#assassin whumpee

[distracted-obsessions]

Ok, but imagine Villain/Henchman/Assassin Whumpee being found by the heroes while they raided Supervillain Whumper's lair and they take Whumpee into custody. They don't handcuff Whumpee because they aren't fighting back (either too injured or in shock) but as they lead Whumpee out of the lair, Whumpee stops.

"Did you find them?"

"Find who?"

Whumpee pulls away from them and goes deeper into the lair. Every time the heroes grab them, they get more and more distressed, saying that they can't leave. They won't leave. After a minute, they start screaming out a name that the heroes don't recognize.

Just as one of the heroes goes to knock Whumpee out, they see a child crawl out from under the stairs and run straight for Whumpee who drops to their knees and hugs the child tightly, shushing their cries and whispering soft, comforting words. "Shh, it's ok. Mommy/Daddy is here. I'm ok. We're ok. it's ok. Shh."

[chaotic-orphan]

The Assassin’s Hamartia

“Ah… I see it now,” Bounty Hunter said. Assassin kept her gaze fixed ahead of her, which just so happened to be into the fire that they were camped around for the evening. Bounty Hunter bound her wrists behind her back, and while they were camping, bound her wrists to her ankles so she couldn’t get away too quickly without causing a commotion.

Bounty Hunter propped her chin up with the tip of his boot that made Assassin physically recoil. Bounty Hunter laughed. A loud, harsh sound. “The terrifying Assassin, the scourge of the Kingdom, is afraid of dirt?”

Assassin wanted to level Bounty Hunter with a glare. Tell him he was a fool and an idiot for suggesting such a ridiculous notion. Instead, she tried to look away, her cheeks heated with a pink shame.

“Hold on, Darlin’,” Bounty Hunter said as he crouched down and took her chin between his calloused, dirty fingers and forced her to look up into his smiling brown eyes. “The Queen of blood is afraid of not having a shower?”

“You’re just reciting all my titles from bards,” Assassin spat. “You must be a fan.”

“And you’re not denying you’re a little princess, darlin’.”

“Don’t call me that,” Assassin hissed, struggling to free her arms. “Aren’t you just supposed to bring me back to the King? Not talk me to death.”

“I can do whatever I like to you, sweetheart,” he said and the threat hung in the air like one of Assassin’s knives; poised over the jugular, ready to strike. “Oh yes. Which means…”

Without finishing his sentence, Bounty Hunter slapped a pile of mud against Assassin’s cheek and she gasped, her head flinging to the side. “I can do that.”

“No,” Assassin said, shrugging, trying to get the dirt off her cheek. This is ridiculous. How the fuck had he seen that after only being with her for a few hours?! Not even her closest confidants knew that, nevermind her enemies— he… “Please, please. Get it off.”

Bounty Hunter laughed and got to his feet, walking back over to his tree and with a satisfied sigh he dropped and reclined against the bark, smirking at Assassin over the flames.

“I like to get down and dirty, darlin’. You just have to put up and shut up. But I do like to see how you squirm with a bit of mud. I may as well have shot your dog or summat.”

Assassin glared at him. Bounty Hunter smirked. “Well, have fun with that. We ride at dawn.”

[whumpwillow]

here have a thing

warnings: past torture, death mention, bugs mention (mosquitos), blood, associated misery

—

They were, in theory, alone.

The group made their way through what they’d thought was a deserted mangrove. That was the primary reason they’d chosen it as the landing pad for their airship, as the sonar array hadn’t detected any other vessels in the area, nor were there any nearby settlements. They planned it this way so they could avoid coming into contact with any other people.

That was, until they came across the man stumbling through the forest, covered in blood. Leader drew the stun gun from his waist belt and pointed it at the man, who took no notice of them. Friend subtly positioned himself in front of Caretaker, but she could still see the gory images played out in front of her.

The man was alone, and wearing nothing but a tattered pair of work slacks. His chest and feet were bare, save for the grievous wounds that marred them. His body bent forward at the waist, head hanging low, and his muscles contorted with each strangled breath. He’d put his forearm to a tree next to him and seemed to be trying to regain balance or stability or energy or something—Caretaker couldn’t tell. She didn’t know how he was even alive right now.

His head was downturned and his hair, wet and sticky with blood, was so plastered to his skin that his face was indiscernible. Blood streamed down it, as well as from numerous other wounds on his body.

They were…not the sort of wounds one would get from being lost in the forest. They were too precise. Intentional.

“Stay back,” Leader said, in his usual stern but smooth baritone.

The injured man flinched, having registered the sound, but all it did was quicken his breathing. Leader took a step toward him.

Caretaker couldn’t stop staring. Eyes wide, she observed every gash, every burn, every bruise. The wounds were fresh and weeping, but it had to have been a few days at least that the man had been wandering through the forest. He was covered in mud that mixed with the crimson that dripped from his wounds, likely having infected them already. Little red dots scattered across his skin showed that he’d been food for the mosquitos, and small scratches on his arms and legs looked more like the injuries gotten from foliage rather than…direct intent.

How he got the other wounds…Caretaker didn’t want to think too hard about it.

“Who are you?” Leader asked.

The injured man didn’t respond. His arms and legs shook something fierce, and had been the entire time. Whether it was from exhaustion or fear, Caretaker didn’t know.

“Looks like he got pretty fucked up,” Friend chimed in. “He one of ours?”

Leader grumbled something under his breath. “Blackdoor would do that.”

Caretaker pushed herself out from behind Friend and moved quickly up to where Leader was standing. She put a hand on his arm and looked him in the eyes.

“Come on,” she said. “Put the gun down. He’s clearly hurt.”

Leader eyed her stonily. His gaze flicked from Caretaker’s face to the nearly doubled-over body of the injured man and back, though the hand holding the gun never wavered or shook.

“It could be a trap,” he said.

Caretaker put a hand on her hip and used the other to gesture to the mysterious man. “Does it fucking look like one?”

Leader didn’t respond, except to reach to her as she moved forward to go to the injured man. He lifted his head minutely, but with the blood and his hair plastered to his face, she couldn’t make out what he looked like. But she knew he was watching her.

“Hey,” she said. “Do you need help?”

She raised a hand to touch him but he flinched back, stumbling over a root and falling to the ground. Leader shouted and darted forward, and Caretaker felt herself being pulled away from the spot before she could even blink.

She fumbled with the roots and leaves for a bit, but Friend came up behind her and put his arms on her shoulders to steady her. Leader had one foot on the injured man’s chest and was pointing the stun gun directly at his face.

“What are you doing here, Whumpee?” he shouted.

Whumpee. the assassin.

Caretaker shivered. She’d only encountered him once, but she’d been through enough danger at the hands of Blackdoor to know they didn’t mess around and they didn’t hold back.

Whumpee held up his hands over his face. “Pl-please, please, please—you can’t—I’m not—please—I’m—,” he begged, words coming out in short gasps.

His hands shook as he tried to protect himself from whatever he thought was coming. Caretaker could still barely see his face through the blood. Leader didn’t relent, trying to question him on his intentions, but they all already knew what his objective was.

To kill Caretaker.

She stepped up beside him, ignoring Leader’s protests. “What happened to you?”

Whumpee didn’t respond. The begging seemed to take precedence and Caretaker turned to look at Leader, wondering if she had enough persuasion skills to get him to put the gun away.

“You’re hurting him,” she said.

“He was sent to kill you,” Leader said. His eyes blazed with something dark and obsessive. “He fucking killed my brother.”

Caretaker knew Leader had been consumed with revenge ever since the attack that had killed his brother, orchestrated by none other than Blackdoor’s very own assassin. She’d seen the way he stared out the window of the airship as they moved through the sky, the light in his eyes giving way to something else entirely as he talked about how he’d get his revenge. But this wasn’t the way.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose to relieve the building tension. “Yes, I know. I was there. I saw him die on that operating table too,” she began. “But we can’t kill Whumpee here. We can get vital information from him about Blackdoor.”

Friend drew up behind Caretaker and peered around her shoulder to look up at Leader. “And about Team Member! I need to know what he did with Team Member!”

Whumpee groaned, writhing in the mud under Leader’s boot still placed on his sternum. Caretaker glanced down at him and then back at Leader, not wanting to think about how much it must have hurt those bruises staining every inch of skin she could see that wasn’t already covered in mud and blood. Deep purples, blues, greens, and browns made him look more like a piece of abstract art rather than a person.

“…scaped…” Whumpee murmured, almost inaudibly.

Friend crouched down. “What’d you say?”

Whumpee turned his head weakly in Friend’s direction. “He escaped…she let him go…when she caught me.”

He panted heavily, drawing in breaths with great effort. It seemed speaking even this little bit had exhausted him.

Caretaker gave Leader a look that she hoped conveyed to him that he should at least take his foot off the assassin’s chest. Leader understood and acquiesced, stepping back. He didn’t holster the stun gun.

Whumpee took in a deep breath once Leader’s weight was off him, but then immediately whinged in pain. His face crumbled like paper. Friend twisted his mouth to the side, a look of displeased understanding on his face.

“His ribs are probably broken. Sucks to take in a breath when it feels like you’re getting stabbed,” he noted.

Caretaker crouched down next to him. “Who caught you? Did the Eighth Chasm do this?”

The Eighth Chasm leader had a temper to match her fiery red hair. Caretaker would never have expected her to do something like this, but she also had never actually met the woman, so she supposed she couldn’t make such snap judgments. Leader had been the one to feed the information to her, and as much as he liked to think of himself as rational and stoic, he often let his emotions color his perception of things.

Whumpee shook his head, creating a sloshing noise of his hair going back and forth in the mud. “Montrose family,” was all he said before letting the silence hang in the air between the four of them.

Caretaker looked up at Leader, wondering if this was someone new he would tell her about, but his face displayed as much confusion as hers likely did. Leader’s eyebrows knitted together in concentration, but he finally shook his head.

“Is that part of Blackdoor?” Friend asked.

“Why would Blackdoor do this to their own operative?” Caretaker responded to Friend’s question with another question. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

Whumpee heaved another strained breath. His eyelids fluttered, closed, and then opened again after a long pause.

“They didn’t like Blackdoor operating out of New York City…said it was their territory,” Whumpee said. His bottom lip trembled, but he didn’t seem to realize. His eyes glazed over for a moment before he spoke again.

“They sent one of their operatives to kill me and Septimus…hah, and all this,” he gestured at his battered body. “This was just for fun.”

[thewhumpcaretaker]

John Wick: *collapses under a blanket on a cold, hard floor*

Me: *hyperfixates violently*

That man on the right with the crazed look in his eyes? That's me. Ya'll don't understand. John pulled a blanket over himself onscreen in the actual movies. Like he had to get cozy because he was bleeding out and scared and definitely in shock. HE PULLED THE BLANKET. OVER HIMSELF. AAAAAAAAAAAA -

[befuddled-calico-whump]

some Lex comfort…if you will 😌

Wishful Thinking/Remember the Why

[whumpdaydreamerx]

An assassin Whumpee leaning against their car door after completing a job. Replaying what unfolded just moments before, having been ordered, threatened, to kill a family of five.

All at once, their resolve fractures as a thunderstorm breaks. Gun still in their gloved hand, they bring their palms up to rest on their eyes as they begin to sob. Whumpee slides down the car as they weep over what they’ve done. As they sit there huddled into themselves, soaked to their skin with rain, a switch flips.

Once they regain composure, they make a promise to themselves. From this moment forward, they vowed to do everything in their power to take down the organization they worked for. Save their threatened family, redeem themselves, and protect future targets.

[cepheusgalaxy]

the good boy prompt got me

Assassin/hired gun Whumpee prompts :)

Because sm of you asked about the assassin Whumpee/guard dog Whumpee prompts from my physical position whump post (which I now know are called stress positions, thank you to the person in the comments of that post), I’ve decided to make a list of just assassin themed prompts :) Enjoy <3

NON CON TOUCHING, VIOLENT/HUMILIATING LANGUAGE, HUMILIATION IN GENERAL, PHYSICAL ABUSE, SORT OF IMPLIED SA? ITS NOT MENTIONED OR ALLUDED TO VERY CLEARLY, BUT IT CAN BE DEDUCED FROM THE DESCRIPTIONS OF WHUMPEE’S INJURIES.

Note the running theme of possessive Whumper ;)

“You can’t. It’s gone too far, Whumper; don’t do this.” Whumpee protests, shaking his head. His voice is firm but his mind is racing; he’s never questioned his boss’ orders quite so blatantly before. Whumper’s expression is blank for a millisecond, before his face splits into a twisted grin. “You think I need your permission, Whumpee?” He laughs. It’s the kind of laugh that makes Whumpee’s every instinct scream at him to either turn tail or blast Whumper to kingdom come. He knows better than to try either. “I f*%#$ing own you.” The mirth in Whumper’s face drains away, is replaced by low, simmering fury. He grabs Whumpee by his throat, forcing out of him an involuntary gasp, and rubs his thumb over his pulse point. "You’re nothing- not even a person, really. Just a bloody gun.“ Whumpee tries his best to look indignant, fails, ends up looking pathetically hurt instead. Whumper doesn’t care, tightens his hold around his neck in response. "And don’t you f%#@&ing forget it.”

Assassin Whumpee who’s bruised and battered; a direct result of Whumper; not any mission gone awry. He stands behind Whumper while he negotiates with the buyer, exuding charisma, control- dominance. He’s the perfect opposite of Whumpee. A soft shuffling sound catches his attention. One of the buyer’s armed guards, a ways away, has his eyes set on him. But not his face, or his gun - his neck. His neck, where Whumper’s hand prints are plain against his skin, where Whumper had pulled down his collar far enough to reveal his initials, his brand, burned into him. Where Whumper’s bite marks are starting to turn a horrible greyish-purple. Somehow, ever omnipotent, Whumper half glances back at Whumpee, smirks. Whumpee’s face burns red. He planned this. He fixes the guard with a glare. God, now Whumpee’s actually praying for the deal to go bad.

A dog tired Whumpee who’s been awake for days, running point on missions for Whumper non-stop. He can’t take it anymore. “Please.” He murmurs reluctantly, ashamed to admit he’s finally reached his limit. “I need to sleep.” Whumper, who’s back had been facing Whumpee, straightens up, slowly turns around. There’s a fire in his eyes that makes Whumpee’s mouth run dry. “Do you?” He closes the gap between them, grabs the front of Whumpee’s shirt to pull his head down. Whumper’s other hand reaches into Whumpee’s back pocket, fingers wrap around the handle of his pistol. Whumpee feels the muzzle pressed into his temple. “What you need is to put a bullet in your next target.” Whumper clicks the safety off and Whumpee shudders. “Or I’ll put one in you.”

Crime lord Whumper is leant back against the front of his heavy, mahogany desk, long legs crossed at the ankles and stretched out in front of him. His weight is braced on his arms; shirt rolled up to his elbows and fingers curled around the edge of the desk. He tilts his head playfully, watches as an emotionally and physically drained Whumpee lowers himself onto his knees just by his feet. “Sir.” He murmurs hollowly, head hung low. “It’s done.” Whumper’s grin widens, eyes light up. “Good boy.” And despite himself, something in Whumpee keens.

A Whumper who has Caretaker captured, bound to a chair. A Whumper who has his Whumpee dutifully knelt at his feet, facing his friend, but his eyes are fixed on the ground. “You wouldn’t believe how obedient this one is, Caretaker. How eager to please. He follows orders remarkably well.” Whumpee looks up at him, shakes his head in a frantic, desperate way. He’s begging. Begging to preserve his dignity; The person he was before all of this. The person he still is to Caretaker. Whumper smiles. “You should sit in on some of his missions, watch the way he kills, the way he tortures.” He inhales sharply. “It’s almost artistic.” Caretaker looks at Whumpee; shock, pity and more than a little badly concealed disgust plain in his eyes. Whumpee is humiliated. Whumper is exuberant.

Some fun dialogue ⬇️ ;)

The slimy business man eyes Whumpee predatorily. “You’ve got a helluva gunman there. How much for his services?” Whumper’s face darkens. “He’s not for sale.” Whumpee smiles bitterly. Whumper’s not exactly in the habit of sharing.

“Pretty dog,” the man jerks his head in Whumpee’s direction. “Does it bite?” It’s a thinly veiled question. Whumper smiles like a shark, all teeth, and raises an eyebrow. “Only when it’s told.”

“Please don’t make me do this. I- I’m begging you.” Whumpee says softly, watching his friend’s movements down the scope of his rifle. Whumper lowers himself down, lips by his ears. When he speaks, it sends a thrum of electricity through Whumpee’s body. “Take the f%#@&ing shot.”

“But I - I failed you.” Whumpee frowns, shaking his head. Whumper gives him a smile. He rolls one of the bloodied bodies on the floor over to it’s front. “I wouldn’t say so.”

Whumpee hisses as Whumper presses a little too hard on one of his wounds. Whumper gives him a humoured smile in leiu of an apology - not that Whumpee was expecting one anyway. The whole ’tending to his injuries’ thing is out of character enough. “You’re pretty like this.” Whumper hums, presses down hard with the guaze again. Whumpee squeezes his eyes shut, pain making his head turn. “Then why are you helping me?” He bites out, gasping as Whumpee’s gloved fingers dig into his wound. Whumper’s eyes twinkle, corners of his mouth quirking upwards. “Can’t play with a broken toy.”

Whump is such a big part of my life guys I be listening to a song and think “hm, what a pleasant song to torture one of my characters to.” I think it’s bad too because they ain’t even sad songs they just sound like something my whumper would hurt someone to idk 💀.

[whumperofworlds]

"Can I help you, Whumpee?"

*holds up a drink* "This is poison, Whumper! Please drink it!"

"...My, this is certainly an honest assassination attempt, Whumpee..."

[jordanstrophe]

Abandoned whumpee: Final 1/2

CW: Betrayal, team whump, whumper turned caretaker, assassination attempt, hurt/comfort, annggsst

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

Whumper watched over whumpee all throughout the night. Whumpee would wake up, not remember where they were, then struggle until whumper soothed them back asleep.

Whumper knew the sleepless nights would catch up with them eventually. They downed a tall cup of coffee, hoping to stay awake until morning...

------

Whumpee woke up that morning staring wide-eyed at whumper fast asleep on the bed with them. "Hey." Whumpee spoke, testfully poked whumper's arm. They groaned, but remained out cold.

Whumpee climbed over them and touched their bare foot to the floor, they immediately felt something cold as they flinched. There was spilt coffee at the foot of the bed along with an assortment of papers. They were badly stained, any information whumpee could have gleaned were long gone.

A silver key was dangling from whumper's pocket. If whumpee couldn't find information here, then there would be something elsewhere.

They clutched the key and snuck out of the infirmary. There were guards patrolling the halls as whumpee ducked around the corner. They let the guards pass, before slipping into the hall behind them. Whumpee tried every door they passed, all locked tight and the key fit none of them.

There was one last engraved door at the end of the hall. Whumpee heard the guards coming back around as they trembled and kept missing the keyhole. There was a silent *click* as the door swung open. Whumpee jumped in and shut the door behind them, taking a deep sigh of relief.

They stood in what seemed to be whumper's office; a large wooden desk, walls adorned with weapons, massive bookshelves. Everything whumpee expected whumper's office to look like, really.

They turned on a lamp and rooted through the desk. There were moundfuls of documents detailing whumpee's team. There were things here whumpee didn't even know... Things they weren't classified to know. They were told whumper was a murderer, someone who killed on sight; they took no prisoners and mercy was unheard of.

"Then why did you save me?" Whumpee whispered, looking at a framed picture of whumper proudly standing with their team. "Why capture me for intel if you had it already?"

In the depths of a drawer, whumpee found a roughly bound journal. It was branded with whumpee's team logo. They recognized it; each team carried one to document missions. Even whumpee had their own, though this one looked ancient...

They opened the first page before suddenly, the door opened and the lights flashed on. Whumpee gasped and dropped the book, frozen as they looked up like a deer in headlights. The person staring back had the very same expression. Horror, adrenaline, confusion.

-It was one of whumpee's teammates, dressed darkly and hooded as they took an astonished step towards whumpee.

"Whumpee? You're alive?" They whispered. "How? We thought they killed you." They gasped. Whumpee covered their mouth and clambered back to their feet. They were flooded with relief seeing a friendly face. They tried to figure out how to say a million words in a single breath.

"It's a long story-" Whumpee heaved, "I've been kept here by whumper, I got hurt in the attack and I-I was bleeding out and I was-" Whumpee trailed off with a flicker of doubt. They knew their team would think whumpee betrayed them if they were found alive in whumper's custody. The amount of intel that could be tortured out of them...

"I wouldn't believe it if I wasn't looking right at you." Their teammate filled in the silence, taking a step closer. "To think all this time, you survived..."

They didn't sound happy. Both of their eyes dropped to the journal between their feet, branded with their symbol.

"Ah, I see... So you found it." Their teammate stared.

"Found what? What have you not told me?" Whumpee demanded.

They crouched down to pick up the book, as they heard a *sswick* of a blade being unsheathed. Whumpee stopped in their tracks. They slowly looked up and stared into the tip of a blade and the eyes of someone who was no ally.

"I really am sorry." Their teammate whispered softly. "But you died that day, whumpee. It has to stay that way, for the good of all of us. You understand, don't you?" They took a step closer as whumpee snatched the book in their arms and backed away.

"Oh, come on, don't make this difficult. You've died once for us already. You can do it one more time, can't you?" They tilted their head.

"Can't I know why?" Whumpee's voice broke as their back hit the wall. "I- I didn't give you up, I didn't tell whumper anything. They weren't even what I thought they were... They weren't what you told me!" Whumpee suddenly shouted.

"I'm sure you didn't, you were always loyal. But it was never about that."

The blade came to their throat as whumpee shuttered and closed their eyes. The sound of a blade piercing flesh, a hot splatter of blood hit their chest, yet they felt nothing but cold adrenaline.

There was hollow silence. Whumpee opened their eyes, their teammate's face was blank as they sunk to the floor on their knees. Their silhouette was replaced by whumper, holding a dripping blade with a look of pure hatred.

"They dare set foot in my house!?" Whumper shouted. Their eyes suddenly darted to whumpee, who flinched. Their back was to the corner, face stained with blood, they trembled while hugging the journal to their chest.

"How did you get- ... No, one thing at a time." Whumper stopped themselves, putting the blade out of sight. "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?" They asked instead, nudging the corpse off their feet.

"I'm- ... I'm not hurt." Whumpee responded rapidly, trying not to show they were gasping for breath. "They were going to k-kill me." Whumpee touched their fingers to their chest where their teammates blood was splattered. "And you just... S-saved my life..."

"As much as I want to gloat and say I told you so- I'm just glad I got here when I did. Come with me, let's get you changed and we'll talk." Whumper held out their hand.

To be continued, 2/2

[Previous] - [Masterlist] - [Next]

@parasitebunny @starzabove @frog-hat-fa-ggot @morning-star-whump @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog @mommymarichatfurever​  @isita-torrrres @tobiaslut @anonintrovert @sausages-things

[blackrosesandwhump]

Whump Prompt 143

Write something inspired by this scene:

The autumn day is beautiful and cool. For just a few minutes, whumpee can almost imagine that he's free.

But then it happens. The change begins, and his control, his mind, start to slip away.

"Please no...not now...this can't be happening n—"

Transformed into the living weapon that he is, whumpee can only think of two things: his target's face, and a single word that pulses through him: destroy.

[abhainnwhump]

I will never turn down a Whumper going out to assassinate Whumpee, only to realize they're too sweet and/or pretty and they can't do it, falling in love with Whumpee instead. They know their boss is going to probably kill them, but they refuse to harm, much less kill Whumpee. They don't deserve it.

[whumperoni-and-wheeze]

[A] and [B] are career assassins. [A] is mortally wounded during a hit, [B] agrees to drive them to the hospital and leave them there. [B] is bad at comforting [A] and barely fighting hysterics, instead just repeating the same lines with increasing desperation:

"I swear to God, [A], you're not gonna die."

"You're gonna be fine bud, just stay with me, it's just a few miles."

"How're you doing back there?"

"Tell me what's happening [A]"

"I'm not gonna live with myself if you die back there [A]."

(Bonus points if [C] and [B] keep yelling back and forth while [A] bleeds out.)

"Step on it [B] we're losin 'em!"

"Shut the FUCK up, I'm gettin us there!"

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Asking

(Masterlist)

delta asks for something (yay!)

its not good (noooo!!!!)

set in between the massacre at lemuria and the assassination attempt at thales. brief but critical period in which delta is starting to have doubts and paris is (relatively) chilled out.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, mass death, descriptions of gore, nightmares, guilt, self loathing, attempted self harm, implied physical abuse, verbal abuse, comfort???)

===================

It had been a glorious day for Empire — and an exceptionally terrible day for Delta. It was not that today’s attack had been particularly brutal or challenging. It was practically indistinguishable from the others he’d carried out this month. It had gone smoothly.

It was the second sight that had gone haywire. It did that sometimes. Delta’s powers had always been unpredictable to a certain extent — not in their output, but in the way they affected him. The more he fixated on what he did not want to happen, the more likely it would. Today had been one of those times. As soon as the collar clicked off, he was able to see. Truly see, not just with the strange psychic feelers and the sixth sense they gave him. He could see everything in the target radius. From a mile away, he could see straight inside the planetary base. He got a very good look at the lives he was about to destroy. He was forced to keep looking for as long as the collar was off. He watched as their skin curled up and crisped from the heat of the blast, watched as their blood boiled, watched as it all gave way to dust. 

He’d crashed out as soon as it was over. It wasn’t dignified; he’d fallen asleep right in the transit. It was emotional exhaustion more than it was the typical psychic fatigue. Still, his handlers had allowed him to sleep it off for the rest of the day. It was a small reward for having executed the kill so cleanly. He gratefully accepted, climbing back into bed at the first opportunity. 

They were some of the worst nightmares Delta had ever had. He woke up drenched, unable to bring his own breathing back under control. He stumbled into the shower. The cold water helped to pull him out of the half-asleep state, but did nothing to remove the deep dread in his chest. He still saw it every time he closed his eyes. His own violence. His own power. His.

There was no chance of falling back asleep. He redressed in loose clothing, still desperate to cool down. He’d need to change the sheets at some point; they were still slick with sweat and occasionally blood. He didn’t have the energy to do it just yet. He stumbled out of his room, relieved to find the common areas of the ship mostly empty. It was a week night. 

He leaned his head against one of the ship’s large windows. There were no planets clearly visible. Just stars. He always preferred it that way. 

He needed to do something about it. Guilt was such a fresh emotion to him, newer than even empathy had been. It hurt so severely he almost couldn’t breathe. Not as bad as it would hurt to burn or to boil or to evaporate, to have your limbs severed and cauterized, to die fast or die slow. No, Delta would never hurt the way they did. He’d never even get close. 

He had only been free roaming, without any particular destination in mind. The Thorn was large enough to allow for that kind of thing. Still, his thoughts drifted darker, and his body seemed to accommodate them without any conscious effort on his part. Or maybe it was just muscle memory.

He knocked softly.

“Whaaaaaat?” Paris’s voice came through the door, already annoyed.

Delta slowly pushed it open, sliding through the gap. Paris was still up. To Delta’s surprise, he was sober. The morning’s hangover had been worse than usual; it must have had some kind of tempering influence. Paris glanced up from the computer screen.

“Oh. What do you want?” Paris leaned back in the chair, seeming to relax a little. Delta hesitated at the threshold. He pushed the door shut, starting to cross the room.

“Stop,” Paris said. When Delta stilled, he spoke again, “What is it?”

Delta’s voice came out low, totally inaudible. He hadn’t meant it too. He’d just frozen up.

“I can’t hear you,” Paris rolled his eyes, clearly losing his patience.

“Can you hit me?” Delta repeated.

Paris’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, gesturing to the spot on the carpet beside his chair. Delta moved to kneel. He was pretty sure an indentation was forming there.

“What did you do?” Paris’s tone was heavy with suspicion, not a small amount of worry. Delta lost his voice again, totally lost his nerve. He knew what he had done. Killed, again. The men and the women and the children and the animals. The soil that would never grow life again. A thousand times over.

“Delta, what did you do?” Paris gripped his hair, pulling his head back to force eye contact. His voice had an edge of panic to it. He was expecting the worst. Delta winced. This was a stupid idea.

“Nothing. I’m sorry.” Delta said. He bit down on his tongue, keeping himself from what he’d wanted to say. Do you really need a reason?

Paris released his grip on his hair, letting Delta’s head fall back into a bow. He made a small, irritated sound.

“Can you stop wasting my fucking time?” He turned back to the computer. The panic left him. He believed it was nothing; Delta so rarely lied.

Delta stayed kneeling, keenly aware that Paris had not told him to leave. Minutes passed with only the sound of the keyboard’s clicking filling the room. Delta had to make a concentrated effort not to start crying. There wasn’t any release, nothing redemptive. He didn’t want to be hurt. He couldn’t stand the thought of it not happening. He was so tired.

It was a stupid idea. He pressed his forehead against Paris’s knee. The typing stopped. There was no sound at all for several seconds.

“God, you’re the fucking worst. You know that?” Paris’s hand touched against his hair again. It was much gentler this time. He brushed it back, smoothing out the mess from where he’d just disturbed it.

“I know,” Delta agreed for his own secret reasons.

The typing started up again, much slower this time. It had to be one-handed. The other pet through Delta’s hair — absent, soft, clumsy — as if touch was foreign to it.

[whumpwillow]

Assassin whumpee where they are expected to do perfect and are just pulled in by whumper’s words of praise and manipulation. Because after what they’ve done, who else would love them?

oh yeahhh i love me some assassin whumpees with guilt complexes

[thewhumpcaretaker]

The Broken Veil: Sneak Peak of Chapter 1

I will hopefully be releasing this fic (my first ever released) on AO3 soon, but I'm waiting for my account invite, so enjoy this preview in the meantime. This will be a highly indulgent 18+ fic focused on whump, hurt/comfort, and dacryphilia. TWs for this chapter: grief, crying, nightmare

Summary: John Wick has just agreed to kill Santino’s sister, Gianna, repaying the marker that gave him a life with Helen. However, Helen is trying to contact John from the afterlife, to show him that it is possible to stop the cycle of violence – not by forfeiting his own life, but by creating a fundamental shift in international systems and perhaps even the balance of good and evil in this world. But he doesn’t have to do it alone. She’s coming back.

Autumn evening in New York reels between gold and grey. A pale white sky bruises over with grey smog. Even the sky is beaten in New York, and yet even the sky sparkles. Golden streetlamps and distant red flashes hang as earthly stars between the glassy black voids of skyscraper walls. Airport whiskey sparkles amber in John Wick’s grasp, and his inward body buzzes faintly against its motionless exterior. Not drunk, not tipsy, not that it would matter. He knows himself drunk, drugged, tired, bleeding, the way the machine of his body handles in every state.

On the street below, a child in a woolen pea coat grabs onto his mother’s hand as they step up into the queue to check luggage. From the bar, John can’t see their faces, only the knit caps crowning both their heads. The boy has a backpack as his carry-on, and it’s too large for him. He shifts uncomfortably. At his movement, the mother fusses and leans down to adjust it. John’s eyes are fixed on her. They begin walking again and the child, excited by something on the far side of the taxi line, dashes towards oncoming traffic.  She pulls the little boy back from the street as a car swings recklessly close to the curb. John flinches away from the scene. It was hardly a close call – the kid had a long way to go before reaching the road, and even then, no doubt the car could have swerved at that speed. But it’s the sentiment of the thing, her tenderness…another swig of whiskey so he can’t finish the thought, and he turns from the window.

Drifting, playing the businessman without effort, scanning the crowd, uneasy with this moment of peace between wars. Stay in the moment anyway. Black wingtips clicking too crisply on grimy tile.  A glimpse of his reflection in the storefront of a candy shop, an impeccable mask. First class is boarding at JFK Gate 11, direct to Rome. No threats among the passengers – not that he expected any, but an enclosed box in the sky is a bad place to run into an enemy. It’s an opportunity he’s exploited himself in the past. A cordial smile to the flight attendant.

Now there is no more moment to stay in. Only the trans-Atlantic stretch of night, brutally alone.

He doesn’t want to be here. He knows how the machine of his body handles in every state, and right now he handles it by tricking it into doing what it’s ordered to do. Don’t think about doing anything, don’t think about killing. Just sit still, stare straight ahead, and don’t talk yourself out of this job. The job right now is to stare at the blinking light on the wing of the plane and not move, that’s all.  He remembers Gianna in their youth. She didn’t want to be a part of all this. She never had much in common with Santino. His ruthlessness, sure, but it was in service of something other than a desperate grasp for authority. She lived her life her way, pursued pleasure quietly between business, on her own terms. Don’t think about it. He thinks about how to do it instead. It’ll be right to give her a moment to face her death. Worth the risk. He owes her that much. Or is that the body rebelling again? Don’t think about it at all. Go to sleep.

He leans back and shuts himself down.

***

He’s making coffee for Helen. The bag crinkles as he scoops rich grounds into the machine. This feels so vivid, he can even smell it. He freezes. Feels vivid…this isn’t real. Lucid dream. They are always so fragile, they don’t have much time. Where is she?  Movement, out of the corner of his eye. Between the kitchen curtains, he can see her outside in the garden, her back to him. The way her hair falls above the cotton of a simple sundress, the way it just touches her shoulders…she is before him, he is ready to do anything to get to her. “Helen!”

She turns towards him and her face flares with a mirror of his own desperation. She points to the front door and disappears to the left, and he runs to meet her. There is a strange vastness to the entryway, he can’t reach the far end, but the door is already open. Only the screen is locked, and she’s trying the latch, silhouetted in light. He can feel his racing pulse all the way through his wrists now. She’s looking at him with so much urgency, his heart rattles almost sickeningly with each test of the latch and she’s saying over and over, “Rome, John, Rome! The moment is coming. Let me in.”

***

When he gasps awake, his lungs are already heavy with tears. There’s something darkly gorgeous about the disoriented longing still raging through him like an adrenaline shot and he lets it linger. Hope.

It takes him several minutes to even become irritated with that final twist. A play on words, a stupid, too-obvious, unoriginal trick of the unconscious, lacking the elegance she deserves. “Home, John, home. The moment is coming. Let me in.” If I ever can, I always will. Believe me. But I can’t. He crushes a sob against his rib cage with a deep inhale, swallows, and buries his face in his hands for a moment. Don’t even go there, don’t even imagine the impossible. Then he watches the sun make sheens of silver over the jagged European coastline, still basking in the memory of how she fought to reach him.

***

From the edge of the finite, a form withdraws, regathering strength but burning with the lingering sight of him.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Is It Enough? (Tower: Day 99)

for Angstpril, Day 19: Breaking Down

cw: imprisonment, beating, strangulation, vague noncon implications

prev ///// masterlist ///// next

•×•×•

"See to it he never does this again."

The command, spat at the guards, was the last thing Alexei heard before they threw him back into his cell, ears still ringing from the punch he'd taken. The door locked, and for a while it was quiet. In the cell, in the hall. Quiet everywhere but in his head.

The dread building inside him was so potent he was sure he'd be sick, and try as he might, he couldn't direct his thoughts away from it.

Cold blue of a clear sky—

(What are they going to do?)

Flaking rust, crumbled iron—

(What are they going to do to me?)

Clear, cheer, deer, fear, gear, hear—

(What are they going to do to me?)

He'd been stupid. He wasn't going to pretend otherwise. The city council had been invited on a tour of the prison, something about securing funding, or acquiring votes for a new bill. Wade had told Lex about it beforehand as he hosed him down, forced a comb through his hair, a toothbrush into his mouth.

"Even the mayor will be there. Be good, or else."

They'd unchained him from the wall and had him stand in the doorway, flanked by two guards. The warden had thought he was helpless. Half-starved and wearing power dampeners and missing his fucking arms. His mistake.

When one of the council members had reached out to touch him, like a child on a double dare, Lex had fought past the dampeners, focusing until he thought his very blood would boil, and set her expensive silk blazer on fire.

 And now he was about to find out exactly what 'or else' meant.

The cell door opened before long, guard after guard pouring into the small space. Lex knew what was coming; he curled into a ball and ignored them, waiting for the blows to start flying. And when they inevitably did, he tried to find a poem, or even a rhyme to cling to, make it all more bearable, but every boot in the gut only served to scatter his thoughts, and in the end, he was resolved to simply waiting for it to end.

The beating was the worst one he'd taken since coming here, leaving his body shuddering, blood oozing from his lips, breath coming in short wheezes—he'd felt several ribs crack during the assault.

The voices above him were fuzzy. He didn't care. He didn't need to know what the guards were going on about—

"But is it enough?"

That pulled his attention, shoving him into a cold-blooded clarity, words sharp enough to cut into his skull.

"What do you mean, 'is it enough'? Look at him."

"They get beaten all the fucking time. Lopez said—"

"What do you suggest? We're not supposed to do permanent damage."

"That's what the healer's for."

The conversation was quickly turning to argument, and the words were bleeding together. He could only catch scraps.

"...strung up." (Shut up)

"Nothing to tie on…" (Bygone)

"...in the break room." (Doom, plume)

An arm curled around his torso, pressure on newly-cracked ribs, and he bit back a whimper as more hands latched onto him and lifted his body. His instincts screamed at him to fight back, but it hurt to move. He could only hang there limply as they carried him out of the cell and down the hall. Going where? Why? (Cry, pie, lie, die.)

Movement stopped, a switch was flicked on, and Lex squinted as bright light flooded his vision. He could hear garbled words from a TV, music coming faintly from a radio, the slight squeak of boots on the floor.

Break room.

"Stand him up!" one of the guards called. Lex blinked away the spots in his vision, letting his eyes adjust to the fluorescent lights. As he did, he saw that the guard's number had dwindled down to three.

"I don't know if he can—"

"Well he'll remember to really fucking fast."

Hands held him up on either side, and something was looped around his throat, pulled tight against flesh and knotted. (Spotted, clotted, dotted, no no no—)

He was vaguely aware of the other end of the thing around his neck being tossed high, over a metal ceiling beam, and caught, yanked.

Lex's body jerked as it cinched on his throat, and he choked, trying to take in air, finding he couldn't unless he stood perfectly straight, and even then it was only barely. All his body wanted to do was curl in on itself, and his ribs throbbed as he tried to hold position, closing his eyes against the harsh lights. 

"Fucking hell man, this is gonna kill him."

"He passes out, you let him down. Hand me the whip."

"You sure we're allowed to touch it? Rentals—"

"Rentals won't give a shit as long as we return it clean."

A whistling sound pierced the air, followed by a sharp slap across his back. Lex arched forward reflexively, cutting off his own air with the movement.

"Dude. That was weak as shit, let me try."

Lex braced himself, but it wasn't enough. The whip cracked as it hit the air this time, striking him on the shoulders. Another was right on its heels, lighting a line of fire that ran parallel to his spine.

With every blow, it was getting harder to hold himself up, to keep breathing. It was only the fear that kept him awake, that animal terror that struck him when he couldn't reach the air.

A strike cut across several marks at once, and Lex cried out, his knees buckling.

"Maybe we should stop—"

"He's fine."

He managed to get to his feet, gasping, tears streaming down his cheeks. Wasn't it enough? How could this not be enough?

The next lash pulled a scream from him, cut off rapidly as he stumbled and the rope closed his throat. He didn't even have the energy to hold back a strangled sob. How could this not be fucking enough?

Another strike, and he lost his footing, the pressure on his windpipe crushing, legs shaking and useless and failing.

"For God's sake."

The rope suddenly went slack, and he crumpled, gasping, unable to choke down the whimpers that came crawling up his throat.

"Jeez, David. Buzzkill much?"

"I'm not losing my fucking job for your entertainment."

The linoleum floor was cool on his face, and Lex clung to the feeling, trying to focus on anything other than how much it all hurt.

"He literally tried to kill Senator Collins. He should count himself lucky right now."

"Lucky? He's practically dying at your feet."

"Yeah, we're supposed to ensure this never happens again. Gotta make sure he never forgets." Lex heard fabric shuffling above him, the faint click of metal on metal.

"Fucking hell, dude,"

"No one's making you stay and watch."

"He's already had the shit beat outta him."

Another sob escaped Lex. They were done now, right? Fuck, he'd hoped they were done, they had to be done—

"But is it enough?"

•×•×•

@whumpacabra @enteredin2eternity @kixngiggles @whumpsday @kiichu @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @shywhumpauthor @distinctlywhumpthing