling of Taryn replenishing his magic, the warmth running through her fingers and deep into Lux’s abused lungs. Lux wants to press himself to her imaginary chest, take as much from her as he can, she’s so good at this, it feels so good, he’s desperate for it to continue —

He needs to thank Jordan, needs to, or this mercy might vanish. He can’t form the words. The muscles of his jaw are frozen crystal, his nerves are shut down, drained, useless.

~

The room is thick with the mist of magic-replenishing oil, and the heat is cranked up all the way.  Anders is sweating, in a t-shirt and shorts in the middle of winter. Lux, on the other hand, lies under three blankets, surrounded by hot water-bottles, with a wool hat over his curls.  Still, Lux’s hands, wrapped in Anders’, are the coldest thing in the room.

Lux can’t see, Alex tells them. Drained as badly as he is, the senses go. Sight goes first. Hearing might be there, somewhat, might not be. Touch is the last sense to remain, so Anders holds Lux’s hands, strokes the inside of his palm, and tries to push magic in. “Lux… please… Lux…” he whispers, a catch in his voice.

Lux doesn’t move, but Anders suddenly feels something cool and soothing in his knee, easing the hot, throbbing pulse over stiff muscles and ligaments. Anders lets go with a start. “Fuck, he’s trying to heal me, why — how can he even be trying to heal me?”

“He did it to me, too,” says Alex. “They must have drained his power by convincing him we needed it.”

“Let me try,” says Taryn softly. She perches on the bed next to Lux, wraps her hands around his, and brings light into Lux’s hands.

It’s harder than lending Alex magic. It’s harder to hold back. The hollow emptiness in Lux is deeper, more furious, than even Alex at his worst. Lux had more power, to begin with. It will take more, to replenish it. But it works.

Taryn holds back, feeding Lux magic low and slow. His exhausted body absorbs it instantly. The first change they can see, the first effect it has, is that Lux starts to shiver. It’s not conscious movement, but it’s something, some intact physiological process, and it’s the first thing that makes Lux look alive.

No one should be this cold and not shiver.

The shivering is weak at first, then violent, and when Taryn’s almost depleted, a moan issues from Lux’s lips.

“Lux? Lux, are you trying to say something?” Taryn presses Lux’s hands in encouragement.

“Th-th —“ Another low moan of frustration.

“It’s okay. Take it easy. Try again.”

“Th-th-tha — you — J-J-Jordan —“

“Who’s Jordan? It’s me. Taryn.” She strokes a hand through his curls, then rubs more oil on his cold, shaking hands before she presses her magic in again, swallowing a cough she hopes no one sees. A couple more minutes, though, and Lux shudders, jerks, his body too full of foreign energy.

“He can’t take any more,” she says. “We have to wait, for some of his to come back.”

~

Th-th-thank you, J-Jordan, he manages, after what feels like hours, hours of effort to form the words.

Of course, he realizes, his gratitude came too late, his stutter failed to evoke Jordan’s sympathies.

Because only a few minutes later, the illusion is gone, Taryn’s warm and soothing hands are gone, and Lux is blind, and cold, and alone.

What memories do you want to revisit today, my little light? Would you like to see something painful, something upsetting?

I don’t want that, please, I don’t want to remember anything, I’d rather get hurt than think about those things, please get out, it hurts, I’m afraid, I’m afraid…

You’re always afraid, little one. Why would that make me stop this time?

It won’t, it won’t work saying I’m scared, I know you like it when I’m scared, I know, but I still am, I can’t stop it -

You can’t be brave? You can’t be strong?

I can’t, I’m weak, I know, I can’t be brave, I’m so scared…

Lux focuses on that, fixates on it. Feeling scared, helpless. He repeats it to himself, that he’s afraid, like saying it enough will make some cosmic force take pity on him.

And then, suddenly, he’s not in the cellar. He’s in a cell - he’s been in a few before, he recognizes the function of a plain room furnished only by a cot. There’s no one else in the cell. Until the solid door opens, and someone’s led inside. A tall, broad guy.

The Hunter.

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Ash and Eli, part 2

You were right about us, okay? I’m protective of him. Damn protective. He hates it - can it, Eli, I know it’s annoying. But I can’t let that guy hurt him bad. You’ve gotta help me.

The Hunter’s back, and the twins are calm and cocky again. Still, Lux remembers what Ash told him.

We don’t trust anyone. I have to, now. I’m trusting you to help keep him safe. You and me, we have to do that. Do you understand where I’m coming from?

Lux had agreed to try. He doesn’t have a brother - he doesn’t have anyone. But he understands wanting to help, wanting to protect. There’s usually a period, with new people down here, of them being hurt bad. Being shown their place. Lux is always an example of how to be good and avoid the worst of it. It’s going to be done to these two. Lux thinks he knows how it’ll happen. He’s not sure he can make it any better, but he’ll watch, and listen, and do his best to find a way.

“Do twin minds work the same?” The Hunter muses aloud, walking over to Eli again. Ash tries, again, to seem like he doesn’t care, so Eli can face down their captor with some bravery.

But the twins have seen what the Hunter’s threatening to do, now. They’ve seen Lux’s mind invaded, heard his cracking, desperate screams, the saw the Hunter watching with unbridled joy. And The Hunter’s raising a hand to touch Eli’s temple, smiling at the glaring young man.

Ash gives Lux a sharp look: stop this. I cant, you can - don’t let him hurt my brother like that.

“Stop, please, don’t hurt him,” Lux begs, trying to catch the Hunter’s attention. But the tanned, square-jawed twins are newer, more interesting, and they’ve caught their captor’s eye. That hand is almost to Eli’s temple now, and the guy looks scared, and Lux can stop this -

Please don’t hurt him.

The Hunter stops, lowers his hand. Turns to look at Lux, slowly, looking intrigued, excited - dangerously so.

“Did you just do… what I think you just did?”

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