clockworknightmares reblogged
TW: CREEPY, POSSESSIVE WHUMPER, MENTIONS OF BLOOD, CHOKING, THREAT OF SOLITARY CONFINEMENT, CHOKING
"You're testing my patience, vexo."
"That's my, my fucking job, General."
clockworknightmares reblogged
The lord of the castle has a cruel and vindictive son. This son has a grudge against a particular stable boy who once humiliated him by winning a game of chess against him in the yard, making him look stupid.
He gets the other young man thrown in the dungeons for some minor infraction, simply so he can torture him personally with no repercussions or anyone who will come to his aid. It goes so well and the lordling is having so much fun, he leaves him there. Who would dare challenge him, the eldest son and soon to be lord of their land?
He starves the other boy, beats him, whips him unconscious, keeps him chained in stress positions for long stretches of time where the only people who might hear his cries for mercy are guards who will not bat an eye. He begins calling him pet names. He makes him beg and perform degrading acts for his daily ration of water, or bread, or a bucket of water to rinse off the filth.
There is a war, and the castle and its lands change hands. A lesser noble who fought fiercely for the new king is awarded the old lords territories and a greater title. He wants to tour the entirety of his new castle, from the battlements to the dungeons.
He is shocked when he finds the slain lordlings plaything, once a strong young man, barely recognizable and cringing from the light of his torch, terrified of him. No one can remember his supposed crime, and the guards do not even want to look in his direction.
He opens the door of the cell, noticing the heavy chains used to restrain someone who no longer looks like they could climb out of the dungeons unshackled.
"Its alright," the new lord says cautiously. He wouldn't keep an enemy in these conditions, let alone a stable hand. "Im going to take you out of here. Can you stand?"
The prisoner tries, but his legs are weak and have old injuries that have not healed correctly. The guards remove the heavy chains and there are open wounds where they have been so long against the skin.
The prisoner becomes distressed when the new lord attempts to physically carry him from the cell himself.
"Am I hurting you?" he asks.
But the prisoner is only concerned about getting the lord's clothes dirty. He manages to convey that he is no longer fit to be touched by another person, certainly not by nobility such as himself.
"I've seen worse than you in the battlefield," the young lord tells him gruffly. "Now put your arms around my neck. I don't belong down here and neither do you."
clockworknightmares reblogged
- the hero's hands are tied above their head to a post in town square, their torso exposed. They are hit repeatedly by the villain, and civilian onlookers are too scared to approach and free the hero, so they watch
- being detained and beaten, and then being on video/live in front of thousands of viewers. Maybe they're on the big screens in cities, or some dark web site
- the villain sending photos of a beaten hero to the newspapers, and it's all they print for weeks
- voice recordings of the hero screaming in pain are sent to loved ones and friends
clockworknightmares reblogged
A whumpee is caught trying to escape or fomenting rebellion. They are dragged out into a public place and bound kneeling with their hands cuffed to the ground in front of them. The ritual number of lashes is given, furrowing their back and flicking around the edges of their shoulders, their arms, the bare soles of their feet.
When the whip stills for the last time, they sag forwards, hardly able to believe they survived. But they are not released, and dimly they hear the number of hours they must wait under the sun before they will be released.
They took a whipping. They can survive the waiting.
They can’t muster the energy to flinch when something weighted thunks down near their slumped body, but it doesn’t inflict more pain on them, and they ignore it in favor of making sure they manage to take one breath, and then another.
They can hear people passing by. They’ll be a spectacle, a lesson, a witness to the folly of resistance.
They’ll be a symbol, a sign, a marker that there are still those who dream of freedom.
Footsteps pass closer. It’s fine, they have to get through the square somehow. But then they pause, and the whumpee cracks tear-crusted eyes open to see an arm dipping into the bucket that’s been left next to them.
They catch, briefly, the look of regret on the civilian’s face – and behind them the watchful guards – before they toss the handful of salt across the whumpee’s torn-open back.
When awareness fades back in from the white-hot spike that pierced them, the whumpee cowers from the sounds of more people passing through the busy square. Each one slows, as they must, to dip their hand into the bucket and offer tribute to the spectre of order propped up by looming guards and the vice of collective fear.
clockworknightmares reblogged
Last Patron COMMISSION ! Yeah I did it :) Thank you all for your support. Now I’ll think about opening my Ko-Fi commissions publicly. Depends on my schedule >//<
#shiro #muzzle #patreon #sai #fanart #voltron
clockworknightmares reblogged
Falconry Fae: The Bit
Content warnings: mouth gore; burns, including inside the mouth; light ear gore; coughing up blood; dehumanization; degrading language; forced haircut.
“Still, –still, beast!”
A pair of hands latches onto the fae’s ears, twisting them cruelly. Strands of long black hair, caught in the fingers’ indiscriminate vice, snap and pinch free. The fae trills, high and panicked, in the back of their throat. Pointed teeth slot neatly into each other, clenched tight behind lips pulled back in a helpless, terrified snarl. The fae pushes back against the human firm behind them, straining at the ropes binding their arms and wings and digging taloned toes into the ground in an effort to lean away from the iron contraption being shoved at them by the other human. They’ve been docile since they were netted and brought down, but the sight of iron fills them with fear too large to be tamed.
A loop of iron sits at the center of the device, protruding from a fine wire mesh wide enough to fully cover their mouth. A looping assembly of leather set with buckles and belt-notches is connected to the sides of the mesh, open to allow their head into its web.
Please, please don’t, please don’t put it on me, not iron, please–
The fae’s pleading falls, quicksilver and light, laced with glinting strands of starsong. The human in front of them falters, arms drooping like they’re suddenly bearing a mountain instead of a metal bauble.
clockworknightmares reblogged
Get Up: Antoni
CW: Using clove cigarettes to burn skin, burns, burning as torture, conditioned responses and behavior, feverish whumpee, creepy whumper, fucky guilt/self-loathing/self-injury thoughts (of the “I deserve to be hurt” variety, no self-injury occurs). Xenophobic language/xenophobia
Tagging @astrobly, @finder-of-rings, @burtlederp and also @oofowouchies and @orphceus for Antoni-specific
“Get up, love.” The voice is low, a rumble from all around him rather than any one direction. He can feel the vibration of it in the hollows of his bones, the aches that throb along his thighs and arms. Breathing seems like pushing up against a weight laid over his chest, stones laid inside his lungs.
There’s a rough hand against his face, a palm pressed to his forehead. “You’re hot.” He whines, only to hear Mr. Davies’ mocking laughter in return. “Fucking dog now, are you? Might as well be, I suppose. I’d treat a dog better than you, if I had one, though. Feed it more, anyway. Get up.”
He tries.
Nothing happens.
He tries again, but all he can manage is limbs that flop, a head that shifts minutely, bones that scream protest at him and demand he be still.
“C… can’t.” His own voice is a breath, a whisper. He is motionless, in the bed, blankets kicked down around his feet. The ceiling fan ticks as it spins lazily overhead, he stares at it through cracked eyelids.
A shadow passes, and he can’t flinch away.
There’s a slap, the smack of skin on skin, and Antoni has no energy to fight it. He only lets his head fly to the side, the sting in his face joining a deeper, weightier throb inside his head.
He moans, maybe.
He’s not sure if the sound comes from his lungs or is only in his head.
“You don’t have access to ‘can’t’ any longer, darling.” The hand is gentle again, rubbing a thumb over the reddened skin on the side of his face. “Pull your shirt up, pretty little ashtray. Let’s see.”
“M-Mr. Davies-”
“Now.”
clockworknightmares reblogged
Whump Prompt #4
After yet another brutal session of torture, the whumpee sobs into the whumper’s shirt as they gently stroke their hair, whispering soft words of comfort into their neck. They quiet their hitching sobs with a gentleness so unlike them and smooth a hand over their tear soaked face.
“Oh,” they whisper adoringly. “Keep going. You look so much better like this, love.”
Thank you @castielamigos-whump-side-blog! Marshal has a great love of shocking devices and he thinks a collar is a good look on Laurent. (This is just a whole bunch of marshal being kind of a creep and Laurent being so tired, as usual)
Marshal smirks, tangling his fingers back into Laurent’s hair. He yanks his head back, exposing his neck. “You know what I think? I think you would look gorgeous with a collar. I really do love the new shock ones we’re about to put on the market. They’re addicting.”
Laurent grits his teeth and tosses his head, trying to yank away from Marshal’s grip, but without success. “W-what? The ones Locke sells s-so disgusting excuses for human beings can- can put on their brainwashed slaves they call p-pets?”
Marshal shrugs and traces Laurent’s delicate jawline with a finger. “It’s a perfectly legitimate business Laurie. Locke knows where the money is. Military and Pet tech are the two most profitable revenue sources for companies like ours. All those little chip implants, collars, cuffs, you name it- we make it. You will be making it. Once you come to your senses.” His finger trails from Laurent’s jaw to his neck, sending icy, gut-twisting spirals of fear down the inventor’s spine where they dig their claws in and hold fast.
“I w-won’t”, Laurent says. His mismatched pale eyes can’t completely meet Marshal’s. “I won’t contribute to trading in life- or- or m-making things that hurt people.” He doesn’t want to cause harm with his work. He wants to help, to heal.
clockworknightmares reblogged
hopelesswhump
okay i’m sorry but intimate whumpers? that’s my SHIT right there. let me explain:
- after torturing the whumpee, they wipe away their tears and pull them into a hug and run their hand through their hair to calm them down.
- bonus points if whumpee is so touch starved that they hug back.
- while torturing whumpee, they shush them calmingly and tell them how well they’re doing for them, and how they’re “so proud of them.”
- whumper cleaning whumpee’s wounds and cuts and bruises etc after they’re done torturing them. >>>
- they tell whumpee how “beautiful” they are, all marked up like that. they say that they look so much better when they’re covered in blood. bonus BONUS points if this affects whumpee after they’re rescued.
do you see what i mean?
clockworknightmares reblogged
Anonymous asked:
⌫ for Antoni and Chris? Pretty please?
clockworknightmares reblogged
some food for thought
- tied to a chair, interrogated and tortured at their own place (bonus points if the caretaker comes home and gets involved);
- coming home to a smug whumper sitting on their couch (and sipping on their oldest whiskey, no less);
- their own weapons used against them — how ironic would it be to get stabbed with your own knife;
- the whumpee finding a note on the nightstand or a gift sitting on their desk and fuck they’ve been here;
- getting out of the shower and the whumper is right here, taser in hand;
- forcing the whumpee to watch themselves getting choked/beaten up in the mirror.
clockworknightmares reblogged
@badthingshappenbingo ’s Trope: Power Fatigue | Fandom: OC | Requested by: anon
“Again.”
The gang leader puts her ear plugs back in and leans back, crooking a leg over the highbacked chair that looks like it belongs in a lord’s estate, not the pitted, abandoned chandlery that this group of ruffians have taken over as their base.
Iesin straightens his sagging posture. The knife at Talvos’ neck isn’t letting him relax. He looks at the captive kneeling in front of him, some other shaking victim of their predacious lifestyle. He doesn’t know the human, doesn’t have anything in particular against him - but he will continue to destroy him, for the alternative is Talvos - Talvos in pain, Talvos bleeding out onto the dirty flagstones, Talvos still and silently grey, Talvos anything but alive and brightly breathing.
He takes a breath, opening his soul to the mysteries. Starsong scrapes against the sensitive channels of his will, protesting the tension he must drag from the frayed threads of his connection in order to fulfill their captor’s demands. The human cowers down towards his bound hands in a futile effort to cover his ears.
Iesin’s croon starts low, a quiet trill of fear that dances in glassine unease across the human’s spine. It builds, in sliding, maddeningly liquid half-pitches, through anxiety and towards full-fledged fear. Dissonance weaving in twists fear towards terror, and the human looses a keen of his own. Tears spill shamelessly from wide, too-focused eyes. He is afraid, strangled in terror that Iesin weaves in barbed strands around his throat and sinks in icy pinpricks into his veins.
The mysteries strain against him, wearing at the edges of his connection like a string scraping across rough bark. The human’s fear has been closer to the surface each time, easier to draw forth, but Iesin’s ability to channel the mysteries stretches thinner with every moment of sustained use. He is so, so diminished. Once, this would have been as thoughtless as breathing; once, he could have destroyed this man’s sanity in half the time he has taken to slowly, excruciatingly wind up his current level of fear. Once, he was fae, full and fair, a starchild in every right. Now, his soul strains and quakes within him, and his body sings in screeling, fine tremors of exhaustion and edging, creeping pain.
Iesin cuts off his stream of sound, and the human curls forwards, bowing under the weight of the mindless, inescapable terror inflicted upon him. He shakes, collapsed at Iesin’s feet, gibbering quietly.
The gang leader removes an ear plugs and tilts an eyebrow at the misery drifting upwards from Iesin’s victim.
“Did what you demand,” Iesin says, tipping his chin up. “Is afraid, this human. We go now.” He presses the tips of his fingers against his thighs to still the trembling in his hands.
She leans forward. “I don’t think so. He’s not afraid enough yet, fae. Make him scream.”
To the side, Talvos stiffens. He can’t hear clearly, since Iesin had absolutely refused to begin until they allowed him earplugs too, but he can tell that Iesin is tiring, and that the gang leader is pressing him for something. The woman holding him tightens her grip, and a single drop of blood slides down the edge of her knife. Iesin’s head snaps towards the smell, pupils narrowing to furious slits.
“Don’t touch,” he snaps. Habit, rebuilt after months of avoidance, reaches for starsong to enforce his demand, and emotion grabs, clawed and jagged, where open request should have been made. The mysteries resist his desperation, drag sharp, acidic censure across the channels of his soul as they come, and Iesin shudders and sways. His body feels unstrung, disjointed like a puppet dashed to the ground and trampled into pieces. The floor smacks across his shoulder and one wing, and then his head bounces off of the stone as well. Blackness flashes across his vision, and it is void and utterly bereft. He keens, breathlessly repentant. Please, please, he needs the mysteries!
Sound filters in, yelling and heavy human boots. They stomp closer. A hand fists in his hair. Iesin squints hazily up at the gang leader, watching her mouth move in the flat, earthy consonants that are just one more way to distance him from the stars. His soul strains, reaching instinctively for song that flees from his grasp.
“…et up,” she’s shouting.
Iesin’s body lifts up off the ground as she yanks at him. Behind her, Talvos is jerking against the gang members holding him back. His face twists with rage and fear. Discarded in a corner, the human that Iesin enspelled for their amusement cowers, drowning in the aftermath of what Iesin created in him. Emptiness scrapes him out, leaving a hollow shell of regret and aching need, and the world greys out once more.
clockworknightmares reblogged
The first one’s name is Colby. A sweet name for a sweet boy. He was simple enough, easy to scare. New to the Resistance, not remotely new to suffering. Every warlock knows suffering.
They’re going to know it a lot better, once he’s made some progress cutting down their numbers.
Poor Colby really doesn’t deserve the brutal treatment he gets. It’s not his fault that he’s the first of many, that he has to be a symbol for all the pain that will be dealt to his cohorts. But poor, sweet Colby can take it, the Hunter knows. He won’t be given a choice.
clockworknightmares reblogged
breathless
Wide, taut bands wrap around Bailey’s chest, binding their ribs to prevent them expanding; the same bands wind down to their stomach, wound so tightly around that Bailey wonders if their insides will bruise.
Their thoughts are buzzing, hazy. Big, heavy hands press down on their chest, adding pressure to the magic already cinching the bindings tighter, and - and something in their chest goes thunk. Bailey tries to scream, but there’s no air behind the weak, pitchy sound that escapes them. It’s nothing more than a squeak, really.
Nick beams at them from above, weight rested on their waist as he places his hands on their sides and mutters the spell again. He’s probably only speaking the magic aloud to watch their growing terror at the anticipation of worse pain. The bindings cinch steadily tighter, and Bailey draws thin hitching breaths, whimpering faintly.
Another rib snaps under the pressure, and silent begging picks up in earnest, dark eyes wide and glassy with desperation. Please, they whisper, loud as they can, please please stop no more please Nick, please!
Nick just keeps on smiling. His hands slide under their body tight with pain to scoop them up, and they’re being hugged, and it helps. They tuck their face against his neck and gasp the thinnest of gasps, trembling with the fight of their ribcage trying and failing to expand under the bindings. It only seems to deflate and deflate.
“You wanted to try this,” Nick reminds, his hand at Bailey’s back to press magic in that shoves the air right out of their lungs, empties them forcefully and lets nothing back in. Bailey squeaks again, jerks, nods. They cling to their friend and try to make more sounds, pleading sounds. “You wanted me to make you breathless.”
Part one | Part two
Tw light gore, referenced/implied past noncon in terms of a victim getting revenge
Shock.
Crow realizes it’s shock that keeps Silas from overpowering him as he threatens him to move with the knife. When he locks the cuffs over the hands that had beaten and choked and touched him. When he leaves him chained to the metal loop in the wall next to the cot. When the lock slides into place behind him with a satisfying click.
Oh.
Now what.
The first thing Crow does is raid Silas’ closet. There’s a nice warm jacket, much too large, but he doesn’t care. It swallows him up and the soft lining is like heaven. He can look for other things later, but for now, he just revels in the warmth.
The cabinets are inspected next, and sure, there’s not much. But he mixes up enough oatmeal to make a person twice his size sick and eats it all. It’s probably not wise, he should ration it out. But he hasn’t had anything substantial to eat in so long.
The adrenaline is wearing off and his head pounds from taking the beating, eye completely swollen shut and the side of his face a colorful pattern of blues and purples. He lightly touches his busted lip and sighs before laying his head in his arms on the table. He’s so tired. But there’s something that has to be taken care of.
Silas seems incapable of having anything actually useful around his house, like a pen and paper. But Crow finds one eventually and settles down to write. He has to take breaks because his hands keep cramping up. But finally it’s finished. He’s pretty sure it will work, Silas is in a lot of debt to those people. But Crow has a private score to settle first.
He regretfully slips the the coat off, no need for it to get messy and picks up the knife. Silas thought it was fun to control and hurt? Crow can play that game.
But when he goes to unlock the door, he realizes he shaking. He doesn’t want to ever see that man again- every time he looks at him he just feels sick and shaky and twisted up inside. He remembers everything Silas ever did to him and it makes him feel dirty and disgusted with himself. Worthless cripple. Can’t even do this right. The voice in his head sounds like Silas. Crow shakes his head and tightens his grip on the knife handle. No. He needed to do this.
The man is right where he left him, blood splattered and chained up. The gash across his face looks worse, how that Crow has a better look at it. That’s definitely going to permanently scar.
Silas grimaces and spits blood in Crow’s direction. “What’re gonna do you murderous fuckin’ shifter? Kill me?” His voice is hoarse with overuse and pain, he looks and sounds angry, but Crow can see the fear in his eyes. He’s actually afraid of him. Crow smiles, and tests the blade with his thumb before looking Silas dead in the eyes. There’s no fear in his, only anticipation and delight.
There’s no antagonizing words to say, no mocking or explaining. Just a smile and a knife plunged into Silas’s shoulder, slowly slowly twisting, looking him dead in the eyes the whole time.
Silas isn’t silent, screaming and bellowing himself hoarse, yanking on his restraints, yelling curses at Crow, who could absolutely care less. He slowly draws the knife out and watches the blood run down the blade with a faint smile before looking at Silas, shaking, sweaty, mumbling Silas. The other shoulder seems far too intact.
It’s a good while later when Crow leaves that tiny room for the last time, bolt sliding into place behind him. He could really use a shower and some not bloody clothes. And now, all he has to do it wait until the money collectors show up again. Silas has pissed off all the wrong people and that included Crow. He feels good for the first time in a very long time.
clockworknightmares reblogged
revenge
He raises a hand, throws magic at the wards, shoves the front door open without having to turn the handle or slide a key into the lock. He knows this place well, spent a year feeling out its warding, he belongs here just as much as the man who owns the house.
“You don’t get to do that,” He says, knowing that the Hunter will hear, will come out to the front room to greet him with that surprised, eager grin. Lux’s anger will erase that look from his face.
The man steps out of the hallway he’d been walking down. “My light? Did you come to visit me?”
Lux can’t keep himself from trembling, but he knows it’s at least half anger, and the fear is irrelevant right now. “You don’t get to hurt him,” He continues, as if the Hunter didn’t speak at all.
“Aw, is this about the drowning? Darling, you’ve had plenty of it before, no need to get all sensitive about it now.”
He’s playing games. “You know I can handle that.” It’s a furious hiss - the shame is nothing new. “You crossed the line as soon as you walked him out of there. When you took him away from me. And you made him hurt people, you made him kill, he’ll never be clean of that.” Lux steps forward, his hatred only fueled by the calm confidence of the man he’s confronting. “You and me, we’re killers. He’s not. I let you hurt me, because I, I don’t know how to do any different, but - I won’t let you be in his life too.”
#okay okay okay#you KNOW how I feel about nick#so yeah he's the bad guy but. I. love. him.#omg this tho#does lux just leave?#leave nick to bleed through those old faded but now reopened wounds#I have QUESTIONS#I bet that really hurt#all those reopening cause it had been years! they were healed!#and yet#AND YETTT#ffffffffff#whump#drabble#the hunter#nick#lux#blood#torture#hnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn#scottstuff#others ocs