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forwhump · 19 days ago

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a/n; in case you wanted some batshit story advancement 😛 & point pov !!

tw/cw: rape, noncon, transphobia, misgendering, dehumanization, beheading, skinning, repeated major character death, captivity, guns, attempted forced impregnation, humiliation, kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence, mentions of medical torture, mentions of beastiality

creepy whumper, really emotionally unwell whumper, living weapon whumpee

Point urges the girl beneath his desk to keep moving with a hand to the back of her head and watches, irritated, as the freak experiment turns itself sideways to fit through the wreckage of his office doorway.

Fuck, it’s big. His men had talked about it, to him and amongst themselves — the district’s new prized possession, the meat Weaver’s oh so proud of, big and deadly. Point is a good fuckin’ soldier and a great fuckin’ captain, without the help of steroids and fuckin’ mad scientists. He didn’t care about the freak and he didn’t care to marvel about it. He didn’t flock to the gallows to watch its field tests the way some of them did; he didn’t watch them from behind the safety of the security cameras like some of the others.

They’re all afraid of it. Point has thought, until now, that it was weakness, and he’d been embarrassed for them. But he’d only only met it once, and it had been on its knees, bound and prone. Even on its knees, it had been taller than him, but Point still hadn’t grasped how big the thing was, not truly.

Not until now. Not until he has to look up, up, up at it, head angled almost all the way back. It isn’t weakness that have his men so afraid of it; it’s loathsome. It looks like the maniac from an old slasher movie, dripping red, hair plastered to its face and the sides of its throat. Nobody had raised an alarm, which means they hadn’t had the time. It hadn’t given them the time.

“What?” Point asks. He keeps his voice flat and his eyes hooded.

It cracks its neck and says, “you have something that belongs to me.”

Beneath his desk, the girl tenses. Point can feel the warmth of her breath as she exhales, “Silas?”

Something folds in the freak’s face, something that Point would never admit makes the back of his neck start to prickle with cold. It looks at him like he’s prey, and it’s convincing. Point almost believes it.

He threads his fingers through the girl’s hair, pushes his dick into her throat to keep her quiet, and raises both his eyebrows. “The girl?” He asks, skeptical, because her mouth is so warm it pulls focus from the cold at the nape of his neck. It’s such nonsense that he rumbles with laughter and the girl chokes in his lap. “Fuck you, you’ve got a thing for the girl.”

Like she would be worth all this fuckin’ trouble — like she would be worth any trouble at all. Really. He laughs and it’s in good humour.

But the freak isn’t kidding. The freak is dead fuckin’ serious. It takes a step closer and Point isn’t laughing anymore.

He quickly lifts his other hand. He points his cherished handgun. “Fuck you,” he repeats slowly. “You’ve got a thing for the girl.”

It’s fuckin’ serious. It’s standing here, making a mess of Point’s office, after having massacred Point’s men, and for what? For what? “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he says, even though he knows it isn’t. “She’s a whore,” he tells it. “We found her on the floor of a crack house”

The thing tilts its head and it looks like a nightmare. “He’s mine.”

There’s something so definitive in its voice that Point forgets all about being cold. It sounds so sure, so smug that it stokes something under his skin that makes his blood boil. “She’s mine,” he snaps, and puts a bullet in the freak’s brain.

The sound is like a crack of thunder and the girl chokes again beneath his desk, panicked. She tries to pull away but Point fists a hand in her hair, keeps her still, and watches the freak wipe blood from the bullet hole between its eyes with the back of one hand.

It stays standing. It stays on its feet. It looks right at Point and it grins with all its teeth. It has dimples, and for some reason that could almost make Point vomit. It’s the most grotesque part of the whole disgusting patchwork. “Gonna have to do better than that,” it says, and it has the low, distorted voice of a monster.

Point roars in frustration. He has to empty his gun into the thing’s face before it finally stops coming for him.

Under his desk, the girl trembles with crying, and Point pushes himself back with a boot to the side of it to look down at her. He almost softens; she really is such a pretty little thing. Her mouth is swollen and her eyelashes are clumped together, sad and scared. It doesn’t cool Point’s blood by any means but it’s a heat he more enjoys. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for the freak,” he warns, and pulls her up by the throat.

He bends her over the desk so she has an unrestricted view of the meat, dead and cooling on the concrete. There’s so much blood the room smells too rich of it. The girl cries, trembling beneath him, pleading, shrieking, fighting, and it almost makes all the commotion worth it.

He forgets about the freak sack of meat. There’s a blissful time, before it’s constantly a problem, that Point is able to forget about the freak. That it doesn’t haunt his every waking moment, or any of the sleeping ones, either. There’s a blissful time that Point can still look at the girl and not think about that fuckin’ thing.

Then they move it formally into his unit. It’s assigned to his care.

He trusts her, too, that’s where he fucks up. She’s usually a good girl; it had taken a lot of time and a lot of discipline, but Point had trained her well. She’s usually on her best behaviour. She screams and she fights still, sometimes, but that’s because she’s such a spirited little thing. It’s been fun trying to break that.

When he’s done with her, he leaves her on the floor of the common room, because he was decent enough to even bring her back. She’s still conscious, but just barely, whimpering and pliant, and it’s one of the ways Point likes her best. It’s hard to let her go.

He shouldn’t’ve. He knew better.

But he had already fuckin’ killed the thing, sprayed the concrete walls of his office with its brains, fucked the girl in a pool of its blood after he’d fucked her over the desk, just to make extra sure they both really learned the lesson they needed to learn.

He gives them both too much credit, that’s where he fucks up. They aren’t smart, not at all, neither of them. They don’t learn. It doesn’t seem like they ever think very critically.

He leaves the girl on the floor of the common room, and he doesn’t think about the freak. Blissfully, he doesn’t think about the freak at all. Doesn’t consider him for a second. Sidles back to the barracks, sated, and lies down on sheets that are still wet, that smell enticingly like the girl. One of her socks had been kicked off in her struggle and Point thumbs over the damp argyle, pleased.

When the alarm is raised, when the lights start flickering red, he still doesn’t think of the freak, not right away. He sighs and pulls himself out of bed again, pulls his kit back on, thinks that one of the other losers in his unit found the girl and panicked. It wouldn’t be the first time.

He’s wrong, though. Still blissfully naive.

The alarm is a resounding panic and the lights all flash red and frantic. The freak is a silhouette from a nightmare, standing at the end of a long, empty corridor. He walks towards Point slowly, unhurried, and Point stands his ground, refuses to be intimidated by this sack of meat and steroids, but it’s a nightmare the way it stalks closer to him, the way it gets bigger the closer it gets, disappearing into the shadows in the half seconds between panicked red light.

What the fuck? Point thinks, and exhales softly.

“What have you got there, big guy?” He asks.

It lifts its right hand, and the whole thing is so surreal that for a second, Point just stares, he doesn’t process.

Heads. It’s heads. The heads of Point’s men, men he had been with just hours ago, not cleanly severed but ripped off their shoulders with inhuman force. It has its fingers twisted in their bloody hair, and when Point looks back up into its face, it grins widely. It has a horrible grin. Too human.

“For Wren,” he says.

“What?” Point repeats. “The girl?”

It lifts its chin at him. “I just need one more.”

Point groans loudly, tipping his head back. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he says. “This is about the girl? Come on.”

It raises an eyebrow at him, almost impatient, and for some reason that makes Point start to prickle, heat blooming at the nape of his neck.

“You’re a fuckin’ disgusting eye sore,” Point says. “A real ugly piece of shit, right? But she’s a whore. She’s easy. She’ll fuck you, too. You don’t have to do all this bullshit to try and impress her.”

It tilts his head, and the way it moves is inhuman. Might have to do with the fuckin’ mass of it — how can anything that big move in a way that’s human? Is it even bigger than the last time Point killed it?

“I don’t like the way you talk about him,” it says, and that ignites a rage in Point that almost makes him shriek. What gives this fuckin’ thing the right —

“Boo fuckin’ hoo,” he snaps, and the only reason he doesn’t die in the corridor that day is because responding artillery finally finds the freak, and blows both his kneecaps out from behind.

He drops, roars like a wild animal. Drops the heads when he’s commanded, folds both his hands behind his own head. Doesn’t look away from Point once, and Point has to curl and uncurl his fists to try and burn off some of the simmering fury that stokes in him.

“Better luck next time, big guy,” he sneers.

But the freak grins. Dimples. Lifts his chin at Point. “Next time,” he agrees, and it sounds like a threat.

Point waits until the freak’s nose is to the concrete before he stomps down onto the back of his head with all his weight.

It doesn’t have the effect he wants it to have. He breaks the freak’s nose, but it rumbles with laughter beneath him, mocking.

He barely makes it back to the barracks before he finally shrieks in frustration.

“Please,” she whimpers. She looks especially pathetic. She’s wearing Point’s favourite gingham dress, on her knees, flushed with crying. Normally, this is how he likes her best, but it prickles at a nerve that makes it almost annoying.

His lip curls. “Look at you,” he says, and her shoulders hitch as she sobs. “How can you debase yourself like this for that thing?”

Her wrists are knotted together but in front of her, so she has her fingers twisted desperately into Point’s pants. It leaves a bitter taste in his mouth — normally, he’d love to have her like this. He never gets to have her like this. But it’s ruined, and it’s ruined because of that fuckin’ thing.

“Please,” she sobs. “It’s my fault, it’s my fault! Don’t hurt him.”

“I know it’s your fault,” Point sneers. “This is all your fault. Couldn’t keep your fuckin’ legs closed and now you’ve got a rabid guard dog.” Her touch is warm through his clothing and he wishes that was good enough. “And what happens to dogs once they start to bite, baby? What does animal conservation do for rabies? You’re smarter than this.”

Her hands are shaking but that isn’t good enough, either. “Please.”

The freak, her fuckin’ dog, it’s never been worth any of the trouble that follows it, any of the fanfare, the medical marvel, but it’s worth less now, twitching as it bleeds to death on the filthy concrete.

It just doesn’t know when to fuckin’ stop. Most of the skin had been stripped from his chest and his right arm. The left side of his throat had been torn out. A decent chunk of his scalp is hanging loose off his skull, and blood is pooling in every dip and crater of his face, pouring from his mouth as he coughs and sputters and vomits up more and more.

Still, it keeps trying to get up. Still, it keeps moving. It just won’t stay down.

He strikes her harder than he means to, knocks her to the ground in his frustration, and when she cries out, her ugly fuckin’ dog tries to pull its ugly, skinned corpse up from the pool of its blood, almost ankle deep.

“Silas,” she breathes, pushing herself up quickly. “Silas, don’t —“

“No,” Point interrupts, watching with wry amusement. “Let it try.”

She sobs, trying to grab his leg again but he pushes her away with the side of his boot.

“Look at it,” he tells her. “Is it really worth embarrassing yourself like this?”

She sobs again, pulling herself through its pooling blood on her hands and knees, ruining Point’s favourite dress with the remnants of that thing. “Silas,” she breathes quietly. “It’s okay. I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

Most of the dog’s throat is missing, and it can’t talk beyond low, wet rumbles of sound. Still, it lifts a hand from the concrete, its arm trembling with blood loss. Still, it cradles the girl’s cheek in its hand.

It’s disgusting, really. Point can’t even imagine the way that thing must smell. It smears blood across her soft skin, gets gore in her pretty hair. It trembles, and it’s too big, it’s grotesque, its hand is bigger than her delicate head and still, she leans into its touch. Still, she covers its disgusting hand with both of her own. She cries for it.

“Pathetic,” Point snaps.

She doesn’t look at him, she doesn’t take her hands off of it, and Point is across the floor in a second, wrenching her from its grip with a fist in her hair. She reaches for it, cries out, and it reaches back, stretching a shaking hand out across the concrete. Point crushes its elbow with his boot and all his weight, and the girl screams as it roars in pain.

Point rubs his heel into the broken chips of its bones and says, “any last words, mutt?”

The girl reaches up, tries to grab his hand, gasps, “please, Darren, please, don’t — don’t —“

The dog lifts its other hand from the ground, mostly skinned, flesh hanging from his bones in wet flaps. It lifts its middle finger, and Point roars in frustration. He empties his gun into the freak’s right eye, and only then, finally, does it stop moving.

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Point says softly, rubbing his mouth with a hand gloved in leather.

He looks between them, and it’s like seeing for the very first time, so many small details that it’s almost overwhelming, all of them high definition.

How many times have they done this? How many times do they have to do this, still? It swings wildly between moderately inconvenient and a blood bath, a slaughter of Point’s men. His numbers have been dwindling, and every recruit he brings on is too green, too scared of the freak, not quick enough to stop him. They’re dead almost as soon as they’re assigned to Point.

Point isn’t an idiot, but maybe he was too hopeful. Maybe he had too much faith in the girl. Maybe she’s more manipulative than Point ever gave her credit for. The dog is dumb, big and simple, mean and bloodthirsty, and the girl is pretty. Gentle. A whore. It hadn’t been hard to piece that puzzle together. She’s using the dog, taking advantage of it, fucking it into shape as her attack dog and it’s too dumb to know that’s what she’s doing, too dumb not to let itself be used.

Except he looks between them now, and he was wrong. He isn’t stupid, but they’re both so much stupider than he had ever thought they might be. The girl is so much stupider than Point ever would’ve thought. He looks at her, clinging to its corpse, its massive head in her lap. She keeps running her fingers through its hair as its body starts to rot before it’s even cooled and the water from the shower beats down around them both. It almost makes him sick. “You really love that fuckin’ thing.”

It had been sick for a while, a reaction to something the surgeons had given it that had to work its way through its system, eating away all its arteries and organs before they could start again with him, figure out where they went wrong. Point had allowed the girl to look after the thing, given her as much space as he could give her because he thought she was smarter than this. He thought, watching it rot, she’d finally see the freak for what it really is, for how much it doesn’t deserve even a glance from her direction. She might be stupid, but she’s better than this.

It makes his skin crawl. “You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” he repeats, a little more acidic. “The dog? You fell in love with your fuckin’ dog?”

She lifts her head to look up at him, her hair plastered against her face with the water, so light in colour it almost looks translucent. “Leave him alone,” she says, and he doesn’t like the way that she speaks to him, unafraid, almost flat. “He’s already dead.”

“It won’t be dead long enough,” Point says.

She doesn’t stop running her fingers through its hair. She cries for it. She mourns it.

Point spends the next three days frantically trying to fuck the apathy out of her, but it doesn’t work. She doesn’t stop mourning the dog until Point finally chokes her into unconsciousness.

“I want you to take her off her birth control,” he says.

Medic’s face doesn’t change. He looks at Point once, up and down, and says, “fuck no.”

Point fuckin’ hates Medic, and he’s constantly reminded why. He’s too belligerent for somebody whose life is in Point’s hands, and Point has never been known for being particularly careful. “I wasn’t asking.”

“Okay?” Medic says, and one of his eyebrows lifts, but just barely. “I said fuck no.”

Point can’t help it if his jaw twitches. He knows what Medic is up to — he knows he’s got a thing for the girl. He does this whole knight in shining armour thing to try and get to her, almost the same way the dog does. Pretend to be her hero, get into her pants. It’s bullshit — Point’s never pretended to be a hero and he’s in her pants more than any of them. They’re all wasting their time, and it fizzles under his skin that any of them think she would be worth all this fuckin’ trouble, that she’d be worth any of their lives at all.

She’s a whore. A legally dead, fuckable cut of meat. He found her on the floor of a crack house. Point saved her, really. Point rallied for her brother’s life — to keep her pliant, but he rallied all the same. He was supposed to have killed her on site — he saved her life. He saved her. She owes him her life and he owns her for it. All this wasted time and pretend chivalry is really starting to piss him off.

“You work for me,” Point reminds him through his teeth.

He kind of turns his mouth down, dismissive. “I work for the team,” he says. “I’m not your GP.”

“I think,” Point says, “maybe it’s time the team was assigned a new doctor.”

“Yeah?” Medic asks. “Just wait till the new guy finds out you’re harbouring biological contraband.” He raises his eyebrows, taunting. “And that you’re trying to get it pregnant.”

Point goes as far as to reach out to him before he manages to catch himself, straightening the collar of Medic’s black coat so he doesn’t strangle him to death on the floor of the medical wing, making eye contact the whole while. “She’s mine,” he says, “and I can do whatever I want to her. I don’t understand what you people aren’t understanding about that.”

Medic leans back slowly against his desk, folding his arms over his chest. He doesn’t like Point, either, and he’s never pretended otherwise, which Point just doesn’t like. The belligerence, the disrespect — when is enough enough? What does a guy have to do to be given the respect he deserves? That he’s earned? He’s their fuckin’ captain, for fuck’s sake. “Do you want my opinion?” Medic asks. “As a medical professional?”

“No.”

“I think you’re losing it, Point,” Medic tells him evenly. “I think you have been for a long time. I thought you snapped when you cracked his pelvis in half, but that was just the first sign something was wrong. You can’t keep going like this. You can’t keep treating a human being like this. Something’s gonna give. And it’s not gonna be Silas.”

“Silas?” Point repeats, temper spiking. “What the fuck does the dog have to do with any of this?”

“You’ve gone too far,” Medic warns. “They might have to put him down but he won’t go until he takes you with him. It’s up to you to decide how much it’s gonna hurt.”

“Fuck you,” Point snaps. “This has nothing do with the fuckin’ meat. It’s about the girl, and how her piece of shit GP is gonna take her off her birth control if he doesn’t wanna die like a fuckin’ dog.”

Medic exhales softly, shaking his head. “Fuck no,” he says.

Point leans down, gets into her face, and screams, “why?”

She flinches away from him as best she can, bound and gagged. Her eyes are huge, lashes clumped together with crying. Naked except for the argyle socks, pulled up over her knees. She looks especially pathetic and Point wants to enjoy it. He wishes he could enjoy it.

But it’s hard not to look into her and think about her fuckin’ dog. It’s ruined her. Point looks at her and it’s hard not to imagine its disgusting hands on her skin, the way she cries for it, the way she probably moans for it, too.

“WHY?!” He screams again, and it’s hard to even delight in the way she recoils, sobbing through the gag.

It isn’t fuckin’ fair. That disgusting fuckin’ patchwork dog. That failed fuckin’ experiment. That filthy fuckin’ sack of shit. It’s brutish and stupid and there’s always fuckin’ blood on its hands. And the girl happily opens her fuckin’ legs for it? She loves it? She lets it touch her and she touches it in turn, this fuckin’ freak that looks like an old movie monster.

He shouldn’t have to fuckin’ share her with it. It’s fuckin’ ridiculous.

“The fuckin’ dog?!” He shrieks, and he doesn’t mean to hit her, not really, but he can’t help it. He can’t look at her and not imagine the way she looks at that fuckin’ thing. “What does it have that I don’t have?! It’s a fuckin’ dog!”

He grabs her by the shoulders, tries to shake some sense into her. He spits in her face and the way she flinches does nothing for him. “You’re disgusting,” he spits. “You dog fucking whore. You disgust me. The fuckin’ dog,” and he groans so hard he can feel it in his fillings. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

She chokes out a sob beneath the gag, muffled, and Point grabs her around the throat to muffle her still. “That was rhetorical,” he spits. “I know what the fuck is wrong with you. You were a whore when I saved you and you’re a whore now. But dogs? You’ll even fuck dogs?”

He spits in her face again and her throat bobs beneath his hand. “I know what I have to do to fix you,” he tells her. “I know. I can make you settle down. You could settle down! You wouldn’t have to be scared all the time! Wouldn’t that be so nice, baby?” He coos at her, but the more he talks the quicker he talks, increasingly frantic, the harder he grips her throat. “Wouldn’t it be so nice not to be so scared? No more violence, no more crying. You wouldn’t have to worry about your creepy male delusions. We could set you up in a nice little room off my office,” he coos. “You’d be safe there. You wouldn’t have to be scared. You could take care of our babies. Don’t you think we’d make such beautiful babies?”

Her shoulders shake as she sobs beneath him, her face flush with Point’s grip around her neck. “But no,” he spits again, fever spiking. “You’d rather fuck dogs, wouldn’t you? What the fuck?!” He leans in closer to scream in frustration. “Stupid bitch. What the fuck? You’d let the dog knock you up, wouldn’t you? Bet you’d give it a fuckin’ litter. Why not me?! What the fuck?!”

He squeezes her around the throat tighter than he means to and screams again once he realizes she lost consciousness.

He turns her over so he doesn’t have to look at her face as he pushes her bare thighs apart. He really fuckin’ hates her sometimes.

He has a vision of her on a farm.

He thinks it’s the accent that brings it out in him, because he’s never dreamed about living on a farm before, but he looks at this girl, soft and sweet, young and blonde, and he wants her barefoot and pregnant on a farm somewhere, and he wants it so bad he dreams of it and his dreams are so vivid he could almost convince himself they’re memories from another life. He wants her in a short, pleated dress with an apron. He wants the little farm girl braids and he wants in her cowboy boots. No panties, because he wants her free use.

They’d be happy. Point knows they would.

The life he’d built with his wife was a lie, because he didn’t know yet what he really wanted, he hadn’t yet met this girl. He’s never been so stupid about a girl before — he’s never yearned. He’s never felt like this.

He thinks about miles of lush grass and big, open sky and looking up at it, framing the girl as she rides him. He thinks about high socks and high ponytails. He thinks about bending her over their big wraparound porch.

It’s these thoughts that carry him as he dumps her unconscious body in his trunk.

Furlough. He never told his wife he’d applied, so she isn’t expecting him. It’ll be a good few weeks before anybody really notices he’s missing, and they’ll be long gone by then. They’ll have moved on to their next life.

His tires squeal as he peels onto the highway and the girl’s body thuds in his trunk. A thrill runs through him, one he hasn’t experienced since that very first day, since she first looked up at him, all pretty and terrified, from the floor of that crack house. He did what the dog failed to do, time and time again — he got her out. He saved her. He gets the happy ending.

He laughs out loud. He has a full tank, an endless stretch of highway, and a pretty, naked girl bound in his trunk.

Point fuckin’ did it.

He won.

That fuckin’ dog can rot for all he has to care anymore. Point won.