#distressed whumper

[whumpsday]

Power Play

Writing Masterlist

content: kidnapping, ritual sacrifice, begging, hand whump, impalement, mouth whump, knives/skin carving, demon whumper, creepy whumper, major character death, gore

this is my piece for @zineofgid !! this was such an awesome project to work on :)

you can still buy the guys in distress zine here! proceeds go to the charity RAINN. there are limited physical copies and unlimited digital copies, as well as some merch left. do keep in mind that while my piece is sfw, this is an 18+ zine and a lot of other contributors' pieces are very much NOT sfw!

this piece was done as part of a collaboration with @whump-queen, with ocs we made together! he made art that accompanies this piece, you can view it here! it depicts the end of the story so you might wanna wait til after you read it though if you care about spoilers (also linked at the end)

-

Jonah’s breaths came hard and fast as Reese dumped him out of the large duffle bag, onto the cold floor of his basement.

He immediately tried to struggle to his feet, but his wrists and ankles had been bound with way too many layers of duct tape, making it impossible. Reese easily kicked him to the floor, placing a boot firmly on his chest and keeping him there.

“Ah-ah-ah.” his captor tutted, ripping the tape off his mouth. “I’m sorry to say that you will never see outside this room again.”

“You’re crazy!” Jonah screamed, unable to keep the terror out of his voice. His heart hammered in his chest, right under Reese’s boot.

“You have been messing with my campaign.” Reese countered, as if kidnapping was equivalent to Jonah doing his damn job. “Arnett didn’t start climbing in the polls until she brought you on as manager.” He dug his boot in deeper, making it a little hard for Jonah to breathe, pressing his bound wrists painfully into the floor under his back.

Despite admittedly-minimal efforts to retain his composure, Jonah found himself trembling. “So, what? You’re going to- kill me?”

There was no way he could fight this man off. Reese was bigger and stronger than him; it was pathetic how little he’d been able to struggle when Reese had initially incapacitated him. Now he was bound with tape and at an even bigger disadvantage. The thought that he could really die here blared through his mind like a siren, urging him to do whatever he could to escape, as if there was anything he could do.

“Not exactly. I’m not going to kill you.” Reese finally stepped off Jonah’s chest, only to kick him over and press a knee into his back instead. “Don’t mistake this as petty vengeance. I needed someone, and you happened to be an enticing target.”

It was only then, staring across the floor instead of at the ceiling, that Jonah noticed his surroundings.

A large pentagram, easily five feet, laid painted red in the center of the room, a hammer and nails set next to it.

“What the fuck?” he whispered in cold horror.

“Thanks to you, it’s clear that a good, honest campaign by a good, honest man isn’t enough to make it in politics. Luckily, there are other ways to get ahead in life, if you do enough research,” Reese explained, like it made perfect sense.

“Is that blood?” Jonah asked, voice small, staring at the red of the pentagram painted meticulously into the floor.

“It is. My very own.”

Jonah’s line of questioning was instantly interrupted when felt the side of a blade against his forearm.

He writhed, his struggles renewed. “Get away from me with that thing!”

“Hold still, or I might nick you. You want that tape off, don’t you?” Reese leaned down. Jonah could feel his breath on the back of his neck as Reese’s knee pressed further into his lower back.

Jonah went still, barring the tremors he couldn’t control. As much as he hated to admit it, Reese was right: aimlessly moving around with a knife millimeters from his skin would only get him hurt. He didn’t resist as he felt steel slide harmlessly against him, the layers of tape cut away and peeled off.

Before he could even think about running, Reese grabbed both his newly-freed hands and dragged him over to the pentagram. Jonah started struggling again, but there was little he could do against the iron grip.

Reese pointed to one of the triangles making up the pentagram. “You will kneel or I will make you kneel.”

He didn’t know what else to do, and pissing off his captor seemed like a recipe for disaster, so he knelt as indicated.

Reese bound one hand to Jonah’s body with more tape, bringing the other to a point of the pentagram. He pressed Jonah’s palm against the star’s tip, stepping firmly against his wrist to hold it there.

“Now, stay nice and still.”

Reese picked up the hammer and one of the nails.

“What are you doing?!” Jonah tried to pull his hand away, but Reese just pressed his boot down harder.

“What I said. Just making sure you stay still.” Reese positioned the nail in the center of Jonah’s hand, the sharp tip pricking at his skin. Jonah’s breath grew rapid in anticipation of what was about to happen to him.

“Wait, don’t, don’t don’t no no no-!”

Pain exploded in his hand as the THWACK of the hammer hit the nail and pierced his skin, and Jonah finally screamed. He tried again to pull his hand away, to pull his whole body away, but it was useless. He was trapped.

“Stop! Stop stop stop, you’re crazy!” he cried, tears spilling over and running down his face. The nail settled on the floor’s surface, just barely poking through the tender skin of his palm from the inside, making its way through muscle and ligaments and tendons.

“You can think what you like. Doesn’t matter to me,” Reese commented nonchalantly.

The hammer came down again. Jonah’s second scream was less intense than the first, as if his voice itself were scared, breaking off into a sob. A few more taps left the nail buried snugly in the floor, the head resting against the back of his hand as a bit of blood escaped from under it.

Jonah panted hard, adrenaline coursing through him. His hand wouldn’t move from where it sat fastened to the pentagram even after Reese removed his boot from his wrist: even twitching his fingers sent a horrible jolt through it.

“Good job, you’re doing very well.” Reese praised, patting Jonah on the head. “And now, the other one.”

“NO!” Jonah cried. “Stop! You have to stop!”

“Shh, it’s okay.” The sheer calm Reese talked about it with sent shivers down his spine. “It’ll all be over soon.”

Reese freed his uninjured hand, and Jonah clutched it protectively to his chest, shaking. “Leave me alone,” he begged tearily.

His captor grabbed his hand and brought it to the opposite point of the pentagram, stretching him out painfully and forcing his head and chest to the ground. Much to his dismay, Reese stepped down on his other wrist and readied the hammer and nails again.

Jonah strained his neck to look up at Reese, desperate. “What do you want? I’ll quit, okay? I’ll stop running Arnett’s campaign, you’ll never see me again. Just stop.”

“Oh, Jonah. Like I said, I needed someone. It just happened to be you.” Reese started on the other hand. No matter how much he screamed, it wouldn’t stop. Unlike the first nail, which seemed to slip in between his bones, this one landed right on top of the small, delicate bones inside his hand and smashed through them uncaring, the pain blinding.

Jonah was a mess by this point, sobbing into the floor. “I don’t wanna die like this,” he sniffled.

Reese cupped his face. “Look at it this way. You’re dying for something bigger than yourself. More powerful. Now, I think that’s about enough complaining out of you.”

The grip on his face grew tighter and tighter, fingers pressing tightly into the sides of his jaw, until Jonah was forced to open his mouth. Reese grabbed his tongue and pulled it, touching it to the center of the pentagram. Even among the throbbing pain in his hands and the horrifying situation, Jonah’s face crinkled in disgust.

Reese grabbed another nail.

Jonah’s disgust was immediately forgotten, replaced by overwhelming terror. He tried fruitlessly to shake his head away, making what little terrified noises of protest he could manage, as Reese settled the tip of the nail against his tongue.

A whine of fear escaped him, and he looked up at his captor pleadingly. Please don’t do this.

“Just try to relax,” Reese advised, as if it was at all possible.

The hammer slammed against the head of the nail, sending it straight through Jonah’s tongue and into the floor. Jonah wailed with intolerable pain, hot tears slipping down his cheeks, no longer able to form pleas. All he could taste was his own fresh blood, running over Reese’s painted on the floor.

Reese gave it a few more firm taps until the head of the nail almost crushed Jonah’s tongue under it, undeterred by Jonah’s cries.

“There we go.” Reese disappeared from Jonah’s tear-blurry line of sight. A moment later, he felt the side of the knife against the back of his neck. He squealed in distress, unable to even thrash against his bonds anymore.

But the knife didn’t plunge into him. Instead, it glided downward to the sound of tearing fabric until Jonah’s shirt fell limply in front of him. Reese ran a hand over his exposed back, Jonah’s tense muscles shuddering under the touch.

“This is the final step.” Jonah jolted as best he could in his immobilized state as he felt the tip of the knife between his shoulderblades- not digging in yet, but threatening to.

“Nghh!” Jonah couldn’t say much else with his tongue nailed down. He couldn’t even shake his head. Nothing he could do to indicate NO would be enough here, anyway. Reese didn’t care for his opinion.

He screamed as the knife buried itself in flesh, not deep enough to touch bone, but far from shallow. It glided along his back in a sweeping stroke, before Reese lifted it and picked a new spot to carve into him, no matter how much he cried and tried to writhe away from the sharp, insistent pain.

Slice after bold, swirling slice, Reese painted a pattern in the splitting of his skin, spending the most time on an intricate design between his shoulder blades. Jonah was pretty sure it was supposed to be an eye, but he was too hazy with agony and blood loss to tell.

Finally, Reese pulled the knife away from his mangled back. “There, all done. Soon you won’t even feel it.”

Jonah could only sob in response, trembling from pain and fear. Everything hurt. His entire body felt like it had been through a paper shredder. He could feel the blood running off the sides of his back and pooling beneath his folded-up legs, soaking his knees.

He watched as Reese lit candles in a circle around him, painting the room in a warm glow, and began chanting in a language Jonah couldn’t understand- Latin, maybe? What a pointless thing to die for. What would happen to him when none of this worked and no demon showed up? Would Reese concede and let him go? Probably not. Jonah imagined the knife plunging into his chest, the last thing he ever saw the face of his murderer. At least the pain would stop.

Slowly, as Reese chanted, The sigil carved into Jonah’s back began to burn.

Just a little at first, but getting hotter and hotter until Jonah was writhing in pain, trying to free his hands despite the nails holding them in place and hurting worse and worse the more he tugged on them. What was happening to him? It felt like someone had run boiling oil through the gashes in his skin. It was unbearable. He needed it to stop. Jonah squeezed his eyes closed, releasing a sound akin to a dying animal at the excruciating pain.

When he opened his eyes… a figure stood in front of him, half-materialized, like it was creating itself out of thin air. The warm orange glow of the candles began to shift to a cold, too-bright violet.

He strained his eyes up to see, the angle much less than ideal with his tongue bolted to the floor. He wasn’t sure if that was the reason they looked so massive, or if they really were abnormally tall, but a glance at Reese for comparison proved it to be the latter.

Everything about them looked unnatural, all bright colors that might mark a plant or animal as toxic, screaming at his nailed-down body to run. Glowing fuschia markings slithered all over their skin, the pattern looking suspiciously like the one Jonah could feel carved into his back. A giant scorpion-like tail snaked out from behind them.

Jonah stared up at the- the demon, apparently. As their form became more solid, Jonah’s back burned less and less, the only thing he could possibly be thankful for in this moment.

The demon eyed him back threefold, an impossibly-wide grin full of sharp teeth splitting their six-eyed face. Jonah couldn’t help but whimper under their gaze.

“Izuloth!” Reese shouted, suddenly seeming so much less intimidating compared to the monstrosity before him.

Izuloth broke eye contact to direct their attention to him, their smile faltering and their eyebrow twitching with annoyance. Several of their eyes narrowed. “What?”

“I’ve summoned you! I’ve captured a sacrifice, carved your sigil, drawn this pentagram in my own blood. You will now grant me power, as promised,” Reese declared confidently.

The smile returned. “Awfully presumptuous, human. I don’t remember promising anything.”

“What- what are you talking about?” Reese sputtered. “That’s what it said in the book! You are now under my control!”

Izuloth smirked. “Oh, is that what it said. That was nice of them to put in there. Makes fools like you much more likely to summon me. Hm, I don’t think I care for your attitude, though.”

They snapped their fingers.

Jonah watched in horror as Reese’s body began to unravel in front of him. Skin peeled from muscle, exposing raw, bloody flesh and piling on the floor below in a wet heap that splashed Jonah’s face with blood- he could taste it on his outstretched tongue.

Reese tried to scream, but all that came out was a gurgle as his tongue joined the rest of his exposed muscles in shredding to bits, as if taken to on all sides, inside and out, with an invisible cheese grater. It was over within a minute: the remnants of his body collapsed to the floor, twitching with life for only a moment before going still.

Jonah was alone with Izuloth.

He whined in terror, too frozen to even try tugging at his restraints. If the demon could do that, it wouldn’t be any use anyway.

Izuloth, to his dismay, turned their attention back to him. “Now, where were we?”

They reached a hand down to pet his hair. Jonah squeezed his eyes shut, his entire body tensed up in anticipation.

Suddenly, Izuloth grabbed his hair and pulled. Jonah’s eyes flew right back open as his tongue ripped right out of the nail, bisecting it down the middle with an agonizing tear. His scream of pain cut short when Izuloth grabbed him by the frayed end of his tongue, their many-eyed face inches away.

“Pretty thing, I think I’ll keep you.”

-

ART BY AKIA WHUMP-QUEEN!!!

-

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[in-love-with-writing-whump]

Prompt:

Whumpee, trying to avoid a really bad situation, is 'saved' by Whumper, who puts them into a worse situation as their pet/employee/whatever you want, but if they leave, their team/family will suffer even worse, and Whumpee just can't let that happen.

[goosewhumps]

idk maybe it’s just me but i’m a bit annoyed that so many prompts on whumpblr need to have a whumper in them. don’t get me wrong, i get the appeal and i do like whump with whumpers in it sometimes but there’s so much you can do without one and it feels like most people just ignore it

[whumperer-86]

Live Surgery Room ep22

Dr Su is under the rubble trying to save an injured pregnant lady and he has old psychological trauma that makes his hands shake

he tried so hard to heal himself and to steady his hands so he can save the mother and her baby

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 133

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[whumpsmith-participates]

Medwhump May 2024

Day 2 - Running out of time

TW: blood, gun violence, tourniquet, strong language, verbally abusive whumper, whumper turned whumpee, tobacco, dilf in distress, open ending

@medwhumpmay

The roles were always pretty clear between Fetch and Erick. Fetch would give orders and Erick would follow them. If Erick didn't follow them, then Fetch would hurt him. And when Erick got hurt, Fetch would patch him back up.

But roles have a tendency to reverse sometimes, and on the rare instance that it happened between Fetch and Erick, it was usually pretty drastic, like...let's say Fetch took a bullet, and it was up to Erick to get him to safety. Or, well...he got himself to safety first. Driving away from the incident, before pulling over and realising he'd already lost quite a lot of blood. Okay, no reason to panic.

"Kid, come here," he said through gritted teeth.

Erick didn't need to be told twice, for once, scrambling out of his hiding spot in the back of the van and joining Fetch in the front, sitting in the passenger's seat, eyes widening when he saw the blood pooling beneath Fetch's chair.

"A-are you okay, sir?" he asked.

"What does it fucking look like?" Fetch snapped, "get some rope and a screwdriver or a wrench. I'll teach you how to improvise a tourniquet."

"A-and then what?!" Erick asked, "Take you to hospital?"

"Absolutely fucking not!" Fetch said, "They'd call the cops on my ass right away. No, I need to call Tito, but first this!"

"R-right," Erick said, quickly diving back into the back to search Fetch's bag for rope. He didn't have to look too hard. His bag was filled with coild of rope, rolls of tape, cloths, cuffs, chains— But I digress...

Erick grabbed the first coil of rope he found, before opening the toolbox behind the driver's seat, grabbing the first thing he saw; a hammer.

"Will this work?" he asked, showing Fetch the items.

"Good enough," Fetch said with a groan, "tie the rope around my leg, right here."

Erick nodded, wrapping the rope around Fetch's thigh where he pointed and tying a knot in it.

"L-like that?"

"Yeah, now stick the hammer between and twist it to tighten it," Fetch instructed.

"I-isn't that dangerous? To cut off the blood flow like that?" Erick asked.

"That bullet nicked a fucking artery, do you want me to bleed out?!" Fetch snapped, grabbing the teen by the front of his shirt.

"S-sorry, you're right," Erick quickly said, before sliding the hammer underneath the rope as instructed and beginning to turn it to tighten the rope.

"Okay, okay, that's enough," Fetch said, "find a way to fix it in place."

"Tape!" Erick said, quickly retrieving a roll from Fetch's bag, even remembering to grab a piece of cloth as well to put additional pressure on the wound, planning to tape that into place as well, but it was hard to work when Fetch kept pulling away and even kicked at him.

"God damn it! Are you trying to kill me?!" he growled.

"I know it hurts, but I can't help you if you don't stop moving," Erick said.

"Don't talk back to me!"

"I think you can make an exception just this once," Erick said, pressing a bit harder than necessary on his wound.

"Son of a— Fine! Just hurry up!"

"Then hold. Still."

Fetch growled, but tried a bit harder to hold still while Erick finished taping everything into place, before sitting back, absent-mindedly wiping the blood on his hands onto his jeans.

"O-okay, now what?" he asked.

Did Fetch know someone who could treat him? Could they trick someone at the hospital so they wouldn't call the police? Was he even in the right state of mind to think clearly?

"Now we switch seats," Fetch said, already holding his arm out.

Erick somewhat awkwardly let him lean on him as he switched from the driver's seat to the passenger's seat, attempting to hold back a pained groan before pulling his phone from his pocket. Erick sat back on the floor between the two seats still. Even though Fetch had told him they were switching, he still felt it would be wrong to just go sit in his seat without express permission. Was he going to ask him to drive? He'd only had a lesson or two when Fetch happened to have a good day, so he wasn't too sure he was up for it just yet.

"Tito, it's me," Fetch suddenly said, pulling Erick from his thoughts. It seemed he'd finally started his call.

"Jonas? I don't have time for your bullshit, put me through to Tito," Fetch continued, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket and handing them to Erick so he could help him.

Erick gingerly took a cigarette from the pack, handing it to Fetch before taking his lighter and lighting it for him. It sounded like he could use the nicotine to get through the phonecall alone, let alone the fact that he just got shot.

"I don't care if he's having sex with his wife right now. Put him on!" he yelled.

Fetch took a couple of drags from his cigarette while waiting for Jonas to put his boss on the line, almost managing to finish it before he finally got an answer again.

"Tito, about time," he said, "I need a doctor, pronto."

Erick couldn't help but to feel relieved as Fetch got through to Tito. He wouldn't put it past Jonas to stall until Fetch bled out, but it seemed like today wouldn't be the day...yet.

"I don't think I can make it that far. I got two hours and an inexperienced driver. Can't you send someone to meet me halfway?" Fetch explained, "tell them I got an arterial bleed and a tourniquet, they'll understand— Erick start the car."

That seemed like a clear enough order. Erick nodded, quickly getting behind the wheel and needing an attempt or two before he managed to get the van's engine going. He winced a bit, it didn't help his confidence much, but they didn't have much choice. He put on his seatbelt and adjusted the mirrors while waiting for Fetch to finish his phonecall.

"I told you they'd understand," he grumbled, "we're leaving now. I'll call you when we get there."

He hung up, tossing his phone in the little compartment below the radio, before putting on his own seatbelt as well.

"Okay," he said, surprisngly calmly, "check your mirrors, put her in first gear, and if the road is clear, turn on your blinker and slowly take your foot off the clutch until you feel it catch then give a little gas to pull up slowly."

Erick nodded, following his instructions and managing to pull away surprisingly smoothly. Frankly, it was easy to stay calm if Fetch was calm too. He hadn't gone much further than a drive around the block or two in his first driving lessons, so Fetch knew he had to keep the teen calm to be able to get to their destination safely and without being pulled over.

"Okay, now turn onto the ramp and start speeding up. You gotta be going fast enough to merge onto the freeway safely."

"I-I've never driven on the freeway before," Erick said, panicking slightly.

"You were gonna have to do it a first time eventually, now step on the gas," Fetch said, "keep an eye on your mirror, check over your shoulder, and turn on your blinker. People will give you space if you don't cut them off."

"There's no one next to me or behind me," Erick reported, checking over his shoulder before turning on the indicator.

"Small movements on the wheel at this speed," Fetch reminded him.

"Y-yes sir."

"Great, now just stay between the lines, I'll let you know when you have to get off. Keep your speed constant, don't slow down too much, and for the love of god don't speed. We don't need any cops on our ass right now."

"What if there are cops?" Erick asked, suddenly feeling hyper-aware of every vehicle around them.

"You ignore them," Fetch said, "if you act nervous you'll only draw their attention."

"But I am nervous."

"How do you think I feel?! I got shot in the fucking leg!" Fetch snapped.

"Don't yell at me! I'm driving you to your doctor, aren't I?" Erick snapped back.

Fetch looked like he wanted to hit him, but he knew better. Erick also knew very well that his attitude would catch up with him eventually, but for now he was in the right. Fetch needed him right now...wait, maybe Fetch was also scared? Erick immediately felt bad.

"I'm sorry, sir," he said, "it's going to be okay. I'll try not to draw any attention to us, and we'll get to your doctor in time, and it's all going to be okay."

"I don't care whether I die or not, but if you don't scrub every inch of this van once we get there, you'll have another thing coming," Fetch grumbled.

"Yes, sir," Erick just said.

Honestly, he was already planning to clean the van as soon as he got the chance. It would give him something to do while waiting for the doctor to treat Fetch, and the slippery pool of blood just below the pedals were already getting on his nerves.

Either way, Fetch settled down a bit, returning to giving directions as calmly as he could. Erick decided to pretend it was just a very long driving lesson, trying his hardest to ignore how pale Fetch was looking, or the tremble in his hand when he pointed to something, or the waver in his voice when he spoke up again after being quiet for a bit.

Eventually they left the freeway, and the city behind them, beginning to drive down long, empty roads. Erick relaxed a bit more. The odds of being seen by police, or causing an accident in his inexperience decreased a lot. However, it seemed Fetch's odds were also decreasing a bit, as his condition seemed to keep getting worse. Was the tourniquet not tight enough after all? They had a long stretch of empty and straight road ahead, so Erick wagered a bit of a longer look, finally noticing the second pool of blood gathering underneath the passenger's seat.

"F-Fetch? Fetch! Are you bleeding anywhere else?!"

"What?" Fetch replied, seeming to have trouble focusing, "Of cours'not. I'd know if I was...bleeding anywhere else."

"J-just stay awake, please, I-I don't know what to do!" Erick said, "how far out are we? Where are we going? Fetch? Fetch?!"

He promptly slammed the brakes as Fetch didn't reply, the engine nearly stalling until he remembered to switch gears, before pulling over and bringing the van to a full stop. It seemed Fetch had passed out, and he didn't have a lot of time to figure out what to do next. He quickly grabbed Fetch's phone, the screen thankfully covered in bloody fingerprints to help him figure out his passcode, especially as the prints got vaguer after each input.

"No way it's that easy," Erick mumbled, trying the combination 1-2-3-4.

"Okay, fuck, it was that easy," Erick sighed, shaking his head as he opened the contacts app and swiped to the 'recents' tab. All numbers were unlisted, but the one at the top started with 702, the area code for Las Vegas. It had to be Tito's number, or at least the fastest way to reach him. He quickly pressed 'call' and held the phone to his ear as he listened to it ring.

"Ah, Fetcher, that was quick. I thought you said you were further away?"

"Mr Rana!" Erick said, "i-it's me, actually. Fetch passed out and I don't know where to go!"

"Oh dear, oh you poor boy," Tito said, "if I give you the address, do you think you can find it on your own?"

"Y-yeah, I think so, thank you," Erick said, "please hurry, I think he's lost too much blood."

"Just breathe, Erick. I'll have Jonas text you the address right away," Tito said, "I'm putting you on speaker, can you put me on speaker too so you can call and drive at the same time?"

"R-right, okay," Erick said, lowering the phone and finding the speaker button. He turned the volume all the way up and kept the phone in his lap as he started the van again when the text already came though.

"When you open the link Jonas sent you, it should automatically show you where you are and how far away you are from the destination, okay?" Tito said.

"Yeah, yeah, I know how Maps works," Erick said, "um...looks like I'm ten minutes out. I-it's just down the road."

"Very good," Tito said, "now watch your speed. Ten minutes should be just fine."

"There's a cemetary only six minutes down the other way, sir."

"Jonas... Ignore him, Erick. Just keep going like you were before."

Erick was already ignoring Jonas, the sound of his voice sending chills down his spine otherwise. He also didn't quite watch his speed. What were the odds of police catching him these last ten minutes? Fetch would run out of time if he didn't hurry, and honestly he couldn't even begin to imagine what to do if he died here today.

He blinked the tears out of his eyes, glancing down at the map to make sure the next turn coming up was his. He slowed down a bit too late, nearly spinning out as he turned onto the dirt road, but he managed to get the van straight again. His destination would come up in about two minutes, but he had no idea what to look for.

"Mr Rana, what am I looking for?" he asked, wincing a bit at how teary he sounded.

"Our associates should have a plain truck, like a small moving truck," Jonas answered, "it'll probably be hidden from the road behind a building. If you can't locate it just honk the horn and they'll show themselves."

"O-okay, okay," Erick said breathlessly, eyes darting to either side of the road to look for anything that could hide a small truck.

The phone beeped that he had reached his destination, and all there was was a large barn. Erick slammed the brakes again, pulling up in front of the barn and just started honking.

The barn doors swung open, revealing the small truck parked inside, and Erick was too relieved that they'd made it to care about the two men approaching the van with guns. He just stopped honking and showed his hands, showed he was unarmed. He wanted to ask Tito for advice, but when he looked down at the phone he saw the call had ended. Great.

One of the men ordered him to get out of the van, making him stand with his hands on the hood, while the other one dragged Fetch out of the passenger's seat and towards the barn. Erick was searched for any weapons, before being allowed to relax.

"Sorry about that, can't be too careful these days," the man said.

Erick wasn't sure what to reply, he felt like throwing up, or collapsing, or anything, but he couldn't really move.

"Okay, why don't you go inside and help yourself to some water?" the man said, "I'll park the van behind the barn. Go on."

Erick managed to nod, slowly heading inside the barn. He was probably going to get shit for not cleaning the van right away like he promised he would...if Fetch would even survive to give him any.

shoutout to @momagie-blog for helping me come up with the plot for this prompt. I was a little lost in the sauce and she helped me simplify it~

Open end, ftw!

Jonas and Tito are side characters in Villain's View.

Masterlist Main account

[hurtmyfavsthanks]

Whumptember day 20

“We can’t all win” Failure | City in ruin | Boot on throat

Content warning: implied mass murder

Villain couldn’t tear their eyes from the burning city.

It looked like something from a disaster film. Cars were burning, buildings were crumbling, and everything seemed covered in a thick layer of ash. The world was silent, and that was far worse than any screaming could ever be.

 Villain stood, utterly numb, on the last building left standing. Besides them stood the person responsible. 

“You were right about this city,” Hero said, voice horace. They sounded close to tears. They didn’t avert their eyes from the destruction. “It was corrupt down to its roots. I hadn’t wanted to believe it, but you were right the entire time.”

Villain’s throat was too dry to respond. They felt like they couldn’t breathe. 

“I tried for years to ignore what you were exposing. I pretended you were just cherrypicking a few bad actors, that the problem was surface level and easily solved. I was wrong,” Hero shook their head, eyes distant. “But you were wrong too. You can’t threaten and blackmail that kind of issue away. That level of corruption can’t just be cleaned up. You have to pull it out. Burn the fields, wipe the slate clean and try again.”

Hero’s head turned to face Villain, and the sudden movement was enough to jerk Villain from their stupor. For the first time, Villain looked at Hero. Their once white uniform was stained with blood, traces of it spattering their face. Hero’s eyes were filled with tears, full of grief, and yet Villain couldn’t see a hint of regret. 

“You were always trying to improve this city, even when they called you a monster for it. You understand what it means to make something truly good, and you were trying to show the world that,” Hero gestured to the destruction around them. “There’s nothing in the way now. We can do something great here,”

There was no bitterness in Hero’s expression. No anger, no resentment. There was only hope, burning and genuine, the look of a hero looking forward to a better future. 

It terrified Villain. 

Hero outstretched a bloody hand to Villain. They smiled, soft and sincere, as the world burned around them. “You’ll help me, right? We can make a better city.”

Villain knew what they should have done. They should have lashed out, refused to work with a mass murderer and stand on what few morals they had left. They should have fought back.

But they didn’t. They didn’t dare to. Instead, Villain took Hero’s hand without a word.

[whumperofworlds]

Whumper taunting Whumpee for being captured by them, saying how weak they are and even going as far as calling them a "damsel in distress", much to Whumpee's anger. However, as the taunting continued, Whumpee's self esteem took a hit, and they began to worry.

What if they're useless to the team/Caretaker? What if they really are just a damsel in distress and nothing else to them?

[depressed-werewolf]

Whumpril Day 1: Distress Call

tw: implied kidnapping, possessive whumper, failed escape attempt, drugging

Whumpee stood at the payphone and dialed the number. They took another wary glance behind them. They didn’t have much time before Whumper caught up with them and there was only one person they felt like they could call.

They took a deep breath. “Caretaker?”

They heard frantic noises on the other end of the line, as if Caretaker had knocked something over.

“Whumpee? Whumpee, is that it you?”

“Yeah, I don’t have a lot of time. I’m near Fourth Street. I can’t… I can’t stay in one place for long, they’ll find me.”

Caretaker’s voice was frantic on the other end of the  phone. “What? Who is ‘they’? What are you talking about?”

“It’s Whumper, just… please come get me. I’m scared.”

Simply saying their name made Whumpee shiver. They glanced behind them again, they were alone… for now.

Caretaker sighed. “Okay, okay. I’m coming.”

Whumpee could only pray they got there in time. “Please hurry,” they said in a small voice.

“I will.”

There was a click and the other hung up. Whumpee leaned against the alley wall and closed their eyes. They hoped Whumper wouldn’t find them. They’d barely even managed to get away, Whumpee didn’t know what Whumper would do if they found them, but they knew it wouldn’t be good.

“You know they won’t get here in time.”

Whumpee jumped. They knew that voice too well, far too well. When they opened their eyes they saw Whumper standing beside them, leaning casually against the alley wall. 

Whumpee scrambled backwards, nearly tripping over their own feet in their panic. “Just leave me alone, please,” they begged.

“Now why would I do that?”

Whumper quickly closed the distance between them, tilting Whumpee upwards and forcing them to look them in the eyes.

Whumpee flinched back violently. “Don’t touch me!”

They stroked the other’s cheek fondly, ignoring Whumpee’s obvious panic. “Oh, whumpee, when will you learn? You’re never getting away from me.”

“Get off me, get off me!”

They shoved Whumper and continued scrambling backwards, but their back hit the wall. 

Whumper shook their head and continued prowling towards them, pinning them against the wall. “It seems you’ve forgotten your place, Whumpee. But don’t worry, I’ll bring you home.”

They noticed the rag in Whumper’s hand too late. They struggled when Whumper pressed the rag against their mouth and noise, but they ultimately had nowhere to go.

“Please, please no,” they whispered.

But by then the chemicals were already making their vision go blurry. Whumper said something but they couldn’t make out the words, their mind was foggy. The last thing they remembered before passing out was falling into Whumper’s arms.

[lumpofwhump]

Bad Things Happen Bingo: Distress Call

TW: Domestic violence, victim blaming for the same, implied self-injury, family death and abandonment, abusive employment relationship.

*****

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 05-25-2026 at 20:23 MST:

“Hi Dad. I know you won’t get this, but. Sometimes I’m glad this voicemail is still up. Pretty dumb, huh? Anyways. Things are going really well here. The Director’s already promoting me to Lead Technician! He might even be having me write part of his next paper for a journal. Man, I’d love to see the look on my teachers’ faces now. Fuck those guys, right? The experiments can be pretty intense, but I’m managing. It’s all gonna make things better for everyone in the end, right? Anyways. Talk to you — well. I’ll call again soon. I. I miss you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between ALICIA JACOBSON and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 09-21-2026 between 17:15 and 17:35 MST:

“Hi! You on your way?”

“sorry can’t make it running behind with work”

“You said that the last time too”

“Look I was hoping to talk to you about this today so I’ll just say it here”

“Maybe it’s none of my business but I read that paper you wrote and”

“Did you really test that on PEOPLE???”

“you’re right it really isn’t your business”

“I’m worried about you”

“well don’t be”

“You’re not like this”

“i’m not like i was in school you mean”

“good”

“i was headed nowhere before the director picked me”

“That’s not true”

“anyway i’ve got a meeting with him now gotta go”

“give me a call when you’re not going to lecture me”

“Look if you ever need help getting out, just let me know, okay???”

“I’ll always be here for you if you need me”

“Love you”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 01-14-2027 at 19:55 MST:

“Hey, um, Dad… [Yawn.] It’s been a while. But I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference, right? Ha… It’s been kind of rough. Not — nothing I can’t handle, I mean. Just, one of those things downstairs went and bit me the other day. Can you believe that? It just fucking bit me. Don’t worry, I taught it a lesson. The bite still hurts like hell, though. Eh, I’ll deal. I’m going to present at this big genetics conference next week about the paper I just finished. My name was even on it! Pretty cool, huh? Anyway, if I do well, I’m hoping the Director will cut me some slack over the whole… I won’t get into it. But then, if you could really hear this, maybe you’d have some advice. Anyway. Bye for now.”

—

from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 10-28-2027 at 14:33 MST:

“hey sorry for falling off the face of the earth”

“can we tlak”

“* talk (haven’t slept in 4 days now haha)”

“look i can’t talk about it here but its kind of important”

—

Call from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 10-28-2027 at 23:46 MST:

I’m sorry, the voicemail box for the person you’re calling is currently full. Please try again later.

“…Fuck.”

—

Voicemail from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT on 11-14-2027 at 20:01 MST:

“Hey Mom? So… It’s been a while. I know... I know it didn’t go great last time. But could you maybe give me a call? I. I need to talk about something. After the stuff you told me about last time, I just hoped you might know what to do. If I’m blowing this out of proportion, or… I just need to talk, okay?! I know you’re mad at Dad, but he’s dead, and it’s not my fucking fault if he did the kind of things you said. I was a kid. So maybe cut me some slack and give me a chance. Please. Or don’t, I guess. Love you. Bye.”

—

Text message exchange between MELISSA BENNETT and BARCLAY FLETCHER on 11-14-2027 between 20:05 and 20:11 MST:

“Don’t call me again.”

“are you kidding”

“you couldn’t even work up the guts to “ —

Your message could not be sent.

“seriously?”

Your message could not be sent.

“you said all this stuff about dad, abuse this cheating that, acting like you’re better or whatever. guess what though you’re not”

Your message could not be sent.

“good people don’t give up on their kids”

Your message could not be sent.

“you know what, maybe dad did hit you. can’t blame him”

Your message could not be sent.

“fucking bitch”

Your message could not be sent.

—

Messages from BARCLAY FLETCHER to ALICIA JACOBSON on 11-14-2027 at 20:15-20:17 MST:

“so it’s like that then”

“‘oh I’ll always be there barclay if you need out of there just call me barclay barclay please let me help~’”

“guess that was all bullshit”

“so bye”

—

Message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to JASON FLETCHER on 12-25-2027 at 21:21-21:23 MST:

“hey dad I tried calling a while back but your vm box is full (my fault haha)”

This number is out of service.

“guess this is really it huh”

This number is out of service.

“love you”

This number is out of service.

—

Draft message from BARCLAY FLETCHER to MELISSA BENNETT, last modified on 12-31-2027 at 21:55 MST:

“you’re probably not going to get this but I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it I just get stressed out and it makes me say some stupid shit and okay wow when I say it like that I wouldn’t talk to me either so nevermind”

—

“Clay?”

Barclay didn’t move from his position of being slumped forward in his seat as he clutched the phone in his shaking hand. The Director’s voice was kind, concerned even, but Barclay didn’t want his mentor seeing him like this, and he didn’t trust his voice not to break if he said anything.

He startled when a stray tear drop hit the screen with an audible plop.

“Clay, what’s wrong? Here, let me see,” Richardson insisted, pulling the phone from his hand.

Barclay didn’t resist.

“Oh, Clay…” the Director said as he scrolled through his texts, his voice filled with concern. Or disappointment. “I hate seeing you hurt yourself like this.”

Barclay ducked his head and shoved his hands under his armpits, hoping the Director wouldn’t ask to see his wrists. “It’s fine, sir. Really,” he muttered.

The Director stopped scrolling at a certain point, and for a second he scowled down at his protegé.

Barclay closed in on himself further, bracing for the worst.

The Director’s expression softened. “I can’t let you keep doing this,” he said in a firm but gentle tone, pocketing the phone. “You deserve better that to have such unreliable people in your life.”

“But…!” Barclay protested, jerking his head up to look at the Director with wide eyes.

The Director cocked an eyebrow in warning, though his kind smile remained unchanged.

“O-of course. Thank you, sir,” Barclay quickly corrected himself, looking back down with a tense smile.

He should be happy. The Director, at least, was still there for him, no matter how many times he’d screwed up. So the rest of it… it was all worth it, right?

—

Messages from ALICIA JACOBSON to BARCLAY FLETCHER on 06-17-2028 at 16:42 MST:

“OMG I’m so sorry. Are you OK???”

“I just saw this”

“A lot of stuff happened. I had to get a new phone. I’ll tell you all about it”

“Whenever you want to talk”

“My offer still stands by the way”

“Barclay???”

“I don’t know if you’re getting these, but please be OK. Love you lots”

This number is out of service.

*****

Director David Richardson and Alicia Jacobson are @skinofafish’s characters. Barclay Fletcher, Jason Fletcher, and Melissa Bennett are my characters.

[unchartedperils]

If you’re a fellow whumper say I and hi to our sweet little guest Lara Croft before you leave, unlike her who can’t thanks to her New Daddy Conrad Roth’s debt with my Russian friends here in Liberty City.

[floral-comet-whump]

Whumpee that deceives Whumper

They rack their brain to memorize every little movement, every indicator of Whumper's mood, every pattern. At some point, they even learn to predict Whumper.

They know what Whumper likes to see. They know what they want within a few minutes, what's going to happen to them. They're powerless to stop it.

Sometimes Whumper wants them to silently cry on the floor, so they do. It would be foolish not to conserve energy while they can.

Sometimes Whumper is already in a bad mood. They probe, both because the knowledge is invaluable and because then Whumper will take it out on them.

Whumpee has a little internal guide to how to take punishments. Begin as defiant, but still shake. Look like they're trying to conceal their fear. Gradually break. It starts off as a yelp or sob or whimper followed by an immediate insult, then Whumpee goes quiet for a bit until it's “too much,” begging quietly. And then it's as if a dam has been broken, frantically pleading for mercy, for a reprieve. They look at Whumper with wide, teary eyes, and both their true self and their facade just want it to stop.

Their cries turn quiet as their energy runs out, until they can't bear to look at anything. Their flinch at Whumper's hand on their chin doesn't need to be faked. Their distress is real, and they let themselves whimper. Whumper likes displays of exhausted weakness, it makes them feel as if they've won.

They lean into the little coos and pets Whumper gives after, trying not to gag. Alarms of panic ring through their head, and they acknowledge them.

It would be easier to lose themselves in the comfort after the torture. It would be so much easier to become a shell of a person. They already act like one. Why can't they give up?

The emotional exhaustion after they've been left alone. The dark quiet. Their steadying breath. The scent of both blood and anticeptic. The locked door. The pain.

They can escape once Whumper deems them broken enough to let out unsupervised. It's just a matter of time, just a matter of maintaining this act. A matter of trust from a sadistic torturer that keeps Whumpee in a basement for no reason other than their own pleasure.

They have to keep going.

[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."

[whumperer-86]

Chicago fire S11 ep19

[withdrawingramen]

i think shame & its manifestations in whump is not talked about enough. like i love when whumpee is physically unable to tell caretaker about all they went through, not only because it is insanely distressing to relive but also because it's humiliating. 'how can someone be so cruel?' is another question, but we're also talking 'how did i let that happen to myself?' from whumpee's perspective. often times post something traumatizing whumpees develop this deep-seated feeling of hopelessness & helplessness & misguided anger which is just in sweet words not cool

because think about it, the whumpee could not stop anything from happening to them. there's always this notion of having to stand up for yourself, but whumpee didn't even get the chance to. who should you be angry at? whumper? the system? yourself?

the fact that it happened is so terribly real and if paired with the conditioning of whumper & possible victim blaming, the shame eventually turns into this twisted form of denial, where whumpee is unable to confront the fact that they were hurt so bad and it just turns into oh my god i hate that it happened to me. i want to erase that it all happened. i wish i could live just one day forgetting it all and wake up thinking what was i so stressed about? i wish i could walk past whumper and think 'who were they again'? nobody should know about this because i cant deal with it myself and i don't know what i'll do if it all goes out

yk what im talking abt?

[oliversrarebooks]

chemical imbalance

You know that trope where horrifying things are treated as mundane? You know that trope where the whumper is talking around the whumpee like they aren't even a person? This is that story.

TW: alien abduction, alien parasites, body horror, brainwashing, mind control, restraints, tentacles, forced drugging, forced medical examination, complete dehumanization, condescension, defiant whumpee

The receptionist was young and lovely, their skin a fetching shade of blue-purple, and their human host was healthy and smiling, with the dazed, glassy expression that indicated it was well taken care of.

5X2 couldn't help the wave of intense jealousy. Their own human host's gut churned in panic. It was lucid enough to know it was being brought to the doctor, and didn't like the idea at all, stress hormones flooding its fragile body. 5X2 pumped out chemicals to soothe it, beamed calming imagery into its mind, even tried to reassure it through its psychic connection that it was just the doctor, the doctor was going to help it, and hopefully they'd both be feeling better. 

All of their efforts only put the smallest dent in the distress their host was feeling. Well, no wonder -- 5X2 couldn't even remember the last time their poor host had properly slept. They took a deep breath, reassuring their human host that they weren't angry at it, not at all. They loved their host and knew it wasn't its fault it was struggling so hard. The host thrashed mentally, adrenaline rising, coming dangerously close to waking fully as 5X2 wrangled its consciousness back under control.

"I'm 5X2-YLL, and I'm here for my 3100 appointment," they said to the receptionist, hoping they couldn't tell how much trouble they were having with their human.

Sympathetic waves rolled from the receptionist as they looked 5X2 up and down. Oh, they could tell. 5X2 knew their human looked an absolute mess, with a wild expression, deep bags under its eyes, and poor hygiene. The past few days, 5X2 had even taken sick leave from work, embarrassed to go out in public in this state -- that's how they knew they had no choice but to make a doctor's appointment.

"Right this way, 5X2. The doctor is running a bit behind, but if you'll just go into this examination room, they'll be with you shortly. Please have your host change into this medical gown... if you're able."

"Yes, thank you." The door clicked shut behind the receptionist as 5X2 looked around the small examination room. It looked like any other doctor's office, but they couldn't help but notice that the examination chair had formidable looking restraints on it. They supposed it was to be expected for a doctor who specialized in disorders of host control.

The far too lucid human noticed too, and all of its muscles tensed as it signaled to every corner of its body to escape, escape, escape. 5X2 had no choice but to inject yet another low dose of paralytics into its bloodstream, just to make sure it couldn't actually act on that misguided impulse. 

The paralytics kept the human from moving, but also meant that 5X2 had to do much more manual work puppeting its body, and they were so, so tired. With their host's clumsy fingers, they pulled off their shoes, shirt, and pants, and slipped on the flimsy medical gown. The human was expressing distress at having their physical form exposed, of all the ridiculous things. Sometimes 5X2 wished that its constant fears at least made sense. Instead, it was scared of the doctor, of being nude, even of the everyday, ordinary sight of other human hosts with their passengers atop their heads, tentacles nestled neatly in their ears and euphoric expressions on their faces.

I'm trying to help you, 5X2 conveyed through their psychic connection for what seemed like the billionth time this cycle.

All they got back in return was terror, anger, and the intense desire to go home.

We can go home after the appointment, 5X2 reminded it, beaming soothing images of their quarters, the cheery artificial sun lamp, their collection of exotic plants, their vibrant fiber arts, the beautiful view of stars from out of their window. Their host had always been calmed by these things in better days, but it wasn't working now. It didn't make any sense to 5X2 -- if it wanted to go home so badly, why didn't it respond to sensory landscapes of home? 

Surely it wasn't lucid enough to desire its human habitat...? The human habitat was a death world compared to the safety and comfort of the space station.

There was a knock on the door, and the doctor walked into the room. They carried an air of authority about them, perched on top of a petite human who moved with unusual grace. "Hello, 5X2," said the doctor in a kindly voice. "I understand you're here because you're having difficulty in controlling your human host. Is that correct?"

5X2 looked anywhere but at the doctor, pretending to be very interested in a cabinet full of jars of multi-colored fluids. "Ah, yes, that's correct."

"There's no need to be ashamed. There's a lot of unfair stigma attached to host difficulties, but I assure you that it's a far more common problem than you think. There's no judgement here. Please, tell me about what you've been experiencing."

"My human host is almost completely lucid for most of the cycle," 5X2 confessed, trying to suppress their waves of shame and sadness. "I can't keep it fully entranced, I can't soothe it, I can't even put it to sleep. It's constantly scared and stressed and won't stop filling its body with adrenaline."

"I see."

"I have to spend so much of my energy just keeping it from fully waking, and it's affecting my work and my social life. I can't even relax on my days off, because every time I let my guard down, it decides it's a good time to fight me," they said. "I love my host, but I'm at my limit. I can't go on like this. It's sick all of the time from stress hormones, and I'm constantly fatigued. If there's anything you can do, anything at all that would help..."

The doctor's host nodded sagely. "There's a number of common conditions that could cause symptoms like you're describing. If you don't mind, I'd like to take a blood sample from your host so we can run some lab tests while conducting the examination."

"Of course," said 5X2, holding out their host's arm while the doctor prepared a needle for the blood draw. As the needle grazed the host's skin, the human managed to wrest enough control to jerk backwards, irrationally panicked at the sight of the needle. "I'm so sorry. It's been especially determined to fight me on everything today."

"It's nothing to worry about. I see it all the time. Hosts can be smarter than we give them credit for -- it's probably realized that the doctor's appointment is for putting it back under."

"But why does it fight that? That doesn't make any sense -- doesn't it want to be calm and happy? Why would it want to be stressed and miserable?"

"Oh, it's not that it wants to be stressed and miserable. It's just the natural state of hosts that aren't fully entranced. It's not its fault that it's acting this way -- it just doesn't know any better," said the doctor. "To make the examination easier, it might be best if we strapped your host into the chair, if you don't mind the restricted mobility."

"Not at all. It'd be a relief to not have to suppress their impulses," said 5X2. Their human predictably howled with displeasure, scraping and clawing for any bit of control over its limbs as 5X2 fought its body into the chair and tried to hold it still as the doctor restrained it. It was even managing to resist the paralytics, utterly desperate to escape.

If this doctor couldn't help them, 5X2 was going to lose their mind.

With the host's body securely restrained, the doctor was finally able to take a blood sample. The human's consciousness was thrashing like a wounded dust-moth, but with their body secured, 5X2 could devote their whole efforts to dampening their mental distress.

"If you'll excuse me a moment, I'll bring this to the lab. We should get results in around ten deciclicks."

5X2 tried to relax in the chair as the doctor left the room, but of course their exhausting host was having none of it.

Why are you fighting so hard? they asked.

The answer was always the same.

I want to go home. I don't want to be a host. I don't want to be hypnotized again. Please let me go.

Incoherent nonsense. The poor, confused thing.

"All right, that's taken care of," said the doctor, entering the room and perching on a nearby stool. "Now, may I ask you some questions? How long have you been noticing these symptoms?"

"About a quarter star turn."

"I see. And have you previously sought help for them?"

"...No. I really should have, before it got to this point, but I was ashamed. I thought it was temporary, and that I could fix my host myself."

"At least you're here now. You're doing the right thing," said the doctor encouragingly. "How often does the human sleep?"

"Only once every few cycles, and for only a few clicks at a time. I can't keep it to anything resembling a schedule, either, and it doesn't seem to respond to sedation at all. The only mercy is that it often sleeps while I'm at work."

"And how do you normally soothe it?"

"I think I've tried just about everything. Before this all started, it was so easy -- a quick wash of sedative and neurotoxin, some soothing hallucinations, a little gentle urging of slumber, and it was out in a milliclick. It would normally sleep for half the cycle. But now, nothing works. Not toxins, not hallucinations, not psychic compulsions. It doesn't matter what I do, I simply cannot put it to sleep.  The only reason it sleeps at all is because its own consciousness turns itself off when it becomes too exhausted."

"You say it was easily controlled before?"

"Very much so. It took very well to deep trance, especially if I was listening to music. It enjoyed art and scenery and was calm as can be. I never imagined it was capable of so much anxiety."

"How close is its consciousness to the surface?"

"...Very. It's listening to everything we're saying. It might even be able to understand us. Well, as much as any host is capable of understanding."

"Has it ever become fully awake?"

5X2 hesitated.

"Please, don't be ashamed. I'm here to help you, but I need you to answer my questions honestly. Has it ever become fully awake?"

"...A handful of times," 5X2 admitted. "It didn't get very far before I was able to paralyze it and return it to my control, but... it was so terrifying, to feel my host wake, to take full control from me and do what it wished with its body."

"That's a very traumatic experience," said the doctor sympathetically. "Once we have the main issue sorted out, I recommend a visit to memory alteration to remove the unnecessary fear generation."

"Won't they judge me for losing control of my human?"

The doctor seemed lightly amused. "5X2, it's the memory alteration department. Don't you think they've seen far worse than that?"

"You're right, just a silly insecurity on my part," said 5X2, mirroring the doctor's amusement.

"Let me perform some quick examinations on your host's body while we have you here," said the doctor. "Your host is partially lucid and fearful right now, correct?"

"Extremely so," said 5X2, feeling the horrible squirm in their host's gut at the mention of the doctor examining it.

The doctor waved a small light in front of the human's eyes. "Pupils are very dilated. It's focusing clearly on my light, indicating a high degree of responsiveness. Dark circles indicate a dangerous lack of sleep, and the skin seems unusually flaky and dry. This all matches the symptoms you've described."

They moved around to 5X2's side, using the light to peer into its host's ear. "Everything looks healthy and normal here," they said, giving a slight tug to 5X2's left connector tentacle. "Connection seems firm. I assume it's enmeshed with the correct portions of the brain? You have at least six tendrils on each side of the frontal lobe, three in the parietal, and two in the occipital?"

"Of course, doctor."

"I know it sounds obvious, but I have to ask. Believe it or not, I've had more than one patient that neglected to enmesh the frontal lobe entirely. You can imagine what kind of a state their poor host was in."

"I'm amazed that anyone in this age is so ignorant. That sounds like torture for them."

"You're not wrong," said the doctor, clicking off their light. "From the outside, there doesn't seem to be any issues, but if we can't resolve the problem, we may need to do some scans to check that all of your tendrils are properly connected. It's uncommon, but there are certain disorders that prevent proper cohesion of tendril to host brain."

"I'll subject myself to any tests if it will help."

"I know how intensely uncomfortable it must be to have your host so wakeful, for both you and it," said the doctor. "I'm certain we can help you. It's extremely rare for this sort of problem to be beyond the reach of modern medicine."

A knock at the door, and the receptionist entered the room. "I have the results from the lab for you," they said, slipping out again quickly.

The doctor's host took the readout and looked it over, as 5X2 waited in anticipation and 5X2's host trembled in terror. Finally, there was a wave of satisfaction from the doctor. "I have good news for you, 5X2. The lab results may have given us an important clue to your problem."

"Truly? What is it?"

"You see here..." The doctor placed the readout in front of 5X2. It was full of miniature graphs and jargon that they didn't have a hope of understanding. "Most of the toxin levels in the human's blood were highly elevated -- no doubt due to your efforts to keep it under control -- but one in particular was abnormally low, almost undetectable."

"And that is?"

"In basic terms, it's a powerful hypnotic, the primary toxin used to keep the human mind asleep and docile. Without this important chemical, your host's mind is far more alert than it should ever be. That makes it less receptive to all of your efforts to soothe it, allows stress and fear hormones to build up in its delicate brain, and causes it to resist being put to sleep."

"And that's what's missing?" said 5X2, feeling waves of relief at having an answer.

"It would seem so. The absence of this hypnotic would make it next to impossible to keep a healthy human under trance. It's no wonder your efforts to sedate and entrance your host were fruitless. I'm honestly impressed you were able to walk into my office."

"Is there a cure?"

"There are a few different conditions that can cause this. To start with, I'm going to give you a prescription for a course of medication that should help promote the natural release of this chemical from your toxin glands. It has a few minor potential side effects, which the informational packet will describe."

"No side effects can possibly be worse than what I'm going through now. How long will that take to have an effect?"

"It should be at full strength in eight to ten cycles. We can see how you're responding, then, and I can advise you on a further course of treatment."

5X2 steadied themself. Eight to ten cycles. They could endure eight to ten more cycles.

"But in the meantime, we can simply inject your host with a big, healthy dose of the chemical cocktail it's been missing."

5X2's elation was almost drowned out by its host's panic and despair. "You can do that? You can do that right now?"

"Certainly," said the doctor, pulling a jar of translucent blue liquid from a shelf. "Let me prepare the injection. It's all natural and safe for both of you. I'm sure you're both eager to get some reprieve from fighting each other."

"And I'll be able to put my host to sleep? To keep it under trance?"

"With this extra strength, time release formula, it should be well out of it for the next few cycles, exceedingly simple to control. You can both finally get the rest you need."

"Oh, thank you, thank you, you don't know how much of a relief that is."

No! No, no, no! the human was screaming through their connection. Don't let them inject me with that! Let me go! I want to go home! I need to wake up -- I need to --

"I need to wake up!" 

5X2 felt their consciousness suddenly cut off from their host's body as the human woke. It pulled at the restraints, trying to get its hand free.

"Please let me go! Don't do this!" the human yelled, as the doctor looked on with curiosity.

"Oh, you're awake? Now, now, we're only trying to help you," said the doctor. "Aren't you tired of fighting? Aren't you scared and hurting?"

"I'm scared and hurting because of what you're doing to me! This isn't right! Humans aren't meant to live like this -- you've taken my entire life from me!" Tears streamed down its face. "You're a doctor -- if you have any compassion at all, please listen to me! We don't want to be hypnotized and turned into puppets. We don't want to spend our whole lives sleeping and hallucinating and floating along in a mindless trance. We want to be free!"

The doctor patted its head. "I know this must all seem so scary to you, but it's only because of a chemical imbalance. That's why your passenger brought you here to the doctor, to help you. Your passenger loves you very much and only wants the best for you. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't want this. This is wrong -- please listen!"

"You're going to feel so much better in just a few minutes. I promise. Just trust me," said the doctor, their host easily pinning down 5X2's host's restrained arm and administering the injection. 

"No, please!" 5X2's host struggled uselessly against the tight restraints, its panic reaching a fever pitch, as 5X2 sat in their own mind and watched. "Please! Please listen! Let me go! Let me... go..."

The human host's body relaxed, sagging against the restraints as its control over itself suddenly diminished. 5X2 could feel a lovely sense of peace wash over their host, a sensation they hadn't felt in a quarter star turn. 

5X2, eager to take back its host, sent deep, hypnotic compulsions to fog its host's mind, to sink it into a pleasant daze, to pull it back under their control, and they were delighted when the host responded swiftly and easily. All of that fight, that fear, that anger began to evaporate like mist as 5X2 gently soothed its host into a trance.

You want to be a good host, 5X2 coaxed. You want to stop resisting. You want to weaken your feeble mental defenses and let me in.

I want to... Their host's thoughts were faltering and slow, easy to manipulate, just as they should be. I want to be a good host... want to let you in... want to drop my defenses... stop resisting...

Yes, that's right. Lower those defenses. You're safe, completely safe. You can relax now.

There was only a slight hesitation before the response. Safe... relax...

 5X2 felt the human's resistance melt away, leaving its mind like soft clay in their grasp.

Finally.

5X2 rewarded their host's compliance with a pleasant vision of the ship's recreation district, filled with laughter and games and live music, one that their host used to be fond of before it became impossibly defiant. Their host latched onto the familiar, mollifying hallucination right away, like a young one with its comfort-toy.

Fun... pretty...

Yes, it is fun and pretty, said 5X2. You deserve it, because you're being very good right now. Aren't you glad I took you to the doctor?

Feels... hazy...

And isn't that good?

Mmhmm... good... so good... thank you...

"How is it feeling now?" asked the doctor. "Any better?"

"Oh, yes, that was absolutely brilliant," said 5X2. "It's completely docile and enjoying its favorite hallucination right now. I can't thank you enough."

"Excellent. I'm just glad that worked. I'll make an appointment for you ten cycles from now, and give you the prescriptions for the medication I recommend, along with a course of injectables to keep your host nice and compliant. It shouldn't give you any more trouble."

"That sounds perfect."

"I recommend putting your host to sleep for the next cycle. It must be so fatigued after all of that pointless struggle, and a prolonged period of rest will help it to reacclimate to your control."

"I don't think I need to worry about the last part," said 5X2 gleefully. "It seems so relieved to be back under. But I agree that it needs sleep. Maybe I can get some sleep too."

5X2's host was already flooded with the injected sedative, so they sent a simple but strong compulsion to lull it asleep. Its exhausted mind responded right away, filling it with a deep, irresistible drowsiness, its remaining thoughts dulling and fading as it drifted away peacefully. The cheerful hallucination of the recreational zone would give it pleasant dreams. 5X2 couldn't remember the last time their host had been so quiet, not a hint of stress or nightmares.

It was so charming to feel their delightful host curling up comfortably in its own mind and going to sleep. It reminded 5X2 of how much they loved their host, before everything had gone wrong.

"It worked," said 5X2 in awe.

"Asleep already? I thought so. It was so worn out."

"Thank you again, doctor, for all of your help. My host wanted to thank you, too, before it fell asleep. I can tell that it already feels so much happier."

"It's my pleasure." The doctor released 5X2's host from the chair. 

5X2 stood up, shedding the medical gown and putting the host's clothes back on its body. Control was simple and seamless now, the host's body moving exactly in accordance with 5X2's wishes. They could hardly believe what a difference a little chemical persuasion made. With their newfound freedom, a part of them wanted to go out and indulge in all of the fine pleasures they had missed out on for so long -- but really, they knew it would be far more prudent to go home and sleep.

They'd do that after they picked up those prescriptions, of course. They weren't going to let a simple chemical imbalance ruin their life any more.

Masterlist

It's always the weirdest things you need to get out of your system, right? I don't know where this came from, but I'm tempted to write more about this alien parasite society. Like how they acquire humans, and how other pairs are doing...

What would you do if you had a passenger of your own?