#oc reyan

[annaquenta]

[Image description: Colored pencil drawing of two elf-like people. One, Réyan, is a nonbinary person with red-brown hair tied back in braids, copper-brown skin, and gold eyes. The other, Hanumi, is a female person with long, loose blue-black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes; she is also wearing a circlet with a green jewel. End image description.]

Meet Réyan and Hanumi, the main characters of my capstone novel!

[just-horrible-things]

‘Verse: Resistance Story: Unlikely Salvation, co-author @whump-sprite Timeline: Arc 4, Ariadne is established with the Resistance

Mind Magic, pt4 : Lesson 2 [ First | Pt1 | Prev | Next ]

“You have way more control than you think,” Reyan assures her. Ariadne is skeptical. “Don’t stick to fire. You could make… you could make those two people in the locker room, me and Vic. Me and the woman I used to call mistress. It’s your mind.” “I don’t know what they look like,” she points out. “Probably better,” he returns, sardonic. “For me. But you could find it in my mind if you freak me out enough.” She exhales. “I can’t imagine what finding things in your head would be like.”

“Now. You know me.” Ariadne nods. “I’ve told you what I’m afraid of. Of course, a real mindfucker won’t. Your goal isn’t to evoke fear, exactly,” he continues. “It’s to evoke any kind of involuntary reaction. Anything that opens up that conduit in the other direction. And then you figure out what that is. And you lean on it.”

It makes sense. In theory. 

“I am going to go into your mind, and you are going to… steer. I won’t bring up anything in particular. You choose what memories to show me, and listen for my presence. Listen for my thoughts, my reactions.” “Okay,” she agrees nervously. “Most kept fed mindfuckers are terrible at protecting their own minds. They don’t teach them that.” “Figures. They tried to teach us but it was all shit.” Anders has seen that too, of course. “And they’re vulnerable. Doing magic for a cause they used to hate, whether out of fear or anger or just brokenness. They won’t tell you what they fear but..” “I can guess,” she finishes. “That’s right.”

“Why does it hurt so much?” she asks.  “Is that a thing you control, or…?” “I can make it hurt more,” he shrugs, “but I can’t make it hurt less. I can make it hurt more because pain is mental and I’m in your mind. I can’t make it hurt less because people aren’t meant to be in each other’s minds just like bones aren’t supposed to be split in half.” There’s an unexpected vehemence in his voice and it makes Ariadne nervous. “This is black fucking magic I’m doing to you.” “I understand.” “I am doing it with the minimum of pain.” She nods. She believes him.

“So take me on a tour. Listen for my reactions. And if the opportunity presents itself, hurt me. Are you ready?” “No.” She offers him a lopsided smile. There’s no being ready for this really. “Go on then.”

He puts his hands on her head. There is pain, familiar by now. And her senses fall away, leaving her adrift in darkness.

Not totally adrift. Anders is with her. The warmth of his hands is distant, but he is here with her far more fundamentally than that.

Her thoughts can’t help but jump to the things she doesn’t want to show him. The things he looked at last time. Alex. Riven. Torture. Sex. 

She pulls a deep breath into lungs she can barely feel, and tries to focus.

She was fucking pissed at Reyan by the end of the last lesson and she reaches for that anger, trying to feel it again. Trying to find the will to want to hurt him. She wants to do better than last time. She wants to prove she can.

She calls up a memory and it comes to life around her. Not quite as vivid as the ones Reyan made her relive, but still very nearly solid. 

She is crying on her knees at his feet, head swimming with concussion after Kerril knocked her out. Reyan’s image swims and doubles above her. 

The pain is right, hammering inside her skull.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she looks up at him. Guilt and fear struggle for supremacy. “I’m sorry,” she pleads, “I’m so sorry, sir, please--” “Get out.” he snaps. Cold and furious. Riven’s habitual contempt echoes down Ariadne’s memories. “Get the fuck out of my sight.”

She tries to stand, and almost blacks out from the pain. She falls and cries and apologises for falling.

There’s a pang of regret that -- it could be hers, she does regret falling for Kerril’s bullshit, but -- it could be Reyan’s.

“I said get out. Crawl if you must.” “I’m sorry, sir,” she sobs. “Yes sir, I’m sorry sir.” She crawls, as wretched on the floor at Reyan’s feet as she ever was kneeling for Riven to flog her. The memories blur together until she isn’t sure which of them is standing over her.

It makes her angry. And that feeling is definitely not hers because she’s angry at being compared to Riven and that’s not her thought, that can’t be her thought.

Exhilaration washes the other emotions away. She’s doing it. She’s reading Reyan’s mind.

She reaches eagerly for more times she has seen him that way. Her superior. Terrifying. Controlling.

She sits in the chair in his office and feels the bands of magic close around her wrists to keep her there and she knows exactly what he’s doing. He doesn’t need to restrain her. It’s just a power play. 

She is terrified of him in this office. She honestly expects to leave with broken bones. She expects him to go through her head -- and that’s a weird bit of dissonance, because he is in her head -- at any second. 

She is here to give him her life and she does not expect to be treated gently and he plays her fear and guilt deliberately while she quakes in her skin and she sees cold satisfaction in his eyes.

“You’ll report to Taryn Morgen,” he says. “Anything she says goes.” “Yes sir,” Ariadne agrees, stomach turning with dread. He’s giving her back to Taryn to be broken.

And underneath the fear she feels a thread of irritation that might not be hers.

She reaches further back. She knew of Anders Reyan long before she met him. Anders Reyan, infamous terrorist. Anders Reyan in the headlines. Anders Reyan, murderer. 

Old hatred races through her, stronger than it should be. Righteous anger. How many have the Resistance killed, how many of her friends died because of his actions --

-- these are not safe thoughts, she does not want to think this --

-- Reyan’s file, that’s safer. She’s read that. Held a physical copy in her hands, thick with details of the deaths and damages attributed to terrorist warlock Anders Reyan --

“Fucking fed!”

Reyan’s anger is a wave of agony crashing through her head. For a brief, sharp moment she feels nothing else. 

Then there is fear and the animal need for the pain to stop. 

Then an instant later he is out of her head.

“Sorry,” Ariadne gasps, curling forwards to clutch at her head. “Sorry - fuck.” She expects a rebuke, perhaps even more pain.

Instead he says, “Good job.”

Wary and confused, Ariadne cracks her eyes open to squint up at him. He’s a shadow against the too-bright glare of the lamp overhead.

“Not the angle I expected,” Reyan says, “and all the more effective for it.” His voice isn’t angry. She knows he’s angry. She felt it. “I -- feel like I picked a bad angle,” she confesses, forcing the words out through a mouth that feels like cotton. “Mindfuckers will come out of your head once they realize that you are hearing things in their head that they don’t want you to hear. So. Good job.”

Ariadne bites her lips together hard enough to taste salt. It fails to dull the throbbing headache. Very carefully she nods acknowledgement.

Fucking fed echoes in her head. She will always have been that.

“I told you to elicit involuntary responses. What would have been a better angle? Bringing up the time I got burned and begged you like you were my mistress? Showing me the bodies of the warlock children I couldn’t save?” “Thought about the first one,” she mumbles. “You’re our fucking fed and I am teaching you to defend yourself. Don’t apologize for doing so.” It’s enough to startle a faint smile out of her. Our fucking fed.

“So yeah,” he says. “That’s the concept.” “Thank you.” Her own voice buzzes uncomfortably in her teeth. “Of course, I let you steer. A real mindfucker will be steering.” “Yeah,” she agrees, letting her head drop. She puts her hands over her eyes and rubs circles on her own temples. “Don’t fight that, not entirely. Your goal is to subtly influence what they see while letting them think they’re seeing things they want. Don’t fight what you don’t need to fight.” “‘Kay.”

He fetches her an ice pack, and she takes it with shaking hands to press against her forehead.

“Take up meditation or something,” he recommends. “Ninety percent of this is control of your own mind.” “Okay.” She has no idea what meditation might even mean to a warlock, but she can ask that question later. “Especially if you’re going to do it and survive. The way I did it… not recommended.” “I can’t imagine holding out that long.” “You won’t,” he tells her firmly. “The best you will do is buy time.” “That’s worth doing.” It’s worth all of this.

She wants him to stop talking. She can’t have this conversation, not with her head splitting and her thoughts scattered and all of her half-drowning in shame. But Reyan sits back down, and she makes herself lift her eyes to acknowledge him, to prove that she’s listening..

“The mindfucker who interrogated me… The reactions I got showed me that he was far more interested in pain and submission than information.” “I’ve known assholes like that,” Ariadne mumbles, though as soon as she’s said it she feels stupid. Anders already knows. What’s the point of saying anything when he’s already seen everything? “I hid everything behind being the perfect victim for him. Until it was no longer an act. If you ever have to hold out anywhere near that long… I have failed. Not you.” Ariadne breathes a shivering sigh. “I’ll do everything I can,” she promises quietly.

The silence that follows is somehow just as uncomfortable as the talking. Reyan’s gotten far, far more personal than she’d have ever dared to ask.

“I… don’t know if I could make that kind of sacrifice,” she offers at length. “I know, I can’t resist the same way you can, but… I hope I could, but I don’t know if I’m that strong.” “You’ve already sacrificed everything you had,” he tells her. Almost dismissive, and the dissonance between the tone and the words leaves her lost. “Besides. This shit isn’t a sacrifice competition.” “Mh, I know.” “Do you, though?” he teases with a smirk. Ariadne blinks, then smiles in return. Only half forcing it. “I try? I know, I want to fling myself into enemy fire every time I get upset... But I try not to.”

She shifts the ice pack from one side of her head to the other. It feels good but it barely makes a difference to the pain. Emotion washes through her, unnameable. Tears come to her eyes.

She will sacrifice everything again if she has to, and it’s hard not to promise Reyan that despite what she just said.

He puts a hand on her shoulder. The weight is welcome. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words slipping from her mouth before she can catch them. She tries to smile to pretend like she isn’t serious. “I’m a mess.” “We all are,” Reyan tells her. “So you’re in good company. D’you want a drink?” Ariadne hesitates. She wants to go home. Alex’s touch is a better painkiller than any amount of whiskey. But… “Yeah,” she says. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

[Next]

[friendlylocalwhumper]

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

"Hhhhn, hhhn, hnnng..."

As Anders moans, pupils blown wide with agony, jolting and gasping with his head held in Vic's lap, magic is poured into his mangled leg.

"You're doing so well, cariño, stay with me, I've got you." Vic's thumbs stroke the side of those sweaty, pale cheeks, and he dips down to press a kiss to Anders' brow in an attempt to envelop the warlock's focus for just a second. But the pain is too big, too deep, and the moans press on, hitching into whimpers when bones shift, when jagged skin torn open by concrete is mended back together to keep his blood from spilling out.

"Fix him, Lux," Vic begs, orders, repeats. Whatever works - if he has to be patient, or angry, or needy, whatever works, it's all tied in together, all laid out in the thrumming horror of his voice. Whatever it takes to make Anders stop whining for mercy.

"I'm trying," Lux answers, and for once, it's not a miserable, apologetic utterance, but a promise. His magic is working, it's flowing into that leg and snapping it back into something that looks once more like a human limb.

"Anders, Anders, look at me." Those pain-fogged green eyes flick up to Vic's face, nearly losing focus when the next push of magic snaps muscles back together. Vic clutches at the sides of his cariño's head. "I've got you. I've got you. Don't look, just focus on me." If Anders sees what his leg looks like now, messy and crooked, he'll pass out again, and Vic is going to lose his mind with worry.

But then Anders whimpers something that changes his mind on the turn of a dime.

"Please, knock me out." Another jolt, and the pain in his eyes, it's sickening. "Please, please, V."

"Lux," Gasps Vic, reaching out a hand toward the other warlock without looking up, trying to grab his attention. "Stop, come here, help him."

"I'm - I am - what?" The magic stops for a moment, and Anders' breaths nearly shudder to a stop in anticipation of it starting up again.

"Please..." Those green eyes flick over to Lux, now, and Anders Reyan's chin is trembling.

Lux doesn't ask for clarification. He presses two bloody fingers to Anders' temple, and lets him pass out as soon as he goes into that mind and severs the last feeble tie to consciousness. Anders sags into Vic's lap, face going slack, and it's a blessing.

~

The pain is too much. Too much to make Anders wake back up. But Vic refuses to give him morphine (fearing the inevitable thank you, Mistress being murmured in awe), and Lux is still working on that leg, unable to keep Anders unconscious and heal at the same time.

So Anders comes to, a moan building up in his throat as soon as he can feel his own body, with Vic rubbing circles into his temples and Lux weaving numbing magic into that leg as he restores some of the damage done. With every swell of the numbing spell, Anders sinks down and lets out a wavering, deep sound of relief. His fingers twitch restlessly; each time he starts to drift off, his whole body jerks back into awareness, the weight of exhaustion and breaths slowed by drowsiness feeling too similar to being pinned by something inescapable and suffocating on dust.

Lux's fingers press carefully, hesitantly, into the knotted-up muscles of that leg, find the cracks in the bone and mend them. Anders tries to jerk out of the tight grip, sometimes, on instinct. Vic goes shh, shh, and Lux's hands keep that limb from pulling free and getting jostled worse. Anders is lulled back into a kind of restless acceptance of what's happening.

And eventually, with enough magic poured into his leg, with enough time spent registering and biting down on the pain, Anders is able to relax into a kind of doze, guarded against spikes of agony by the ones watching over him.

[clockworkgalaxies]

quick sketch and paint of @whump-sprite‘s oc Anders Reyan

[whumpiary]

“ ‘I’m Anders Reyan. Welcome to the Resistance.’ 

That shit never gets old to Anders. Welcome to the Resistance. The look of hope shining in their eyes. More hope than Anders has left, but he’ll fight like hell to preserve it for them.”

-

Anders is the OC of the incredible @whump-sprite and takes up 80% of my brain space at any given moment

[ninjanissie]

Some character designs for an upcoming bard in a particular webcomic of mine

[suntorywrites]

7, 11, 20, 27

7. your favorite oc who isn’t yours (or one of your favorites)

holy fuck, i could honestly say every one of my rp partner’s characters? i love them ALL and i feel so lucky and privileged to have them as my opposites! i’ll shout out some of those ocs that i have been writing against for a really long time tho: mackenzie raiford, a warrior wife who has overcome every hardship. nora o’riley, an impossibly resilient girlfriend who puts up with and has gotten way more shit than she deserves. daisy culver, a kindhearted nurse who never stops giving, even when she should. tamora williams, a girl with too much power and too much love.

11. an rpg that meant a lot to you 

just about every rp that i ever ran with my bestfriend! the ones that left the biggest marks: sin city lounge, redwind beach, mistmoore harbor.

20. your first rp character

oh god, throw back to when i started roleplaying on forums when i was ELEVEN years old and tried to say that i was much older so people wouldn’t ignore me! i played a tragic past(™)girl who ran away to the city. her name was lily reyan and i used laura ramsey as her faceclaim.

27. a song you’d like to use to build an rp relationship on

 baby, by anna of the north. nothing’s gonna hurt you baby, by cigarettes after sex. firewall, by absinth3. i was all over her, by salvia palth. rheya, by wild nothing.

i could keep going FOREVER tbh

[just-horrible-things]

[Image: ink line drawing of man sitting on couch with one leg up, grimacing. Caption: 21 - Chronic Pain]

Pictured: @whump-sprite‘s Anders

[friendlylocalwhumper]

part 1 (writing the letter) | part 2 (reading the letter) | part 3 (the breaking) | part 4 (rescue) | part 5 (aftercare) | part 6 (aftercare cont.)

anders is @whump-sprite‘s oc.

“Do you want me to knock you out for this?” The older warlock sitting in the chair beside the bed leans forward, meeting Lux’s eyes and giving him the choice to forego this agony. Lux knows how much Anders hates mind magic, and he also knows that Anders wouldn’t offer it if he wasn’t willing to go through with it. If he didn’t think that the alternative was worse.

The worst reaction - a flinch, and whimpers, and pleading - it doesn’t happen, so Anders relaxes a fraction.

“N-no, tha-anks,” Lux answers, his voice small. He’s biting his lip, twisting a few unbroken fingers in the covers; he knows how much pain he’s claiming that he can handle. But he can’t stomach the thought of another invasion, someone else forcing their way into his mind, even if it’s a friend, even if it’s to spare him further pain.

“Okay. That’s fine. Emory will be in here, he’ll help. You’ll stay with me, stay here, right?”

Stay here. Not get confused, not suddenly see Anders as the Hunter, and the breaking of bones as a punishment. Lux nods once.

Anders isn’t getting up at that answer, seeming to be putting off standing up in general. Lux licks his lips and shifts one arm slightly, trying to get more comfortable and instantly giving up when it sends a lightning bolt of pain from the nearest broken bone and down his spine.

“‘m gonna be okay,” Lux says softly, figuring that Anders is doubting his grip on reality. “Trust you.”

~

“We’re gonna take a break every time, I’ll take my hands off you as soon as the splint’s done and give you a breather,” Anders explains, still looking over the first limb that he needs to rebreak: the right leg.

“No one’s angry at you, you’re doing good, Lux, being really brave.” Emory catches Lux’s eyes as he repeats the assurances, and Lux’s renewed terror settles down a bit.

“Gonna s-scream,” Lux says breathlessly, staring at Anders’ hands. “I, I - ‘m scared, I - w-, wait, tell, tell m-me, the plan, again?”

“The longer you wait, the worse it’s gonna hurt. You trust me to do it quick, get it over with, right?” Anders asks, very obviously holding his hands up away from the broken leg, and Lux nods. He does, he trusts Anders.

“But, but, please, count, count do-own, d-do it on th-three?”

“‘Course. Promise.” Anders gives a short wave and then says, “Emory’s got to hold you down for this one so you don’t hurt yourself. You okay with that?”

“Y-yes.”

Emory sits next to him, leans down and presses his forearms over Lux’s better shoulder and his chest, and then meet Lux’s eyes. Lux doesn’t like being held down, or being unable to see what’s going to happen, but he is instantly less panicked when he sees Emory above him, warm brown eyes full of calm like he knows everything will be fine.

“Look at me, Curls, just focus on me,” He encourages in a steady tone, and Lux does, trusting him entirely.

When there’s a crack and Lux’s body jolts as his leg is forcefully snapped back into place, Lux’s head jerks back against the pillow and he screams loud and long, the wail cracking and fading into whimpers as the splint is put in place and firmly secured to both sides of the set bone. He tries to see past Emory, whining when he can’t get free of the weight on his chest, but then a hand starts rubbing circles against his sternum and he goes limp, exhausted and regaining his focus. Those wild blue eyes find the brown ones above him, and the quiet assurances soothe him further.

“Gotta do two more, Curls, can you do that? Two more and then you don’t have to be afraid of it coming anymore. Can you be brave?”

“Th-think so,” Lux answers, even though he really, really wants to beg for it to stop. Emory kisses his forehead quick and then gets ready to hold Lux down again.

This time, Anders is trying to splint Lux’s arm, so Lux can see about half of what’s going on. With the thud of this second bone being yanked into place, he only manages to give a pitchy, choking whine before a single shudder tears through his body and he falls still, eyes fallen closed.

“Passed out,” States Emory redundantly. Anders grunts out a “yeah” and moves to splint the last bone before Lux can come to and scream more.

The rest of the work, splinting and making sure Lux’s arms and legs are laid straight and checking almost nervously for the steady thrum of Lux’s pulse, passes in relative quiet. Then, Anders speaks, his voice terse.

“Gonna get him flowers. From the garden. He loves those.”

Emory is still sitting with Lux, brushing back his curls gingerly and watching his expression that’s more neutral and relaxed than he’s seen it since he was rescued - and then he hears a series of sounds that goes thump-thud-groan.

Did Anders Reyan just trip and fall? Emory stands up, walking over to the doorway and then staring, dumbstruck, at Anders. The man who just crumpled to the floor, that leg that makes him limp bent under him awkwardly.

There is a quick, hushed gasp of pain, and then Anders is fully guarded, shifting with a bitten-back sound to get in a less humiliating position, one that it looks like he might stand up from on his own. But he doesn’t. He makes an impatient gesture and then growls, “I’m fine. Help me up.”

“Uh - okay. Yeah, you got it.” Emory hurries forward and offers both hands: Anders takes one and gruffly pulls himself back up onto his feet, standing stiffly with new lines of agony at the corners of his eyes. His fists are clenched so tight, his knuckles have gone white, the scars along his fingers and the backs of his hands an even more obvious pearly color.

Emory decides to leave him to it before Anders threatens his life, so he goes to the kitchen to refill one of the glasses of water that Lux drained after being told three times that it’s okay, he can have all the water he wants, it’s not a reward to be earned.

He pretends not to hear the moan from outside, pretends he didn’t lean to look out the window and see Anders stiffly bending to pick some of Lux’s favorite flowers from the garden. He’s trying not to bend that leg, but it has to be done to accomplish what he set out to do, so he bites back further sounds and then heads back into the house, somehow limping without bending his leg at all. It looks slow, and frustrating, and incredibly painful.

What does it take to make Anders Reyan scream? Emory wonders in mild horror. If Anders is used to pain, how much does it take for him to make a sound like he just did? How much pain must Lux have been in to pass out, if he’s taken torture like that for a year before? How do such scarred, hurting people live to be Anders’ age, or dare to be as gentle and kind as Lux is? He can’t imagine what it’s like living in fear of being dragged back to that, to a cellar where there is only pain and fear.

Anders comes back inside, and Emory fumbles to be useful in any way. Clumsily, he holds out the glass of water that he just filled up, looking to the flowers. Anders grabs it, puts the flowers in, and then starts the painstakingly slow ambling into Lux’s room to set those flowers silently on the nightstand and then sit next to the bed, grimacing and pushing down all his sounds to let Lux rest.

~

“You did amazing, Lux,” Anders murmurs, and Lux blinks, trying to stop drifting. Anders sounds so, so proud, and Emory’s holding his hand, and these painkillers are really good.

“Didn’t cry,” He informs dizzily, and he can see Emory nodding out of the corner of his eye.

“Yeah! I was so proud of you for that. I mean, if that was me, I would’ve been crying the whole time.”

Lux is silent for a moment, thinking about how much he cried before the bone-setting stuff. It’s not really worth mentioning, worth trying to criticize himself, because Anders and Emory believe so firmly that he’s strong and good and brave that they’d make their case so well that they’d change Lux’s mind in the end anyway.

“C-can I try…” He falters, looking between his friend and boyfriend before looking down at one splinted leg. “D’you think… m-, my, my m-magic… think I ca-an use it, to, to m-maybe, to…” His voice cracks and fades rapidly as he decides to abandon the question, the idea, after how badly it went last time it was suggested. How Anders tried to help him use his magic to heal, and Lux used it to make himself scream instead. Stupid.

“I think that’s a good idea!” Emory answers cheerfully, ignoring the look that Anders tries to give him. It’s always been hard convincing Lux to use his magic casually, comfortably, around the house. If he’s willing to try it so soon after being hurt for it, he’s eager to let Lux try. “But, I don’t think you should try on yourself first.”

Lux blinks, confused. The confusion melts away, only to be replaced with distress, when Emory holds his arm out without a moment’s hesitation.

“Try it on me.”

“No!” Lux squeaks. “N-, what if, wha-at if I mess up?”

“It’s okay, I’ll understand! Hold on, here.” Emory pulls his arm back a bit and offers his hand instead. “Try it on one of my fingers. It’ll be really small, and if something goes wrong, it won’t be a big deal. Really, it’s okay, try it. I know you can do it, Curls.”

Lux glances fervently at Anders, then back at Emory, and then down at his hand. He lifts his own and, shaking visibly, he takes hold of Emory’s pointer finger, his hold loose.

“Won’t g-get mad?” He whispers.

“I won’t get mad. No matter what, I promise I won’t. Just let your magic do what it used to, what it normally does. When you’re safe and not afraid. You can do it.”

Fighting to get his nerves under control, Lux focuses hard, starting the chant with a bit of a stutter. It smoothes out soon enough as he rolls through the memorized syllables.

A faint, flickering gold light glows from his hand, and he stops the spell instantly. “Did that hurt?” He asks, looking up at Emory’s face for a frown or tears. “Did that h-hurt, d-d-did I hurt y-you?”

Emory tears his eyes away from the magic that just glowed, soft and warm, against his skin. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt Lux’s magic directly before. “Not even a little. Try again, it felt nice. I like your magic.”

Lux is taken aback, nearly blushing in surprise. Less uncertain this time, he starts the spell again, and the healing magic presses gently against Emory’s skin, slips around to his palm in search of an injury to mend. It melts away after a few seconds, and the spell ends.

“That was wonderful,” Emory comments, beaming. “Hey, you did it, Lux! Your magic’s working!”

“Good job, Lux, that’s damn good work,” Anders adds with a smirk that says knew you could, you’re amazing.

“You wanna try on yourself now?”

“Yeah, can - is, is it a good idea to - m-my shoulder, ‘s the worst, can I do that one?” He knows he messed up last time, he knows he did, but he desperately needs it to be back in one piece, to be fixed, it scares him how badly it hurts even with the painkillers.

“You can start with whatever you want, it’s your body, Curls. Don’t need anyone’s permission.”

“A-Anders, can you - would you ma-aybe, hold my hand there, please? ‘s okay if you don’t wanna, just, helps when, when you tell me it’s okay…”

“‘Course, Lux.” Anders shifts slightly to reach and then takes Lux’s hand, pulling it up and holding it above that shattered shoulder.

Lux closes his eyes, and thinks of Emory’s joy at his magic working, and casts the spell.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

anders is @whump-sprite‘s oc.

There’s a faint whoosh of air in the apartment. Emory doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t turn to look. He keeps his eyes on the man who just dropped Lux’s name like he’d get a reaction he could use against them.

“I don’t know a Lex,” Emory says, casually mispronouncing Lux’s name. He glances at the hand trying to hold his door open without making an outright threat. Then, he smiles, trying to seem cold and amused. He nods his head to the side, gesturing into the apartment. “I’ve got a pitbull in here, and she doesn’t like strangers. Can’t help you. I need to go make sure she’s in her cage. She took down our mailman, poor guy’ll never walk right again.” There. A threat, chilled and calm.

The man at the door doesn’t falter, but he does change course, letting his voice carry a little more into the space behind the open door like he knows Lux is in there. “I understand, got to keep those things locked up. You never know when a wild thing will lash out and tear at a person. It’s in their nature.” He steps closer now, leaning in like he’s sharing particularly wise advice, nudging Emory with a hand on the shoulder and adding, “Can be a killer, and the poor thing still gives you big sad eyes when you have to put it down. It’s a man’s work to do it anyway.”

Emory remains still as a statue, firm in how he holds the door to be opened no more, watching the man turn and leave with a final glance into the bit of room that he can see. He waits until the man’s been gone for a full minute before he steps back inside, closing and locking the door firmly.

Lux is gone. Off the couch, and gone from the house. Emory can just tell. The place is silent and still; Lux never leaves the room without light audible footsteps or a quiet comment or catching Emory’s eyes to let him know what he’s off to go do. Lux just likes to let Emory know what’s on his mind and where he’ll be, he gives little explanations and context for his actions because it makes everything he does feel more real.

Emory checks the house anyway, of course. Every room. For some reason, he doesn’t feel like he should call Lux’s name - what if that man is watching closely now? How does he know Lux, and what was with that off-color comment that sounded awfully close to a threat?

He can’t stop thinking about the man’s blue eyes, his hands. The shape of his jaw, the end of his nose, the angle of his shoulders. He looked familiar.

Slowing in his search and growing increasingly worried, Emory pulls out his phone and dials Anders’ number.

“It’s Lux,” He starts off with, too worried and unnerved to beat around the bush. Someone brusque and wary like Anders Reyan won’t fault him for it. “He just disappeared. Like, physically, disappeared from the room, he’s not here. Is that... normal? Possible? Do warlocks do that?”

“Fuck,” Comes Reyan’s voice over the phone. “Fuck, no, that’s not - he teleported? What happened?” There’s a pause, and then, “The mindfucker?”

“No, no, not him. There was just a guy at the door. When he was gone, I looked back and Lux wasn’t here anymore. Teleported? What’s that mean, is it as bad as you’re making it sound?”

“Worse,” Anders bites out, and Emory can hear him moving, although for what he isn’t sure. “So much fucking worse. Tell me about this man.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

anders is @whump-sprite‘s oc.

“Only screamed once today,” One of the businessmen says, leaning back and straightening out his tie with an expression of perfect boredom.

“We could leave him alone for a few days, let him dehydrate, that could soften him up, huh?” Another contributes, unbuttoning his jacket as he leans back. “He’s got information, we want it, don’t we?”

The leader of the group leans forward, his movement making the other two straighten up and pay attention. “He dies. Waste of time, resources, energy - if he doesn’t want to talk, we’ll find some of his friends, make them scream.”

Lux tenses imperceptibly in his chair. "It's more of a waste to kill him. That's Anders Reyan in there. His scars, the way he's holding out - the ones with the most intel always hold out the longest. I can make him talk, it'll just take time."

"How much time?" The boss asks, turning his deceptively demanding glare on him. "You're a contractor, of course you want to drag it out, earn more money. What do you have to show for the four days you've spent working on him already?"

Lux doesn't falter, although he dearly wants to back down and find another way out of this. One that doesn't break Anders, or ruin the mission. "Has anyone else been able to make him scream? Here's a question: has anyone made him beg yet? Because I can guarantee that he'll be sobbing, begging for it to stop, by sundown. No one else can promise you that."

The man in charge hums in thought. Lux's eyes watch, flitting warily to the movement, as the man reaches to his hip and pulls up his revolver to set it on the table. Classic, outdated in terms of weapons; six rounds, the man says as a motto, not for six chances, but six deaths as the cost for one failure.

"I like that guarantee. Everyone who works with me knows the price for wasting my time. I've got nothing to lose. You succeed, and I've got a breaking man who'll spill his secrets soon enough; you fail, and I get to keep the money I would've paid you. Get to put all six of these rounds in you, too..." He looks Lux up and down coldly, eyeing his knees, middle, shoulders, and head in order. "Your head taking the last, of course."

"Of course," Lux answers, hiding his fear under a matching business-like mask. "Trust me, pay or no pay, threat of death or pat on the back, I want to break him down. Personal goal, you know. Break Anders Reyan."

That's the first thing to make the boss smile all day. The other two, in their suits and with nothing to show for their work so far, bristle silently.

"I think that just might be my new goal, too."

[friendlylocalwhumper]

anders is @whump-sprite ‘s oc.

They saw him with Lux, when Lux was accosted by those cops and arrested. Other magic users saw it. And they were appalled, enraged, by how Emory did nothing.

“If you cared about your boyfriend, you would’ve taken a bullet before letting him get dragged away for those cops to take a piece of him.” The warlock flicks his hand, and Emory jolts back against the wall with a grunt, hands going to his stomach. It feels like he’s just been kicked, hard.

“I got him back, he’s okay -” Emory’s cut off by another invisible blow, to his side, even though no one stepped close to hit him. He can’t see where they’re coming from. He’s seen things on TV, heard stories and warnings all his life about how violent magic users are, but he never felt right believing it. Magic, though, he’s learning at present that it can be unpredictable and terrifying.

If you try to run, they’d said, when they first cornered him, we’ll make you explode. Blood and guts and limbs hitting the walls and the pavement. I snap my fingers and you’re dead.

“You called the cops on him, didn’t you?” A witch snarls, young and furious and indignant. “You betrayed him as soon as you found out he has magic, didn’t you?”

Another invisible blow makes Emory’s head crack back against the wall, and he slides down to the ground with a groan. He looks up, hands raised in surrender. “I didn’t, I love him, I - I got him out!”

“The non-magic hero. Like we haven’t heard that before. You’re watching him, you’re reporting to someone, you’re trying to get us all killed!”

Emory tries to duck down and make himself small, but of course, it’s magic hurting him, not physical blows. Still, as his head is forced by magic to snap down and crack against the pavement, as he shoves his arms between his forehead and the ground to prevent that happening again, he feels pity for his attackers. They aren’t paranoid about Emory betraying Lux for no good reason. They’re afraid. A non-magic person grows close to a warlock, and the others panic about what Lux will tell him, how many others will be exposed, how many could die as a result. This is justice, to them, not random violence. Emory wonders if any warlock would stop this, if they saw it. Like when, as Gramps describes it, those hurt by oppressors in the past rose up in small bursts, and it felt like vindication, like violence might be fair revenge. Emory gets that.

His head is bleeding. His body aches. He wants the attack to stop, he wants to say I understand, I know why you’re angry, but please stop, I’m not like you think. But they won’t stop, he’s sure. How many times has Lux been beaten up like this, alone and powerless? How many times was he certain he’d die? Because Emory doesn’t have magic, and as much as he sympathizes with the warlocks’ struggle, he’s also starting to sympathize with non-magic oppressors - because this is the fear they feel. When magic seems dangerous and invisible and inexplicable - everywhere, and unstoppable.

They flick their fingers and hands, and more heavy blows meet his body, making him grunt and moan, curling up with his arms over his head. Emory suddenly gets scared that if they see his fingers out and exposed like this, they’ll be snapped with magic - he balls his hands into fists and takes another blow to his back. How far can their magic go? Can it do damage inside him, without the simulation of a punch? Will they explode him? How will he die? Will there be a body for Gramps to identify?

“Please,” Emory croaks, huddled up and hiding from his attackers. “Please, I don’t - wanna die.”

“None - of - us - do!” One of the warlocks bellows, driving waves of force into Emory with each word. It feels like he’s being slammed into the wall, but he’s still on the ground. Emory wheezes and coughs, blood spraying onto the pavement inches from his face. The coppery smell makes him dizzy.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Someone says, angrily, forcefully, and Emory’s brows furrow in confusion. The blows stop, but there’s more magic, flying around. Things crashing. Emory feels magic surround him, compact and close - he cries out and makes himself smaller. It will hurt him. He peeks out from behind his arms to see some kind of forcefield around him, a faint green glow from it making his brown skin look sickly. There’s more yelling, and fighting.

“Do you want them to fucking kill us in the streets?”

That voice is familiar. Emory’s eyes widen when he recognizes Lux’s friend, Anders. He’s fighting the other warlocks and witch with magic of his own. These magic users attacked Emory because of seeing Lux get arrested - Anders threatened Emory about keeping Lux safe. I kill people who hurt him. I’ve done it before. Choked his last boyfriend to death, and I enjoyed it… if you’re not the guy he thinks you are, if you fuck him over, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

Emory didn’t protect Lux from those cops. Anders is here to kill him.

He hides his head again, a bit haunted by how much he’s acting like Lux right now. If Lux is always jumpy and hidey like this, does he always feel like he could be hurt, like a blow could land? Anders is gentle and patient with Lux, would he still kill Emory after seeing him this scared? The Anders Reyan that threatened to kill him didn’t sound like he’d half-ass a planned murder.

The fighting stops, all his attackers fleeing and Anders still standing. The force field disappears. Emory keeps his arms over his head, even though he thinks Anders would tell someone to ‘fucking look him in the eye’ before killing them.

...Emory may have had a nightmare or two about failing Lux so badly that Anders comes to make him pay for it.

“Hey. Emory. It’s Anders. Lux’s friend.” Anders audibly lowers himself to check on Emory - audibly, because moving that leg he limps on makes him huff out a breath in discomfort. Or maybe he’s just winded. He did just fight off four young, pissed off warlocks.

“Don’t kill me,” Emory pleads, voice muffled from hiding. He wonders if the blood in his hair is visible, and if it makes him a better target, or if it’ll earn him any sympathy. Not only does he have no magic, but he’s injured as well. He really poses no threat, that has to be obvious.

“I’m not going to kill you. Come on, get up. I’m taking you to Lux.”

With a disbelieving sound, Emory looks up, lowering his arms and trying to sit against the wall instead of being curled up around his folded legs. “To Lux… you’re not gonna kill me for - ohhhh I don’t feel so good.” He sways after sitting up, one hand going to his head. It’s bleeding at the back, and from a cut above his eyebrow.

Anders pulls him up so they’re both standing, with a grunt of effort. Emory sways worse. Everything’s blurry, and he’s seeing double. Anders is twice as scary, now.

“You’re fine. You can walk. Lean on me.” Anders gets them moving toward the end of the alley. His grip is steady, but not rough. “Sorry. About those assholes. We’re not all like that.”

Emory laughs in a short, disjointed burst. “I know. Lux isn’t. That’s enough to convince me.”

[friendlylocalwhumper]

anders is the wonderful, talented, very loved @whump-sprite ‘s incredible oc, and i’m lucky to ever get the chance to write him.

As soon as he opens the door to Anders’ place, Lux is on high alert. There are no ambient sounds of a lived-in house; there’s a low, keening sort of sound, like a creaky door opening slowly, low and gradual. He has to step further inside to see around a corner and spot a nice leather shoe, and then a leg, and then the rest of Anders. Crumpled to the floor and groaning into the floor, fingertips white from pressing so hard into the smooth wood.

It’s easy to tell when Anders is trying not to scream. His body is tense with the effort, shoulders scrunched up and the muscles of his back flexed. His arms strain as well, like he’s physically restraining himself from writhing, and his face is twisted in agony. If he tries for a long time - hours - to stifle screams, then his body grows exhausted and trembles from the strain of holding tense for so long. Fatigue forces his form to show some parody of fear in shaking that he probably felt from the start.

He’s shaking now with that fatigue. He’s been in pain for hours. Lux didn’t know - no one could, Anders has isolated himself, he’s written off the world as one huge loss. Lux is the only one that Anders Reyan lets come close, anymore.

Lux hurries over to his side now, falling to his hands and knees beside his friend. “Anders - Anders, what happened? Where does it hurt?” His hands are already glowing with healing magic, a cool silvery blue. Anders doesn’t try for the runaround of don’t need it, put that away. He just takes a shuddering breath and strains to bite back a pitiful sound. A spasm tears up his bad leg, and the moan that it wrings from him is answer enough. Anders shivers in agony, glassy green eyes chancing a glance up at Lux before he looks back down at the floor rather than risk seeing any pity.

Shifting closer, Lux pulls Anders up into his lap a bit to have a better angle, and maybe to provide a little comfort too. Anders was alone on the floor, certain that he’d just have to wait for the agony to pass or for it to just knock him out. No matter how tough he is, that’s scary, and humiliating, and it must have given him far too much time to think.

“Gonna heal your leg, whatever’s wrong with it -” Anders shifts and winces in Lux’s lap, huffs out a breath after holding it for a few seconds. “If it isn’t simple, I’ll just numb it and then figure it out, okay? You don’t have to stay in pain, I’ll help.”

He lets the cool healing magic flow to Anders’ spasming leg from his open palm, his other hand squeezing Anders’ shoulder. There’s something wrong in that leg, some tendon that decided to get plucked like a strained rubber band, or maybe a bone trying to slip out of place in a way it never should. Anders’ leg isn’t built inside how it should be. Too many times a hammer or boot shifted and snapped his bones, too many times a knife and fire dug into him, and things just never healed right. Anders walks on it, sometimes, like he half expects it to give way, like something inside will just go chrr-snap and he’ll thump to the floor.

That’s probably what happened today.

Something thunks into place, the soft sound muffled by muscles and skin, and Anders goes limp in Lux’s lap like his strings have just been cut. He moans, this time in exhausted relief. All those muscles that were tightly wound and rippling with tremors have stilled, his breath warm against Lux’s knee where he lies. It must be weird lying in a friend’s lap when he’s been so distant recently, barely seen by anyone, and not touched at all. He doesn’t fold his shaking arms under himself to push up and leave though. He’s too tired, and too relieved.

Lux flinched in sympathetic pain at the sound of something shoving itself back into place in that leg, and he’s trying very hard right now not to comment on how long Anders was lying on the floor with something so twisted up in him. He’s even making sure not to grimace as he thinks about it.

“I was just coming over to see if you wanted to hang out,” Lux says, trying to smile, even though his friend is face-down right now, and probably barely paying attention beyond a stream of thoughts akin to thank fuck, it’s over. “If you let me help you over to the couch, and if you pay for it, I’ll order us some food - fair deal, huh?”

“Not hungry,” Anders grumbles, although he doesn’t resist as Lux helps him get up and wobble carefully onto his feet, testing out his bad leg. A tense breath leaves him slowly as pain ratchets its way up from his knee, but it’s manageable, so he doesn’t ask for any numbing magic.

Lux doubts that Anders has eaten a single real meal since he told Vic to leave. He seems to have sworn off water in favor of liquor. “Well, I guess I can try to eat a whole pizza, but I won’t feel very good afterward. Probably better if you have a slice.”

Lux gets Anders over to the couch and doesn’t hover. He grabs a bottle of painkillers from the kitchen and brings his friend two pills and some water, then goes off to grab the menu for the pizza place. The less lingering he does, the better. Anders has already got enough frustration and shame in him to last a lifetime, he doesn’t need Lux hovering and offering more healing magic. Really, it helps Anders more to be in pain and able to be pissed about it, than to lower himself to ask for help, and then to sit and think about how vulnerable and transparent he is. Better to have someone to be tough for, than someone to owe for being shown mercy.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

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.

He’s in the cellar with his newest catch, the latest boy. He’s waking up. His arms are bound behind him, manacled to the floor, between his ankles. Kept kneeling. It’s a good look on him.

A better look, the Hunter predicts, will be this one lying dazed and sprawled out on the floor, bloody and promising to be good. Call it an artistic vision. He can’t wait to make it a reality.

“You don’t want to talk,” The Hunter notes, taking hold of the prisoner’s wrist. Not as slender as his light’s. Probably hasn’t been broken before. “I understand. You’re a member of the Resistance, you’re strong, you’re brave, aren’t you? Lux, he was just a warlock, all on his own out there. But you, you have an organization, a team, a family who’ve got your back.” The wrist bends backward, pressed into an uncomfortable position. Alex stares ahead, not looking at the joint. His other arm twitches, slightly, and he winces as the bone broken below his elbow makes his nerves burn with pain.

“You won’t break.” With a shove and a bit of a twist, the wrist gives way with a snap. The Hunter loves breaking wrists. Ribs, then wrists, then arms. People really try to twist free when you do that to them.

Alex has tried to yank his arm away, with a cracking yell of pain, which jumped up in pitch as he tried to wrench his arm away. He’s kneeling, one arm still manacled behind him, panting and still trying to stare straight ahead. Probably doesn’t want to see his own wrist at an odd angle.

The Hunter’s fingers are still wrapped around the wrist, it’s still bent - he moves it, pivots it so it’s straightened out, slowly. Alex is breathing hard and letting slip whimpers as the wrist is bent forward, now.

“You must know Anders Reyan. You know that my late friend, Maura - fond of fire and whips? - you know she broke him, owned him. Did you know that I - well, I won’t take much credit. She put in the hours, she’s the one who earned his love. But I had my fun with him.” That wrist bends back again, farther this time, until there are little pops in it. Alex is shaking with the effort of staying silent. “She broke his leg, and I kept it broken, kept it twisted out of place so she could make it hurt worse. And then I’d visit him in his cell,” He twists the wrist, holding it tight, feeling the bones shift - “And I’d touch my fingers to his temple, like this…” His hand finds the side of Alex’s head. The prisoner doesn’t try to pull away, held taut with the twisting grip on his arm and the restraints.

“And I’d force my way into his mind. He was so sweet, ten years ago, all horrified and shocked. I replayed his worst memories, and read his thoughts, and if he wasn’t very good and afraid, I’d give him such pain in his head that he passed out screaming.” His fingers are in Alex’s hair. Sweat is beading at the warlock’s brow, and his lips part for sharp huffs of breath as his wrist is manipulated. “I’m going to do that to you,” The Hunter informs happily, quietly. Very close. “You don’t have to look at how I hurt you, you don’t have to speak. Everything you’ve ever felt, everything you think, I will see it. I can make the world melt around you. I can make you believe anything. And do you know what else I can do?”

He squeezes Alex’s wrist, making him moan, but then with the pulse of pain comes a wave of - power, in him, spreading, warmth in his chest, his lungs fill deeply -

“What -” The first word he’s spoken, as the pain dims from his focus in favor of the incredible, glowing feeling in him.

“Your magic, restored. Like it was never ruined. Doesn’t that feel amazing?”

Alex blinks - all his nausea, the magic-exhaustion tingle in his arms (besides the broken bones throbbing) gone -

And then it’s back, heavy as ever, cold welling in his chest. Alex coughs, and shivers.

“Just for a moment. A taste. I could fix it for good. I think I’d rather hear you scream.” With that, the hand at Alex’s temple sends a mass of power into his mind, shoving in with more force than it takes to invade an unguarded mind.

Alex screams, desperately, with all the breath he’s just caught in a moment of wonder. It empties from him, welcoming his new agony.

There is the screaming in his mind, the no no no no please, fuck, fuck - he’s, he can’t be, it hurts, please no -

All very fun, very run of the mill. Panic and distress and this can’t be happening. Then come more interesting thoughts, the ones lingering from before the invasion, like no way Anders loved that pyromaniac bitch, no way he was fucking sweet for this guy and Lux was here for a year, how is he fucking sane and my arm, my arm, not that, don’t break it - fuck!

The Hunter’s magic soaks it all up easily. He knows it feels wrong, utterly wrong to suddenly not be alone in your own head. He can taste the horror Alex’s mind is steeping in.

Are you scared, warlock?

Who - I didn’t think that - scared, try fucking terrified, he’s got magic I couldn’t dream of fighting, like fucking Lux, this guy, off the charts - it’s like before, the feds, no control - memories flood to the front of Alex’s mind, and the Hunter watches and listens eagerly. Lux has grown used to not allowing himself to remember things, in order to protect against instinctively vulnerable moments like these. Alex doesn’t know that as he remembers the feds, the Hunter sees it too.

Sees Alex tripping, with a manacle around his ankle and a chain on the ground - his hands shaking, his magic flickering, nearly slipping to the floor, and getting grabbed by his hair, a guard whispering in his ear, then make it work, warlock, or you’ll get the whip, before and after you pass out. Then, a memory of coming to consciousness, getting dragged up, back to his cell, his back torn open, and he’s screaming and begging reflexively, tiredly, even as he’s ignored or laughed at. Never spoken to, never treated with mercy or sympathy.

Oh, you poor thing, you were terrified. The Hunter is smiling, watching Alex’s painful memories. Another one almost pops up and then is shoved back, which is Alex trying not to remember - the Hunter sinks his grip into it and drags it forward. Alex shudders violently.

Now this is a painful memory. You have lots like this. Neil, he had some fun, didn’t he?

Alex’s mind is flooded, now, with shame and horror and disgust. “Don’t - don’t -” He mutters, unable to eke out more with his mind being invaded.

The Hunter’s magic wells up viciously, and Alex cries out, panic overriding all other feelings in him with the agony spiking.

Telling me to stop, that will be punished, The Hunter informs. He isn’t angry, because Alex didn’t know yet. Just amused.

But I want it to stop, I want it to end, the pain, it feels wrong, I want it out of my head, Anders wouldn’t beg, I won’t, I won’t, but I want it to end -

Anders would beg. He has begged me many times, and I only twisted his shattered leg worse, I only drove into his mind for longer. Begging is cute. It won’t save you pain, but it will make me very happy, if it’s the right kind.

The Hunter decides he’s had enough of explaining, and he’d like to teach with experience. So he listens to Alex’s thoughts, and drives the already present pain up into agony at thoughts that displease him. Thoughts like gotta be a way out and his magic will run out sometime, has to and someone will find me, the Resistance will come for me.

“Please -” Alex begs aloud, still unaccustomed to mindspeak, at the lastest furious wave of power from the Hunter in his mind. “What - why are you -”

“I punish bad behavior,” The Hunter answers. “And you are just full of bad thoughts, little warlock.”

Bad - I’m not, that doesn’t mean anything, Lux is scared of being bad when he’s out of it but that’s just this fucker’s way of controlling people, it doesn’t matter -

The Hunter punishes that thought, too, dragging another startled scream from the prisoner. You are bad, The Hunter reinforces, in his mind, with a pulse of power. Bad, bad, bad. Pain on pain on pain. A bit too much for merely the second time having his mind invaded.

Poor, silly thing - the warlock passes out, five minutes into having his mind invaded.

The Hunter stays in there just a bit longer, to makes sure those words take root. Very, very bad.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

set when maura (mistress) was still alive. anders is @whump-sprite ‘s oc.

He looks so sweet like this. Ten years ago, Anders Reyan was only in Maura’s care for a month, but he made a lasting impression. The Hunter remembers how scared Anders was back then. How quickly the life in him dulled to horror-numbed resignation.

Now, being pulled into the Hunter’s lap from being sprawled out on the floor, Anders whimpers wonderfully at his broken bones shifting. He whines, even, which is an addictive sound that can only be pulled from him with enough exhaustion, enough agony without respite. Usually the most he’ll eke out are moans and grunts. It takes a special kind of expertise to get the quiet, pitiful sounds.

Anders lies tense in the Hunter’s lap, his broken arm is held firmly, rotated slowly so his dislocated shoulder scrapes where it’s been forced out of place. Anders’ less broken leg tries to kick against the ground a little. He only brings himself more pain.

“I want to hear another bone break,” The Hunter says idly, still rotating that arm bit by bit. Sweet sweet sounds and half-hearted struggles, ones where even trying to shift makes his victim fall back into place, panting. He’s not trying to get away, really. It’s only his instinct, to try and pull away from the source of the pain. A large hand presses to the center of Anders’ chest, over bruises and healing burns - he is still in Maura’s ownership, only being lent out as a favor - and that shoulder is popped back into place. It’s not a reward, though, because Anders is shifted into a position where his shoulder can be snapped right back out of its socket. He screams hoarsely, and is allowed to sink back into the Hunter’s lap, arm spasming. His fingers might go numb in a minute. If they do, that shoulder will have to pop right back into place.

The Hunter takes hold of Anders’ chin and makes him look up, beautiful green eyes dazed, pupils blown wide.

“Your screams have only gotten rougher, the past few hours. Are you thirsty, darling?”

Those eyes widen, and the prisoner licks his cracked lips. He can’t very well say yes, or no, or anything that will make him seem ungrateful or like a liar. “I - just, want what-, whatever you think I deserve.”

“What I think you deserve?”

Anders’ eyes tighten at the corners, his teeth bared in a grimace as his arm’s grabbed and twisted into a terrible position. “What I deserve. Nnnh, please. Hurt me.”

“I will. You’re so sweet for asking me to.”

Cracking wails and low moans follow the sounds of bones doing things bones shouldn’t do. Anders is sweating from the effort of holding in as many sounds as he can. It’s so dangerous to be ungrateful. He promptly says thank you when told to, or when the Hunter’s grip tightens in warning. His sweat-dampened hair is brushed back, and he looks up again at the man holding him, breaking him happily.

“You haven’t asked me to stop,” The Hunter muses, smiling down at him. “You haven’t been bad in any way. Your Mistress has been keeping you very well trained to take the pain you’re given. Would you like a reward, darling?”

Those eyes brighten with excitement, for half a second, and then are wary, frightened. It’s almost as dangerous as an outright threat, being offered a reward. “If - if Mistress says I deserve it.” Then, because the Hunter loves open desperation: “Please.”

The Hunter shifts to pull something from his pocket, making Anders bite down on a groan. He watches the Hunter dial a number on his phone and hold it to his ear.

“Yes. Thank you for picking up, I’m sure you’re busy… yes, he’s been good. So good, in fact, that he might have earned a reward. Twenty didn’t ask for it - he says he only deserves it if his Mistress says so.” The Hunter hears Anders’ breathing pick up, in terrified little gasps, hitched breaths punctuated by soft whimpers. It’s like he can’t decide between clinging to the Hunter for safety, and wanting to jump through the phone itself to be with his Mistress. “...Understood. I’ll do that.”

The phone is turned off and put away. Anders watches, caught in agonizing anticipation. Mistress knows he’s been making sounds, he’s been twisting in pain, he hasn’t earned it - he said please, he was greedy, he’ll be punished, more broken bones, no sleep, no water, just pain, and pain, and pain…

“Your Mistress is very forgiving,” The Hunter says warmly, summoning a bottle of water to his hand. Anders’ eyes go big and round, locked onto the only thing that can quench his desperate thirst. “She loves you, you know, Twenty. She thinks you’ve earned a reward since you’ve been so good for me. She knows when you’re being good.”

Anders makes a choked sound, nodding slightly, glancing at the Hunter now. “I l-love her. Mistress - she said yes?”

“She said yes. She told me I could reward you. Come here, darling.” The Hunter takes Anders under the arms and hauls him up so he’s leaning back against his captor’s chest. Anders moans wonderfully. The Hunter gives him the water bottle; Anders freezes up, entirely unsure what to do with it. His fingers, a couple of them broken, curl stiffly around the curved plastic.

“You can have half of it, if you can lift it yourself.”

Anders’ arm is broken, his shoulder yanked out of place. The other arm, nothing’s broken, but his elbow was dislocated a few hours ago, and only half healed by magic as a taste of what kind of rewards he might earn if he behaved.

The Hunter presses Anders’ fingers to the plastic when they loosen, in his moment of doubt. “Both hands. Now.”

His shoulder burns with pain as he tries to lift his arms. He groans, and then whines, and the water shakes and jolts inside the opened bottle with the tremors of his hands. A little sloshes out, and he freezes, then moans and has to lower his arms. This water is a gift, and he just wasted some of it - barely any at all, but oh, he’ll be punished…

“Shh,” The Hunter shooshes, and Anders didn’t even realize he’d keened in panic. The Hunter takes the bottle from him. “I’ll help you, but you will be punished for failing. Do you understand?”

“Y-yes,” Anders gasps, and is maneuvered to sit against the wall, out of the Hunter’s lap. He oddly, sorely misses the warmth, the contact. It was like a silent promise that he was worth something, to someone. Worth enough to be held.

The bottle’s held to his lips, though, cool water on his tongue and down his aching dry throat, and he forgets all except for how delicious water is, and how much mercy Mistress can have for a wretched thing like him.

[friendlylocalwhumper]

Catatonic

this is a present for the sproo! Anders is @whump-sprite‘s oc, and we did a lot of talking about this concept, which means that half the ideas are sproo’s! merry christmas!

Anders, sometimes, has thought that Lux talks too much. Lux rambles, he switches between ideas, he gets excited and loses his way in a train of thought. Once, Anders even snapped, Alright, I get it, you’re excited kid, can you be quiet for five seconds?

He regrets that, now.

Lux lies on his bed, on his back, staring up at the ceiling. Blue eyes lock onto nothing, as he blinks and breathes slow, chest rising and falling steadily. It’s the most he’s moved since Anders set him down there.

“Hey, Lux,” Anders says, voice gentle, taking up Lux’s hand. His voice is always soft in this room, now, because Lux seems so - not fragile. But Lux doesn’t move, or speak, or react in any way that he used to, so Anders is only patient and calm around him. The furious tears, the hitting things, those are done far enough from Lux that there’s no way he’d hear it and think Anders was mad at him.

He lets go of Lux’s hand after holding it a minute, as he has done so far - not too much touch, because Lux can’t say he doesn’t want it, and the last thing Anders wants to do is to make Lux deal with something he can’t stop.

But then, when the touch leaves, Lux’s brow twitches and furrows in slightly, barely at all, a little crease forming at the corners of his eyes. It looks like he’s faintly, distantly upset.

Maybe Lux can say what he wants, Anders just has to look closer.

“Do you want me to hold your hand again?” Anders asks, knowing there will be no answer. He waits a few seconds, then carefully takes hold of Lux’s hand. And the almost imperceptible fraction of tension leaves Lux. “Okay, we can stay like this. Hey. I’m going to read something to you. It’s some book. Happy ending. You might like it.”

He sits at Lux’s bedside and reads, and holds his hand. Lux doesn’t get that slight tension again before his breaths get deep, and his eyes close, and he stays just as still and silent as he did when he was awake.

“I love how much you stay with him, cariño. But how do you know he’s getting any better?”

Vic’s been holding back on saying it. He knows how much Anders loves Lux, how bad Anders feels for, as he perceives it, having failed to find Lux before he ended up this different. Vic loves Lux too. But he loves Anders more than anyone, and it’s difficult to watch him put everything into taking care of someone who just can’t respond.

Anders is tense with anger. Could be from Vic’s words, or the thought of Lux staying like this, or from lack of sleep and too much worry. “I don’t know that. He might stay like this. Fuck if I know. But.” But he relaxes sometimes, he knows Anders is there. At least, if Lux never looks at him again - at least he’s making it a little less scary to exist in Lux’s head, wherever that is. “It helps. What I do. It helps him. That’s all that matters.”

It would be easy to hire someone to take care of Lux. To keep him clean and fed and hydrated. But Vic, although he offers it once as an option, knows that Anders would sooner cut off his own arm than let anyone else near Lux when he’s this vulnerable. Mostly because Anders said it. You take a fucking look at him, and think about whether I’m going to let anyone put their fucking hands on him.

That’s why Lux is in the bath, in warm-almost-hot water, and Anders is running a soapy loofah down his arm and over his wrist. He’s fucking terrified of doing anything to Lux against his will, regardless of whether it’s good for him and needs to be done. But Lux let out a breath when lowered into the water that sounded like a sigh, and it’s got to feel nice being in there, so Anders goes with it and powers through his doubts.

“I’m going to wash your back,” Anders says, and then he does, feeling a pang of anger at the old scars on his friend’s back. When he leans Lux back from doing that, the younger warlock definitely sighs in relief this time as the warm water envelopes his shoulders. They ache sometimes, Anders knows, from being chained above him for a year in the mindfucker’s cellar. The warmth will help with that.

“Do your shoulders hurt? Okay if I try to help?” Anders gets some soap in his hands and works at Lux’s shoulders, not in so much a massage - Anders Reyan doesn’t give massages - just steadily pressing the pain out of the joints. Lux closes his eyes and stays as he is, so he probably doesn’t hate it.

He doesn’t really have to wash Lux’s hair. Mostly because Lux’s messy black curls have been shaved off, and he’s just got short fuzzy regrowth, swirl-patterned from the curls he had. Anders shifts Lux forward anyway, and tips his head back. Lux tenses, eyes squeezing tighter shut. He’s afraid.

“It’s okay, Lux, I’m just rinsing your hair, okay? Here.” Instead of lowering Lux’s head into the water, he cups a handful and pours the warm water onto Lux’s head. Those eyes squeezed shut lose their tension, so Anders does it again, and then leans him back against the edge of the tub to get a bit of shampoo there too. Lux slips down an inch, melting at the massage against his scalp, with the smooth soap and a handful of water poured on again, kept from running into his eyes.

He even makes a soft sound, almost like a whimper but out of comfort, little and followed by no other reaction. Okay. Lux likes that, it calms him. Anders rinses his not-curls and then gets Lux into a towel, and into pajamas, and back into bed.

Anders scratches gently at Lux’s short-cropped hair again, in swirls and back and forth, and Anders almost misses it when Lux turns his head an inch toward him. He has to make himself keep up his ministrations, instead of asking Lux if he moved, if he’s comfortable, if he wants to try to talk. They have time for that. Lux is content, right now, Anders is doing something so right that Lux can reach through whatever fog is in his mind and lean into it slightly. That’s a big fucking step.

Nights with sleep are few and far between, because he’s with Lux as much as he can be.

The only times Lux seems to feel things strongly enough to react, it seems, is when he’s dreaming.

Anders is sitting on a chair beside the bed - an armchair he moved in because he’s so often sitting here that a wooden chair won’t cut it - when Lux starts taking shuddering breaths in his sleep, starts making soft frightened sounds. Then, he starts crying, and Anders isn’t going to let whatever nightmare he’s trapped in scare him that badly.

“Lux. Lux. You’re alright, you’re safe.” He touches Lux’s shoulder, trying to wake him gently. “Lux, wake up.”

It takes a minute, but he does wake, with a tumultuous breath and teary blue eyes blinking up in the darkness. He doesn’t speak, or gasp; he only continues to cry, face twisted slightly in fear, or sadness, or stress. His fingers twitch faintly like he wants to drag his arms up to hold himself. The dark room is commanded by the sound of very, very weak sobs.

With a murmured warning, Anders sits on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “I’m going to move you so your head’s in my lap,” He says, and so Lux doesn’t feel like he’s being grabbed, Anders lifts his head by slipping his hands under the pillow supporting it, and shifts himself so the pillow’s in his lap, then gingerly takes out the pillow.

He’s getting better at reading the little signs that Lux feels safer, more comfortable. Breaths that come easier, a hitch of emotion in them before a sigh, a slight movement, relaxing into the bed. Lux does all of these, now, turning his head so it’s nestled better, and - slowly, sorely, because he’s been still so long, he turns to curl up on his side, eyes closed. Anders is secretly so, so pleased. Relieved. Proud. Proud of Lux for knowing he’s safe, for moving, for relaxing. He pulls the sheets up so Lux is covered, tucks them in around him so he’s warm, and lays his hand on Lux’s shoulder over the blankets.

“Raining outside.”

Lux hears Anders get up from his chair, hears the soles of his leather shoes on the floor crossing the room, and then the window opening. The pitter-patter of the raindrops outside becomes loud enough to hear, cool rain-scented air breezing in, and it’s pleasant. He’s always liked watching the rain, especially in the summer, when it’s warm and the weather cools a bit and the sky darkens early only for the clouds to open back up to sunshine later.

Lux doesn’t think any of this in words. Just hears the steps, and the window and the rain and the breeze in the curtain, and feels the rain cooled air, and sinks a bit into the mattress.

“Hey. Lux.” Anders comes back over to sit on the edge of the bed, laying his hand on top of Lux’s, so he has another sense telling him he’s not alone. “Vic picked something up at the store for you today. You want some strawberry ice cream?”

Blue eyes blink, once, twice, and still looking up at nothing, Lux gives the slightest nod.

Anders could jump for joy. He doesn’t get too hyped up in case it’ll startle Lux, but he does start to stand back up. He’s smiling. This is huge, Lux is doing so well - he wants something, he’s communicating, he’s present.

“Okay. Great. I’ll get some from...” Anders’ words fail him when Lux’s hand turns enough to hold Anders’ hand. Two aware movements. His heart’s going to burst. He sits back down, crooked fingers wrapped around Lux’s. “I’ll stay. Don’t worry about it.” He pulls out his phone with his free hand to text the man in the other room.

Vic. Bring in that ice cream. Lux wants some.

Anders is just walking into the room one day, after making himself a mug of coffee, when he looks over at the bed. To see Lux looking at him. He nearly spills his scalding hot drink on himself, so he catches himself and sets it down to go over to the bed. Lux’s eyes follow him.

“How you feeling? Did you sleep okay?” Anders asks, trying to contain his excitement - Lux used to be the one who has to keep his joy under wraps. But everything Lux manages to do makes Anders so fucking happy.

A nod, and eye contact, those two things have Anders grinning. And some kind of domino effect, something in the universe trying to make up for all the shitty things that have happened to good people, gives way. Lux, seeing Anders beaming, offers a shaky, feeble wisp of a smile in return.

Anders wants to hug him. It’s not a good idea. He’s got to fucking ask anyway, he can’t very well just move on from this and act normal. “Can I give you a hug, Lux? You okay with that?”

Another nod, and Anders carefully props Lux up on his pillows and then wraps his arms around him in a loose hug.

One of Lux’s arms raises itself enough for his hand to touch to Anders’ back, just barely there.

Later, when Anders finally leaves the room again to get food for Lux and himself, Vic looks over, curious.

“What are you smiling for?”

Anders shoves a plate in the microwave and shrugs casually. “Nothing. He just looked at something other than the ceiling. Me. And nodded. And fucking hugged me back.” He’s not gushing. He’s. Informing Vic. Calmly. And absolutely not still grinning.

“Anders?”

Something nudges against Anders’ arm, and tugs lightly on his sleeve.

The sleepy, soft voice tries again. “Anders...”

With a tired, low groan, Anders lifts his head from his arms. He fell asleep slumped forward in his chair, leaning on the edge of the bed.

“Fuck,” He mutters to himself, and then he sits up, blinking at Lux. “Did you just -” Lux just said his name. “What do you need?”

Lux’s brow furrows slightly, like he’s trying to find a word, head tipped to the side to look over at his friend, just breathing for a minute.

“Tired,” He whispers, and Anders is so glad to hear Lux speaking that he doesn’t even hesitate at how it sounds like Lux is confused as asking for permission. Anders couldn’t give two fucks. He’s speaking.

“Go to sleep, then,” He replies, voice stuck somewhere deep and quiet from sleep. Lux gives an odd look but says no more, tucking his head against the pillow and leaving his hand by Anders. He doesn’t close his eyes, seeming to be out of words.

“Can’t sleep?” Anders hopes that he didn’t miss a nightmare. He’s here to keep an eye on Lux so he can sleep in peace, not to get sleep himself.

Lux doesn’t respond, so Anders grabs the book he’s been reading aloud from the nightstand. “You want to hear more of the story?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, flipping the book open and leaning back in the armchair to finish the page they left off at.

It’s not easy, helping Lux walk again. He’s just been lying still for so long. The first movements were tilting his head against something comfortable, then reaching over for Anders’ hand, then shifting where he lay - and now, still barely speaking, he’s able to try and get up when encouraged to.

The first time, Anders messed up. Took hold of Lux’s arms to catch him when he started to slip from leaning on Anders, and Lux froze up completely, eyes going all lost. He didn’t speak for the rest of the day, and went boneless, so Anders had to lift him back onto the bed from where Lux nearly fell to his knees.

This time, no grabbing. Anders is holding Lux around the waist, and they’re already up off the bed which is half the struggle. Lux’s legs are shaky and wobbling and his arm around Anders’ back for support clings tightly when he feels like he’s going to fall down. They take one trip around the end of the bed to the other side, and Lux is out of breath and holding even less of his own weight.

“You did good Lux - great,” Anders amends as he gets the kid up onto the bed again. Lux shakes slightly from the exertion.

“D-did good?” He asks, looking up at Anders, whose fingers interlock with Lux’s unscarred, unbroken ones.

“Yeah. You did. Let’s have some ice cream to celebrate.”

Lux gives a small, sparing smile, his eyes crinkling up just a little, and this is the best he’s done, the most progress he’s made. It’s amazing. He’s doing so well. The least he fucking deserves is some ice cream.

It becomes a daily routine. Anders helps Lux up, they walk for a minute, take a rest, and have a treat. Lux, he thinks, looks forward more to feeling like he did something than he looks forward to whatever sweet thing he asks for. And he does start to ask for different things. Hot chocolate, cut up strawberries, pudding, sherbert - and he starts pulling himself up to sit against his pillows, and he can hold the spoon and eat whatever he asked for by himself.

“Wanna go outside,” He says, one day, after popping a fourth raspberry in his mouth from the little bowl he was brought.

So Anders helps him walk all the way to the front door, and by then Lux is trembling from the trip, so Anders pulls open the door and they sit on the front step.

Lux leans against his side, looking around, and making an emotional sound.

“You good?” Anders asks noncommittally, and Lux nods once.

“Yeah… nice, out here.” Lux’s fingertips tap lightly against the step beneath them, and he watches a bird settle on the grass of another lawn.

After a few minutes of silence, he tries for some more words. “They didn’t hurt me.”

Anders’ arm at Lux’s back, hand on his shoulder, tenses. Just a bit. Protective, not angry. Either Lux doesn’t notice, or doesn’t get hung up on it.

“Not once,” He continues, fingers curling over the edge of the step. “Just… kept me where you found me…” Lying on his back, on the floor, without clothes, a wide metal collar welded to the floor and locked at the side of his neck being the one thing keeping him pinned where he lay. “Moved me. To my feet, and dragged me out… they just kept me alive. No touch, other than getting moved, and… no talking… no matter what I said, they didn’t react. They didn’t care. So… I stopped talking, too.”

He’d stopped talking, and stopped struggling, and went limp. His body got weak and moving at all was too difficult, and thinking hurt, so he stopped it all. He went empty.

Lux takes a few increasingly tumultuous breaths, and Anders’ arm around him almost pulls him closer, and suddenly Lux is crying into Anders’ shoulder, and being hugged.

“I - I - j-just wanted someone to, to, to listen… th-they wo-ouldn’t listen…” He’d begged, and cried, and said so many things to them, feeling like he was going insane with the pure lack of human interaction, and then… he’d stopped. It was painful and lonely and scary, and this is the first time that he’s cried over it, since.

Anders is listening. He might not know what to say, right now, but he’s rubbing Lux’s back, and he helped him get outside, and he’s been patient as he waited to see if Lux would ever come back.

“I’ll listen,” Anders finally says, and Lux hugs him back, with all of the strength left in him.

“Thank you, Anders,” He whispers, and Anders can’t find it in him to tell Lux not to thank him. He doesn’t think he can tell Lux to say less ever again.

“You got it, Lux.”

Epilogue

The first time Lux laughs again, it’s sandwiched between Anders and Vic on the couch, watching TV. A commercial comes on with a baby that’s got a CGI mouth, talking in a deep voice, and it’s a dumb quick thing that gets Lux laughing, and then laughing more. He points at the TV to try and explain what he found so hilarious, bursting out into more giggles every time he tries to get a word out.

Anders huffs, but he can’t hold back a smile, and Vic looks amazed. When Lux has settled down with a few stray chuckles, he nestles back down in the blankets to watch the show that’s come back on.

“You guys want me to order a pizza?” Vic asks, still smiling, and Anders is still grinning when Lux nods eagerly. When Lux gets tired out from sitting up, he leans over onto Anders’ side, head on his shoulder as Vic gets up to order for delivery.

“You falling asleep before the food gets here?” Anders nudges Lux slightly, only to get a noncommittal hum in answer.

“Wake me up if I do?”

Anders sinks down more where he sits so his shoulder’s at a better height to lean on. “Sure. After I pick the best slice.”

Lux chuckles again, pulling his legs up onto the couch to be curled up, and sure enough, he’s breathing deeply by the time the pizza’s brought in.

“You want to wake him up?” Vic turns down the TV.

“No. Fuck. He’s too…” Cute. “Comfortable. Give him a couple minutes.”