#good for living weapon whump too. i think.

[uriswhumpchamber]

Whumpee who is used to having an extremely strict routine - they go to bed at a specific time, and wake up at sunrise. Their entire day runs on a schedule. They don't need to keep that routine anymore, but it brings them comfort to - or maybe they just haven't gotten to a point in recovery where it feels safe to break it.

They're very much not an early bird: going to sleep so early is almost impossible, and they're used to napping through the day, if they can. Being sleep deprived is not helping with recovery, though.

Their social group does not know why they're like this. Maybe they assume it's part of recovering, and not part of the trauma. Following the above: Maybe there's an inside joke about Whumpee's slight overuse of caffeine to stay awake during social outings/work/clases/etc.

There's a sudden change in their schedule. Maybe they have to stay up late, maybe they cannot have lunch at exactly the time they "have to". Maybe they oversleep. Of course Whumpee panics.

Following the above: someone notices and finds out why Whumpee follows that routine.

Alternatively: someone notices, but Whumpee manages to lie to them. Do they believe the lie?

[thewhumpcaretaker]

i hope u dont mind i go to you for whump ideas !! do u have any ideas/prompts for a living weapon/forced soldier(?) type thing👀

I certainly do not mind! I do love making prompts.

This is basically a whole genre of whump, so this will be long and I'm just getting started honestly.

💥 Living Weapon Whump 💥

Whumpee is forced to kill - this is kind of the heart of the trauma. How do they deal with it? Do they blame themself? Do they hate the ones who did this to them? One way or another, they have to live with terrible memories of what their own two hands have done.

...Or maybe they don't live with the memories. Whumpee dissociates heavily and perhaps even deals with amnesia from things they can't bear to face.

Dissociation overall is important. To act violently and efficiently in a fight, when you don't want to act, requires separating emotions from actions and becoming distant. When whumpee gets hurt, or sees something horrifying, they don't respond. They're calm. Too calm.

Self-hatred. Viewing themself as a weapon, only good for killing and incapable of love or kindness. Unworthy of having basic human needs met.

If the training started young, whumpee was raised in isolation, so they struggle to understand basic social cues, pop culture references, and just how to act normal. They're very nervous around people.

This can also have other effects on how they socialize and on their personality. Maybe it wasn't safe to have empathy for others if everyone around them was getting hurt and killed regularly, so they lost touch with empathy. Maybe any mistake or sign of weakness would lead to punishment, so honor became crucial.

They're probably going to have an unusual relationship to physical touch. They've mostly only been touched in violent ways, so they'll either be touch starved or touch averse. They flinch when someone moves suddenly. It takes a while to learn that touch can be positive. Maybe sparring and playfighting is one of the only ways they feel comfortable touching other people - or maybe it's something they never want to do with people they love, because it's connected to too many bad memories.

Whumpee expects to be hurt and thinks it's normal. They get into bad relationships, difficult jobs, etc. They don't take care of their health. Why? Because their suffering "doesn't matter." They're just a tool.

Maybe whumpee is conditioned to respond to a code word. When they hear that word or phrase, they start killing anyone around them indiscriminately until another code word (or passing out, or something else) snaps them out of it.

If they can't control when they'll become dangerous (either because of a code word like that, or because they get violent during PTSD triggers, or just because they don't trust themself), maybe they try to incapacitate themself or lock themself up. Maybe they get thrown into prison or an institution on purpose, to protect their loved ones. Maybe they run away.

Maybe whumpee has permanent physical alterations because of their training. Maybe they were branded or tattooed. Maybe they have cryogenic implants or embedded tracking devices. Maybe they've sustained injuries that now result in chronic pain.

Whumpee faces trial for things they were forced to do, things beyond their control. But maybe they blame themself completely. Or maybe they don't, and they're enraged to be in this situation.

I could continue this list for days honestly haha, this is one of my favorite tropes. Now I want to do a separate one focused on living weapon comfort...

[loonybun]

Check Up

hi. guess who wrote. aren’t you proud. anyways these are like. my favorite ocs. if you’ve known me for very long you know i will never shut up about them ever and have character blogs because god they’re in my brain constantly

contains: med whump/lab whump (not sure which this would classify as. sort of in the middle there.), creepy/intimate carewhumper, doctor whumper, does vian deserve his own mention here yeah he’s a warning all by himself, condescension, restraints, recapture, former living weapon whumpee, magical/sci-fi setting, references to addition and drugs, mentions of brainwashing and memory erasure, betrayal, needles, implied self harm, self harm being weaponized.

i think that’s all but let me know if i’m missing something. this one’s a bit of a doozey. fun for the whole family.

——————————————————

“You look like you slept well.”

He was barely even awake. The room felt like it was spinning, the all too familiar fluorescent lights inducing a dizzying nausea.

The shock of the cold metal on his back forced him into reality. Shit. This was happening. There wasn’t any way out of it. Not an obvious one, anyways.

Koi’s eyes drifted back over to the doctor, who greeted him with a soft smile. Right. Why was he here? Why didn’t he have—

“I took off that little cuff of yours, hopefully you don’t mind. I’ll probably have to answer for that later, but oh well. I figured you’d want to enjoy your last few moments of lucidity.” He murmured, pity crossing his face. “I know you’re not really capable of what they think you are. Poor thing. They think you’re a killing machine! A terrorist! It’s a little funny, actually. I mean, you’re…”

His eyes trailed over Koi for a brief moment. “…Harmless. Completely harmless like this.”

“—I mean, I’m not a big fan of killing people. Kind of why I was trying to avoid this place.”

“Yes, yes, and that’s exactly my point. I guess capable isn’t the right word, is it? I mean, you’ve done it before. I suppose what I’m trying to insinuate is that you’re just unfit to be the monster they’re going to try to break you into.” The doctor hummed, gently ruffling his hair.

“…It’s nice to see you again, by the way. I really did miss you. I know we were never close, but— You were always one of my favorites.”

Koi scoffed. “Enough of a favorite to let out of these restraints? C’mon, it’s not like I’m going anywhere.”

“…You know I can’t, Koi.”

“…Right.” He went quiet for a moment, letting the air grow heavy. Well, might as well rip the bandaid off. “So uh… What are they gonna do?”

And just like that, he was back to his giddy state. “Oh— Yes, I forgot, you like it when I explain these things.”

“You’re uh, not annoyed by it, right? I know a lot of the scientists were and uh—“

“No, no! Not at all. I appreciate your enthusiasm. I always have. People here are just so incredibly impatient.”

“…Oh, uh, thanks. Alright, then yeah, give me the rundown.” Koi already had a good idea about what was going to happen next. They’d throw him in a nice, big cell, give him the whole “You have a purpose here” spiel, and then keep him in there until he either gave in or escaped— not like the former would ever happen.

Vian’s eyes seemed to sparkle as he began to explain. “Well, you see, we figured that since you’re going to be here for a while, we might as well work out that little… Issue… With your magic.”

“And then they’ll expect me to join ‘em again?”

“…Well— Actually, you won’t have much of a say in the matter. They’re planning on wiping your memories. It’ll be like your little runaway incident never happened. You won’t remember the experiments either, of course. None of those silly traumatic things.”

Shit.

“Until then, I’m supposed to keep you hooked up to an IV containing a drug I’ve developed. Just something to keep your mind in more of an agreeable state. You won’t lose your ability to think, of course, you’ll just… Struggle with comprehending those thoughts. I like to say it’s like water slipping through cracks— Nicer imagery leads to a much less stressful experience.” Vian smiled cheerfully, giving Koi a little pat on the head.

He felt sick. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. “—Wait, wait, wait. Can’t we talk this out? I mean— You don’t really want me to lose my memory, right?— What about— What about my friends? My life?”

At that, the doctor chuckled. “Koi, we should really move on with the examination. I have a job to do… Maybe if you’re good, we can talk a little more about your options afterwards.”

Despite the bile in his throat, Koi nodded. Maybe there was a chance that the doctor would take pity on him. He just had to get through this.

Vian lifted up the thin sleeve of his hospital gown, staring down his arm while he fixed a cuff on his shoulder.

“…Now, I know we didn’t give those to you.”

“What?”

“Those scars.” Vian traced a cold finger along one of the countless cuts lined over the withered skin. “Those are new. Lined up so poorly as well. Goodness, you really haven’t been doing well for yourself, have you?”

Koi shot him a small glare that quickly faded into something a little more pitiful. He had to remember what was at risk if he fucked this up.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? Apparently having a guilty conscience has consequences.”

The doctor’s eyes flickered with mild amusement. It was an unsettling look on him.

“We both know that’s not what this is.”

“Didn’t you say you had a job to do?”

The pressure on his arm began to increase, then released all at once. The cuff went off just as quickly as it had been strapped on. Vian stared at the readings for a brief moment, then looked back at his patient.

“And who are you to say that a wellness check wouldn’t be part of it? I won’t tell, I promise. Now, you were always good with needles. Are you alright if I draw some blood?”

Koi nodded hesitantly. It would be better not to argue with the only person who might be willing to lend a hand to him. He wasn’t that stupid. It’s not like he had many other options.

The needle sank into his skin, and he reflexively let go of the tension in his body. He could have sworn he saw Vian smile at that.

“Good. You’ve always so good with these things. I believe that’s most of what I needed— We’ll do a drug test too, just to be sure. You’d be surprised hearing all of the rumors some of the scouts have come up with about you. Meaningless gossip, really. They claim you’re some worthless street junkie now.” Vian hummed, brushing Koi’s bangs out of his face. “Then again, I wouldn’t be totally surprised. You’ve been hung out to dry. We can lose ourselves, sometimes.”

He couldn’t help but lean into the soft touch. If it weren’t for the backhanded conversation, he probably would have felt genuinely relaxed.

“Yeah, right. I’ve totally got the spare change to shell out for that.”

“Mhm... Like I said, meaningless gossip.”

He needed to break the silence in the air. He could practically feel Vian’s gaze on him. Cold and scrutinizing. “Well, uh, is that all you needed me for?”

“Oh— Yes, we should be done for now. You said you wanted to talk about your options, didn’t you? This would also be a decent time to ask me any extra questions.” The doctor snapped his eyes back to focus, a smile quickly reappearing on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. That sounds good. Uh, so is there any way I can convince you to help me? I mean, I know we were never friends, but—“

“You’d like to be. I know.” He didn’t even let him finish. “You mentioned that once. It stuck with me for a while… I think I’d like that too. You’re one of the few people I can actually tolerate here.”

“So uh… You’re willing to get me outta here?”

Vian’s eyes narrowed, and his grin faltered. “…Well—“

“Well what?” He snapped.

“You don't really have options here, Koi. Let’s just think about this for a moment. I could let you go right now, send you on your way back home… And for what? For you to be miserable the rest of your life? To keep this up?” He gestured towards the lines across his arm. “You lived in a rotting shed. If anything, keeping you here is a favor.”

His blood ran cold.

“You can’t be fucking serious— Vian, please— I… I can’t stay here. They’re gonna make me hurt people. I can’t do that again.”

Vian’s sympathetic expression was looking faker by the minute. He ruffled his hair, earning him a desperate expression. “…Oh, yes you can. The war’s been over for quite some time. It’s not like you’d be used very often anyways. Don’t you want to feel like a hero again? Didn’t you like that?”

Koi began struggling against the metal bands holding him down to the table, desperately thrashing back and forth. “I— I won’t forgive you if you do this. You know that, right?! Didn’t you say you wanted to be friends?”

“I did. And I still mean it. You’ll soon find that you won’t remember any of this, and you’ll be more than happy to spend time with me.” He hummed. “Let’s be honest, sending you back would be plainly unethical! It’d go against my oath. You’d have a fresh start here… There’s really not a downside.”

“Stop— Please—“

“…I think it’s about time to hook you up to that IV. Thank you for your time, though. I can’t wait to get to know each other all over again.”

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 10

Warnings: severe touch starvation, forced living weapon/fighter, captive living weapon, war, bleeding & bullet wounds

Whumpee jumped in his skin as the door to his prison suddenly came banging open, a heavily bleeding figure stumbling in.

He was shocked to see it was Flint, covered in blood and deep injuries, barely standing as he hobbled and stumbled over to the wall Whumpee was pinned against.

"We're under attack," Flint coughed, and blood spattered the concrete in front of him from his mouth. And to his amazement, Flint started uncuffing him, fumbling with a key in hands made slippery with his own blood. He ripped the muzzle off next, throwing it to the side, and Whumpee was too stunned to move, unsure what to do.

Flint stood trembling in front of him, bleeding heavily and eyes wild with terror as he coughed more blood on the floor. "Weapon... it's Leader's men. They're invading, and making their way to the North end of the facility, which is where the children and mothers are kept." His gaze was desperate and pleading as he looked at Whumpee, so different from the cold, collected general Whumpee had seen before.

"Myra is there," Flint choked out. "I might be making the biggest mistake in history right now by letting you out, but..." He shoved something large into Whumpee's hands, and Whumpee realized it was his fighting blades, sheaths and all. "We need Weapon. You might go back to Leader's side for all I know and kill us all, but I'm desperate. We are badly losing this fight. Please, Weapon... save us. Save Myra. You said you were tired of all the fighting and killing... if you help my men stop this senseless slaughter, fight one last time, then you will be free. I swear upon my life I will never force you to be a weapon like Leader has, and you will have your freedom back. I will not chain you again.”

Whumpee glanced from the daggers he'd been handed to Flint's face, searching for a trick... but he found none. "...Which way is North?"

"Right outside this room if you take a left then you'll be facing the right way," Flint wheezed breathlessly. "And take this too--" he shed his own protective vest and offered it to the living weapon, which had a few holes and blood spatters on it. But it was better than no protection at all.

Whumpee put it on, despite it being a few sizes too small for his tall, muscular form. "...You really trust me already?"

"No, I don't. But... I don't exactly have a choice, now, do I?" Flint rasped. "If you go out there right now, you're going to be fighting against your own team, killing off your allies. Do you think you can handle that?"

"They're not my allies anymore," Whumpee answered with venom. He remembered everything Leader had taken from him now, bits and pieces of memory slowly coming back.

And Myra... she needed help. And if it took him being the cold-hearted Weapon again, then he'd willingly play the role of the killing machine one last time. To save her. And... because he was beginning to realize more and more that maybe the enemy Leader had been pitting him against were actually the good guys all along.

Flint wiped blood from his brow with the back of his sleeve, breathing harsh and ragged. But his eyes were fiery with determination. "Then go out there... and do what you were trained to do, Weapon. Wreak chaos, and show no mercy," he growled. "I'll rejoin the fight as soon as I can once I get more ammo -- Leader's ambush took us all by surprise, and none of us were armed or ready for it.”

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

[all-wrung-out]

Whumpblr Intro

Hey! I've gone far too long without actually making an intro, despite having this side blog up for a bit. So here we go!

I go by Tac when I'm interacting online (my main blog is calligraphic-tac, and that's my chaos-corner where I try to post things I like, things that inspire me, and my more general writing, when I can actually get words out). Pronouns are she/her, although they/them are good backups.

I've been into whump for as long as I can remember, but in my 33 years on the planet, I only learned last year that there's a whole community for it. I'd heard the term "whump" before, and kind of knew what it was, but never made the connection to the type of media I like.

There are some whump tropes that I'll always enjoy, but the favorite flavor of the week is usually on rotation from the following list:

Superhero whump

Kidnapping

Defiant/Stoic/Strong/Snarky Whumpees

Self-sacrificial Whumpee

Pushing oneself until collapse (especially for Heroes/Leaders)

Whumpers who feign rage, but are actually very calculated and careful in their treatment of Whumpee

Whumpers who actually lose their temper, especially when triggered by a defiant whumpee

Team whump

Non-human Whumpee (especially when it pertains to the good, old-fashioned "what makes us human" trope)

Drug/poison whump (Fucked up balance and altered perception, anyone?)

Medical whump (specifically, medical treatment, but "This is gonna hurt.")

Lab whump (especially testing the limits of a living weapon or attempting to forcibly manifest powers that may or may not exist)

The good, old-fashioned Beating trope

Pinned/Trapped

Drowning/asphyxiation

Environmental/Wilderness whump (extreme temperatures and survival)

Animal attacks

Used as bait

Infected wounds (especially when it comes to treatment of said wounds)

Self-surgery or self-care

Mind control (Specifically, conflict between Whumper/Whumpee within Whumpee's mind while Whumper tries to take control. OH! And Whumper causing Whumpee to experience things that didn't happen; I have a really neat story idea for this one!)

I'm sure I'm missing some, but I suppose I can amend this post when I remember some more. Some of my whump tastes are also kind of specific, so listing them concisely can be a challenge.

Not going to list my squicks here. (As the saying goes: "If you don't want someone to get your goat, don't let them know where it's tied.") However, if you're looking for NSFW-type whump, I don't typically write that. (Not for other folks, anyway; I'm rather terrible at it.)

I used to write a lot as a kid, but was often ashamed of my affinity for whump, so any time I tried to write it, I chickened out and wrote something else. I still wrote plenty of action and peril, but the whump was usually not as heavy as I initially imagined.

I've also been in a bit of a writing slump for... oh, goodness... It's going on 14 years now. I really want to get out of it, so I'm hoping whump writing will help.

Fun fact about me: A lot of my stories are grown from a kernel of whump. I think of a specific scenario I want to put an OC through, and then a whole story grows out of it.

Some of my favorite whump blogs include: @whump-me @whumperofworlds @allthewhumpygoodness @emmithar-blog @soheavyaburden @whumperfultime @roblingoblin285 @blackrosesandwhump @evilwriter-originals I'm still collecting whump blogs to follow, so feel free to interact if you're one such blog!

Also, I'm going to be rusty as hell, so please bear with me while I get my writing brain reinstalled in the ol' skull-housing.

Last thing (I know this post is long already): I've seen the way the whump community interacts and I'm happy to be a part of it. I'm not especially social myself, but I'm nonetheless proud to be part of such an amazing group of folks. Keep rockin', y'all!

[forwhump]

a/n; for my anon that was having a bad week <3 IM SORRY FOR THE DELAY I couldn’t find the thing I wanted to post for you but I couldn’t just keep posting nothing so here’s something instead <3 I hope I didn’t make it way worse 😚 (if I did pls lmk I’ll redeem myself 🫡)

disclaimer: if you haven’t already noticed yes this is just a big outlet for me for every whump thing I want in the world <3 thanks for coming along for this ride w me 😚 LOL

tw/cw: medical torture, medical abuse, surgical torture, living weapon whumpee, graphic depictions of violence, major character death, severe brain injuries, amnesia, threats of violence, graphic depictions of violence, gun violence, science fiction

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” Silas says, cracking his knuckles. “I like you, man.”

Medic’s face doesn’t change but he swallows so loudly Silas can hear him over the pounding of the alarm. Sitting behind his desk, he stares up at him, his pale face glowing red every few seconds in the flash of the emergency lights. The flickering red light of his shock collar glows out of time, keeping him cast in red. It makes him look really sick. Kinda frail. Silas had never noticed quite how small Medic is. They’re all so fuckin’ small. Why is Silas the pet?

It makes him think of Wren, as most things do. He’s always thinking about Wren in some capacity; everything always comes back around to Wren somehow, even without his meaning to. They’re all so small but Wren is the smallest, so small it’s hard for Silas not to find it kind of bizarre, so human it gave him this glowing, angelic sort of quality. Silas had been engineered for violence, for easy slaughter, but he hadn’t been engineered to be a guard dog — that was something Wren brought out in him, something organic. Maybe the only bit of free will Silas had ever managed, and there’s Wren again, at the centre, glowing and holy and so fuckin’ small.

All anybody wants to do is hurt him. It makes Silas violent, just as much as it’s never made a lick of fuckin’ sense to him. All anybody around Wren ever wants to do is hurt him. Silas lives and breathes violence — Wren does, too. It follows him. This silvery, holy thing.

Everything about Wren is good, is silvery, is holy. He’s angelic in the way he shimmers, but in everything else about him, too, every organic cell and strand of DNA. Wren is so good. Wren is pure goodness. His view of the world is narrowed to a single point, but it’s hard for Silas to imagine many corners of the world are much worse than this. Are people not most themselves at their worst? Wasn’t it Wren that told him that?

Silas isn’t a good person. He knows that. He isn’t at peace with it, he’s been fighting it tooth and talon, but he knows what he is, and he’s a bad dog at the very kindest. Freak fuckin’ science experiment at worst. He’s violent. Mean. Quick to anger and just as quick to slaughter. He’s impatient. Wren had to teach him manners, and he’s had to teach him more than once. Still, Wren taught him. Wren teaches him still. Wren, who’s been hurt in ways even Silas kinda struggles to fathom, who would have every reason in the world to be just as violent, as mean, as impatient as Silas, but who isn’t. Who sat on the floor with him for days at a time and patiently taught Silas to write his own name. Who spends days sitting at Silas’ bedside, reading to him quietly, when Silas is too incapacitated to move. How can anybody want to hurt a person like that? How can everybody?

To Silas, they’re all so small. Disposable. But they’re so much bigger than Wren. Point was always so much bigger than Wren. Point always liked to hurt him the most.

Silas cracks his neck. “I just want to know where they are.”

There had been a lockdown. Silas had been the cause of every district lockdown so far — he’s never been on the outside of one before. It had happened during a field test, and it was the first time he’s ever seen the manufactured sun of the arena turn red. He should’ve known it was an omen. From there, he was thrown into isolation, but it was like no other time Silas had been in isolation. Nobody showed up to skin him, or cane him, or beat him, or gut him. Nobody showed up to taunt him. They didn’t even restrain him, not really, they just left him alone in the dark. He was left in proper isolation for the very first time.

When he was finally allowed back to the unit, Wren was gone. His room was cleared out. His books had been taken from Silas’ room like he had never been there at all. They keep trying to tell him he had never been there at all.

But Point had never come back, either, and Silas isn’t a smart man, but he’s smarter than these people keep giving him credit for. He was smart enough to figure that one out. When it comes to Wren, there isn’t anything he can’t do. Wren makes him smart, and he makes him invincible. If Wren’s out there somewhere, Silas is going to find him, it doesn’t matter what he has to do. If Point had taken him, if Point is putting his hands on him, if Wren is out there somewhere and he’s hurt, and he’s scared, he’s probably thinking about Silas, and there isn’t anything in the fuckin’ world Silas won’t do to save him. He’ll massacre everybody in this place and outside of it if he has to.

He doesn’t want to kill Medic. He’s always been good to him. But he will if he has to. He’ll kill any one of them if he has to.

“I don’t know,” Medic tells him, and he’s doing a good job of keeping his face straight but his eyes are huge, shining in the flashing red light. “You know they don’t tell me anything. Come on, big guy.”

“Medic,” Silas warns, almost sing song.

Abruptly, he pushes his chair back, and it collides with the concrete wall with a sound that makes Silas’ back teeth hurt. “I don’t know, buddy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I don’t know.”

There’s already blood on Silas’ hands — on his teeth. He’d had to kill a lot of Medic’s team to get here. He didn’t even know Medic had an office; he’s never been in this part of the medical bay before. It will never forget him. He’ll be a stain on the walls, and the floors, and the ceilings of this place for a very long time.

He picks a chunk of flesh out from under his fingernail and says, “Medic.”

“Silas,” he tries. “Come on, big guy. I’d tell you if I knew. I think — I think he’s probably in a lot of danger and I want you to find him, buddy. You need to find him. But I don’t know where he is.”

Silas tilts his head. Watches him, for a moment, through flickering red light. “Are you lying to me?”

“No,” Medic croaks. “I’ll come with you. I can help you, big guy. You don’t — you don’t know what you’re in for up there up, Silas, but I do, and I — I can help you. I can help you find him. I can help him when we get there. He’ll need a doctor and I — don’t hurt me, buddy. Come on. I’ve tried to be good to you both. I can — I can help.”

Silas watches him again, silent. It feels like bait and he doesn’t like it, but he used to trust Medic. Wren always trusted him, before he disappeared out from under his nose, and Wren’s trust goes a long way as far as Silas is concerned.

And he’s right, to a degree. Silas would make quick work of butchering every breathing thing above ground to find his way to Wren, but it would still take time he could spare if he knew how to find him.

Slowly, he lifts his chin.

Medic’s face finally changes. Not for the better. “Silas —” is all the time he has before pain explodes through the back of Silas’ head.

It comes out of nowhere and it almost knocks him off his feet. It’s hot, it’s blisteringly hot and his sweatshirt starts to stick to his back, wet.

The red light continues to flicker but it dims, it gets sort of smoky, and through the smoke Medic is saying something but Silas can’t hear him at all.

Fuck, he thinks, and lifts a hand to the back of his head. Accidentally almost sticks his finger in a gunshot wound.

Instinctively, he turns.

He’s executed in Medic’s office by means of firing squad.

Staring blankly up at the ceiling, Silas listens to the crackle of electricity as it courses and the hollow chirping of the machines keeping him alive. “I don’t wanna die,” he says. He’s not ready yet.

Medic sniffles. He’s been crying for hours and Silas has never felt the way he feels now, not once in his short life. “I’m so sorry, big guy,” he admits, rubbing his face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to do now.”

Silas has died a lot, and he’s died miserably, but never permanently. Never for real. He’s always been revived, reanimated. He’s never had to fear death because it never really meant anything to him. He’s out of his element now. He doesn’t know this part.

For as long as he can remember, Silas hasn’t been human. Now he’s only meat and machine. The only part of him that’s still him, the only part of him that’s still working on his own is his brain, and that’s only until they finally decided to take him off life support and remove it.

He’d been eviscerated. The flayed skin of his chest and his stomach are pulled tightly over the table, clamped in place. Most of the meat and the muscle had been removed, his ribcage pried apart. Every organ, a lot of his major veins and arteries, they’re threaded with wires and cords, sparking with electricity and the current that courses from the chrome and flickering lights at his bedside, keeping him alive until they decide to shut it all down.

Silas is going to be put down.

It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t feel like anything. It’s the most painless way he’s ever died but it’s bitter at the back of his throat. Metallic. Finally, Silas is going to be put down.

Wren is still out there somewhere, and Silas is never gonna know what happened to him. He’s not gonna be able to save him this time. He isn’t all that familiar with death, the permanent kind, and he doesn’t really know what comes after, but he knows for sure that he isn’t gonna end up in the same place Wren does. He wishes he could go where Wren’s going. He’s never gonna get to see him again.

Silas always knew his life was gonna be short. There wasn’t ever really a question. But it wasn’t supposed to happen like this. He’s not ready to go.

This can’t be it for him, not really, not permanently. It can’t. Not while Wren is still out there.

He’d been too violent in the aftermath. He hadn’t reacted well. And they can’t control him the same anymore, not without Wren to hold over his head. He was formally declared a liability. He’s no longer worth the risk.

Turning his head slowly, Silas says, “do something for me.”

Medic sniffles again, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. “Anything.”

“You gotta get out of here,” Silas tells him. “You gotta find him. You gotta help him.”

He looks at Silas, and he looks at him earnestly. He’s been crying on and off the entire time he’s been at his bedside, and it’s been moderately irritating at the best of times, suffocating at worst. But he’s been at Silas’ bedside the entire time. The whole time he’s been dying, Medic has been there. He’s never left. He’s done his best to keep him comfortable. All things considered, Silas owes him most of his lives. He doesn’t owe Silas anything, he’s done more than his part, but he says still, “I will.”

“Take care of him for me,” Silas says.

“I will,” he repeats, and he sniffles again but his nod is firm. Definitive. “He’ll be okay.”

Silas looks back up at the grey ceiling and tastes bile. Out of habit, he takes a deep breath.

When they had first disemboweled him, when they had strapped him down to the table and peeled all the meat away from his ribcage, pulled his ribcage apart, the inside of his body had been loud, but it had been wet, it was alive. Now, it’s just as loud, maybe louder, but the sounds are wheezy and dry. Mechanical. Only his brain is working on its own — the rest is all simulated. It’s all machines.

It hurt a lot as his body was dying. Mercifully, it doesn’t hurt anymore. He thinks it’s kind of fucked up that his most permanent death is gonna hurt the least.

“Do you think he’ll forget about me?” He asks the ceiling.

“No,” Medic answers, even before he’s finished speaking. “I think he’s going to think about you every day for the rest of his life.”

Silas had spent every day of his life, since meeting Wren, thinking about him. Most of what Silas thinks about, in fact, is Wren. Everything he did, he did for Wren. He didn’t usually make his life any better, any easier, but he tried. Fuck, he tried.

He wasn’t a good dog, that’s the worst part. He tried, tooth and fuckin’ nail he tried, but to what end? Silas’ brain is going to be removed. Wren’s gone, and Silas doesn’t know where. He isn’t safe, he’s being hurt, he knows that, but for the first time, Silas is absolutely helpless to do anything about it. Silas is going to die without ever seeing him again.

“Nobody that’s known you will ever forget you, big guy,” Medic tells him. “I don’t want you to worry about that.”

“I’m not worried about me,” Silas says. The beat of his heart sounds like the beeping of a heart monitor.

He sighs softly, shifting in his chair. He sniffles again. “I’ll make sure he’s okay,” he says. “I promise.”

“This sucks, man,” Silas says helplessly.

He chokes out a wet laugh. He sobs, too. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy,” he says.

Restrained to the surface, he lifts his fist from the table as far as he can. “See you in hell?”

He sobs again. He laughs, too. “I’ll see you there. Tell you what,” he says, knocking his fist against Silas’, “when I get there, you can call me Jed.”

“Why?” Silas asks. “What’s Jed?”

He chokes out another sound, rubbing his mouth as he does it. “My name.”

“I thought your name was Medic,” Silas says, but it makes sense that it wouldn’t be his real name, because that’s also his job. He’d just never considered him having a real name, and he doesn’t wanna think about how much else is out there that’s he never considered, that he doesn’t know, that he’ll never know, but he can’t help it and it would make him vomit if his stomach had anything in it but active circuits and live wires. As it is, it crackles loudly with electricity.

But Medic laughs again, and it lightens the burden a little bit. It sits better than the crying. “That’s a lie,” he says. “It’s actually Jed.”

Silas lifts the corner of his mouth. “You might have to remind me next time.”

“I will,” he agrees. When the door beeps, a keycard being accepted, Medic takes his hand. “I’m gonna miss you, Silas.”

Silas says, “find Wren.”

It’s Carver that comes to loom over the head of the table. Carver specializes in head, face, and brain; Weaver specializes in organs and meat.

“Asset Park,” he says, “we want to thank you for your service.”

“Get fucked,” Silas says. Panic rises in his chest, and it surprises him.

The last thing he ever thinks about is Wren.

Jed doesn’t move from his chair, and the surgeon doesn’t ask him to. He doesn’t know if this one is Carver or Weaver; he doesn’t care. They’re both creepy, surgeons straight from horror movies, mad scientists from some especially miserable circle of hell.

He sits, watches. Doesn’t quite know why; figures Silas deserves that. Doesn’t deserve to be alone for this.

Except it isn’t what Jed thought it was going to be. Silas’ brain isn’t removed. It isn’t destroyed. Once his scalp is peeled down over his face, the top of his skull is sawed off, and once the bone is lifted out of place, the surgeon starts cutting into his brain, injecting into the tissue, with his other hand, something that Jed doesn’t recognize, something that looks like oil in the syringe.

He has to swallow before he can ask, “what are you doing?”

The surgeon doesn’t answer him.

He’s been crying for days, but it stops quickly. Nausea roils in. Silas was scared, and for that, Jed can’t imagine, but Silas’ life had been so miserable. It had been so painful. As resistant as he had been, he was tired. He deserves to rest. “You’re not gonna let him die?”

The surgeon doesn’t lift his head, but he makes a, “heh,” sound, which probably passes as amusement for him.

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says.

“Asset Park is our most advanced weapon,” the surgeon answers, clipped, not lifting his head. “His execution would be a bitter waste.”

“What are you doing to him?” Jed asks, and the words are stale.

“Cutting out the cancer,” he says.

The first time Silas wakes up, he’s pissed. He’s pissed. The creepy surgeon dorks are supposed to be smart. They’re supposed to be the smartest. Even they can’t kill him?

The first time Silas wakes up, he wakes up during surgery, and he is so. Fuckin’. Tired. Of being awake during surgery. It’s hard to explain how much something like that hurts; it’s a pain beyond Silas’ means of description. They have to think he’s dead, they have to, because his arms aren’t restrained, but they should be smarter than that, right? They can’t tell the difference between a dead Silas and a live one?

He grabs the closest by the throat. He doesn’t know who it is — he can’t tell any of them apart in surgery, not really. They look identical, Weaver and Carver and their swarms of surgical teams. They all dress in black, surgical caps and masks and scrubs. They all have the same hungry eyes. Silas grabs one of them by the throat, it doesn’t really matter which one, because a different one quickly slits the inside of his elbow, then his wrist with a scalpel. He drops them, grunts in frustration. Drops his arm back against the table with a thunderously loud noise. Loses a couple seconds as unconsciousness creeps up on him again.

When he comes to a second time, one of the surgeons is looking at him with shining eyes. “Still,” he tells Silas, “somehow, you surprise us.”

When he wakes up, he wakes up in a bland, grey room, beneath bland, grey sheets. The surgeon standing over him is a jarring contrast, dressed all in black. It’s very small. He doesn’t recognize it.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” It asks, leaning in too close to his face.

He thinks. He can’t think of anything.

The surgeon’s eyes crinkle above its black mask. “Excellent,” it says.

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Trigger Discipline

(Masterlist)

this is pre-series, set in the first year delta was given to the emperor. delta and paris are both around 13 here.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, child abuse, dehumanization, power imbalances, minor bullying, slavery, emotional whump, mass death implied)

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

It was fall break, one of the few times Paris was allowed back into Castle Thales. He dragged the suitcase behind him. There was barely enough time to set it down before the attendants swept him into the dressing room. It was hard to play the handheld with his head up straight, but he’d gotten good at it — in the same way the maids had gotten good at working around him.

His leg bouncing annoyed them enough that they let him take recess. It was only then that he first saw his father, out in the empty hallway, against the backdrop of the purple banners. The Emperor grabbed at Paris’s wrist. He pulled it up to examine the bruises on his knuckles that the makeup hadn’t covered. No hello.

“The school called. Do you think this behavior is acceptable?” His voice was calm, always calm. Paris pulled his hand back protectively.

“They started it,” he insisted.

“Don’t talk back to me, Paris. This is beneath you.”

“I got all As. Four point seven with APs. Did the school call to tell you that too?” He didn’t hide the ire in his voice. That school was out to fucking get him. None of the other students ever got in trouble for fighting. It wasn’t like he could do it by himself.

The look his father gave him killed that argument before it could start. He wilted. The old man paid him no further mind, sending him straight back into the changing room. He spent the remainder of it in terse silence, not even arguing when they placed the crown on his head, the heavy one that always gave him migraines. He never wore it during the school year. He never wore it if he could avoid it. The weight of it felt all wrong.

Nobody mentioned there was going to be a showcase that night. (They might’ve, actually. He never checked his email back then.) Even if he’d known, he still would not have been prepared for the little off-worlder kneeling on the opposite side of the old man’s throne. Dark blue skin, even darker hair. Bright, bright eyes. The Emperor’s new toy. 

Paris realized with a start that they were the same age.

He settled into the throne. The old man hadn’t come in yet; it was weird to share the dais. He watched the other boy try his best to stay invisible, like he wasn’t even there. They’d clearly had different media training. He slipped the handheld back out of his pocket while he waited for the event to start.

He sat through most of the ball unbelievably bored by the whole thing. They’d ceased to be impressive by the time he was seven years old. He never could fix his face; he was sure the discontent was obvious upon it. He didn’t understand how anyone else could manage to be polite about it or why they bothered to. The old man was good at many things, but true spectacle was not among them. That part desperately needed work. 

Still, he was intrigued by the motion to his left-hand side, the noise as they unchained the boy from where he was kneeling and led him into the center of the room. 

The lights dimmed — and his colors burned. He did not fully grasp the technical significance of the display; he doubted most people there did. The handler explained it as a kind of microscopic manipulation of the light, some supreme physical achievement. What it manifested as was the holographic appearance of the scale dragon right over their heads, its shimmering form reflected in all the small particles of air. The mirage was impressive. Paris still did not understand what it had to do with statecraft.

He saw the boy swoon like he might faint, then steady himself. He really was fresh out of the box. His eyes flitted nervously from side to side, trying to take it all in. He flinched at any loud sound — and there were many. He wasn’t used to it yet. When they led him back to the side of the throne, he seemed more grateful to be out of the spotlight than he was upset at being chained. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes.

It took a while before Paris could get him alone, without the old man watching. He had to wait until after the showcase was over and only the ball remained.

“How did you do that?” Paris asked. He leaned against the leftmost beam of the dais, partially obscured by the curtain. The boy was still kneeling there, still chained to the empty throne’s base.

He turned his head slowly. His glowing blue eyes studied Paris carefully; for a moment, he was afraid of the intensity behind them. Paris could not read his expression, did not appreciate the creeping silence he commanded.

“I know you heard me.” A certain defensiveness crept into Paris’s voice. The boy looked at him apologetically, raising a finger to his lips.

“Oh,” Paris’s eyes widened with the realization. “You’re not allowed to talk?”

He nodded his head so subtlety that Paris guessed he wasn’t even allowed to move. 

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promised. 

The boy seemed unconvinced, his eyes passing over the crown in Paris’s hair. Fuckin’ thing. He took it off.

The old man barked his name so loudly that the boy jumped, as if it was his own. Paris just rolled his eyes, replaced the crown, and stepped away from the dais.

“It isn’t your friend,” His father warned him, “Just because you can’t keep your own doesn’t mean I’m buying you new ones.”

His face burned. 

Paris stayed up until the party was over, even when it ran well into the next morning. As the last of the guests trickled out, he sat down on the stairs of the dais. The boy’s handler came to untether him, pulling him roughly to his feet.

“Did it talk to you?” The man asked. It took Paris a second to realize the question was addressed to him. 

“No?” He said. The boy looked at him gratefully, like he’d covered up for him, when he was just telling the truth. The doctor looked somewhat disappointed by this answer. His irritation switched targets.

“You shouldn’t speak Common in the palace. It’s unbecoming.”

Every adult swore they had a right to tell him how to act. Even this total stranger.

“Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to?” Paris snapped. 

The fight drained out of him as his father re-entered the hall. All noise died but for his voice.

“I’ll take it,” his father said, extending one hand out in an almost chivalrous motion. The boy, now unchained at the neck, quickly jogged down the stairs to meet him. Paris watched as his father slid his hand onto the boy’s shoulder, leading him gently out of the hall. He watched as one ringed hand brushed a strand of black hair out of the boy’s face. The boy flinched — ungrateful.

========

The Emperor did the same thing over spring break, the next time Paris returned to Thales. He had to watch the same routine, watch the old man carefully soothe out the folds of Delta’s clothing, run a thumb over his cheek. He’d been given free reign at this one, apparently. Even though he kneeled by the dais again, he wasn’t chained to it. It seemed like he was allowed to take breaks.

“It’s an object,” the Emperor would insist whenever Paris tried to get close. “What use do you have for it? I won’t tell you again.”

He still paid it more attention than he ever spared him. So publicly, as if he wanted him to see. Paris bit into the flesh of his own hand, leaving teethmarks. His father smacked him on the back of the head; he withdrew his hand back to his side, wiping the blood and saliva along his pants.

He could only corner Delta when the night was closing in, when all the adults were too drunk to notice. Paris caught him just outside of the dining room. He flicked at the silver tiara placed into his — its? — hair. It fell a few inches out of place. Wordlessly, Delta readjusted it. He kept his head bowed, his hands at his side, not speaking. Totally resigned to the treatment. 

“He doesn’t actually like you, you know.” Paris said. There wasn’t much certainty behind the statement. 

It got a reaction, but not the one he had hoped. Delta looked up a bit, the side of his mouth quirked up into a disbelieving grin. He thought it was funny. He was fucking laughing at him.

Paris was temporarily too mad to even see. Delta seemed to recognize the danger and immediately became expressionless again.

“Sorry.” There was still a bit of humor in his voice. “Um. Yeah. I know.”

Like he didn’t even care. It didn’t mean to him what it meant to Paris. 

His hands curled into fists. Delta noticed, stepping back a little.

“Your Highness,” He added the honorific on quickly, as if that was the problem. 

“Forget it,” Paris waved him off. 

He walked away before Delta could even respond, retreating to his room. He’d be reprimanded for it later, but there was no way he could go back to the party now. There was something hollow in him that would not let him sleep.

===========

Delta moved the pawn forward, his claws clicking delicately against the piece. The whole board shook from the turbulence of the ship. 

Even in summer, it seemed like they were making a concentrated effort to keep Parks out of his own house.  He saw his dad more, though. It was tour season; he was obligated to tag along. It meant that his schooling never truly ended throughout the year, but he didn’t mind so much. Everyone said he was a natural.

Delta was the only person even close to his age on the tours. As much as he’d been discouraged from interacting with him, they saw each other constantly, the only ones at each other’s eye level. He would’ve sworn the kid sought him out on purpose. 

He didn’t talk much, but he was good at listening, which Paris cared more about. They broke off from the main group in the downtime, descending deeper into the ship. There was an old chess set laying around in the crew’s lounge. Paris had climbed up to the top shelf to get it, letting it clatter loudly against the coffee table. Delta knew how to play; it was weird, the things he knew and didn’t know. The things he was good at. Paris got the sense that Delta was letting him win. 

They were halfway through the second game when the doors opened up, entirely too many personnel for the situation at hand. The Emperor was among them. Paris shrank back.

He startled as Delta’s handler abruptly backhanded the boy, knocking him out of his seat and onto the floor. He heard Delta take a sharp inhale of breath, but remain silent otherwise. 

“Apologize.” The doctor’s hand was in a vice grip against the back of the boy’s neck, nearly pressing his head to the ground in the forced bow.

“I’m sorry,” Delta responded immediately, without hesitation, even though it hadn’t been his fault. The doctor shook him a little, prompting a stronger reaction. “I’m so sorry, Your Highness.”

Paris had asked him to. It’d been his idea. But his father was standing right there. He couldn’t bring himself to admit to it, not after he’d already been warned. 

“It’s okay,” Paris said softly; the words felt sickly in his mouth.

As he caught the expression on the Emperor’s face, he could tell it hadn’t mattered. The old man hadn’t believed it for a second.

The doctor released his hold, pointing sharply back to the exit. Delta scrambled to his feet, practically running out of the door. He hadn’t been looking at Paris when he’d apologized and he didn’t look back at him when he left.

They all followed out onto the balcony for the show of force. With the handprint still across his face, Delta sat by the edge of the platform, his eyes closed in deep concentration. In the next moment, there was calamity. The large fortress walls all broke down beneath their own weight, sending the enemy castle tumbling down into the sea. All the residents had still been inside. The old man kept a tight grip on the back of Paris’s collar, making sure he saw all of it.

===========

The clipshow continued in the Emperor’s office, all the shades drawn and the lights dimmed. It was a supercut of the weapon’s military record, all the carnage, even the burnt bodies. Some of the shots were truly gratuitous. Paris wasn’t allowed to look away. 

“Twelve years in the making and you’re selfish enough to endanger it. You can’t be that desperate,” his father said.

“I wasn’t trying to endanger it.” Paris’s fist clenched and unclenched against the chair. “I didn’t…think it was a big deal.”

“And I assume you know more than the experts, like always.” It was still dark in the room. The clips were still playing silently.

Paris’s lip bled a little from where he bit it. He had matching cuts along his tongue. He shook his head.

“I don’t know how to make this more explicit to you, Paris. It is a weapon. It may look like a person, but its sole purpose is to kill and destroy.” The video showed a still-living hand reaching out from beneath the rubble. “It does not need you confusing it or meddling with its programming. When I tell you not to interact with it, I am doing it for your own good. Its reactions are unpredictable. The last thing I want is for you to become one of its casualties.”

Paris flinched as his father’s hands slammed down onto the desk. His voice still came out calm.

“It only exists to be commanded — and that command is not yours. You will not meddle with my property. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” he muttered beneath his breath.

“This will not be a conversation next time,” the Emperor promised. Paris nodded. His throat was choked up.

He slinked out of the still-dark office, back down the hall to his room. He was glad summer was ending. He didn’t even want to be home anymore.

He was surprised to see Delta still pacing the halls with his handler, not yet placed back in his cell. He briefly made eye contact with Paris, then immediately cast his gaze back down to the floor, chastened.

……

tags:

@catnykit @snakebites-and-ink @vivulapom @scoundrelwithboba @whatwhump

@pumpkin-spice-whump @deluxewhump @fuckass1000 @fuckcapitalismasshole @defire

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[cepheusgalaxy]

CAHAM since it's lesbian day i feel like we need a good ol lesbian prompt:

Power imbalance whump where Whumper is the boss of a team and Whumpee is one of her top agents. But she only acts in her own interests, so stubborn and defiant, until... well, let's say Whumper has a way to be pretty convincing, and the rest of the team is quite impressed. Whumpee has never been that obedient! I mean, not exactly obedient, but she will get in line as soon as Whumper enters the room. Bonus points for one sided romance or dubcon!

Now, moving onto something a little healthier, Whumpee who is a living weapon. Classic; she hadn't ever known affection or care, until she is rescued or perhaps even captured, until Caretaker is put in the picture. Caretaker, the first woman, the first person, that's ever shown her an ounce of kindness, and oh, she doesn't know if she can even love or care for someone like that, but if it's for Caretaker, she'll give her heart and life if needed. All of her. (Perhaps not that healthy, tho.)

Or perhaps, moving on to other territorry, multiple whumpees scenario where Whumpee A and B are in a terrible situation, but A protects B at all costs: No, don't torture her, choose me. I don't need the food, give it to her. You can take my limbs, just please don't touch her. Not her. Me. And what can B do, if not watch? Maybe they were lovers, maybe she and A already knew each other but didn't notice each other's feelings until... well. Until A put her whole self on the fire just so B could be safe. Maybe they didn't even knew each other. Maybe A is just like that, maybe A felt like she needed to protect the other whumpee as soon as they met, maybe A wants to repay a favor (that B doesn't even remember, in true Heaven's Official's Blessing fashion), maybe B is valuable in some way (a rare species? a promising magician? someone A was put in charge to protect?) and A feels like she's not even close to be as worth her. She's less. She can take it. As long as it means keeping B safe.

(And maybe, as a bonus, torture B in front of A? Just to see her despair? As she feels that she failed? As she screams and shivers on the floor and her eyes fill with tears, and her ears, with static, pulling helplessly at her constraints, or fighting the inability to help with all those previous injuries she fought so hard to get?)

And lastly, to close it and wrap it up as a gift, multiple whumpers. That's not someting I see a lot, but it is pretty interesting. Whumper A and B who are a couple. Each one of them has a preferred torture method, or maybe one of them is batshit sadistic and the other just sighs and helps her. Oh, what one doesn't do in the name of love! Maybe they are partners in business, and one provides all the other needs for her deeds. Maybe each of them has their own whumpees—perhaps in a setting of BBU? Maybe Whumper B is even a loyal knight to A, her living weapon and torturer, and B doesn't even regret it. A is her mistress, her everything. She doesn't really care about the others. A treats her well, A's saved her. And really, what is a bit more of blood in her hands to see her shining smile? And well—she thinks while A pets her hair after her hands are washed in fancy soap in a fancy bathub above the dungeons where their latest work lays, screaming hoarse—it's not like she can't enjoy the ordeal a bit too, right?

[whumpalicious08]

More Public Humiliation Whump (READ WARNINGS ⚠️)

---

Aka my magnum opus, in my humble opinion.

⚠️Cw⚠️ / Smoking, Drinking, Gun violence, graphic gore, minor character death, non consensual touching (over clothes), manipulation/manipulative language, religious (catholic) imagery & references, internalised shame, public humiliation, possessive behaviour

2nd person Whumpee has they/them pronouns. Brief, vague mention of area between legs, no explicit reference to any biological organs.

---

Living Weapon Whumpee / Mafia Whumper.

---

You find it difficult to breathe inside the pub. Smoke congeals with the air and stains the insides of your lungs.

The stench of blood is so strong it makes your mouth taste metallic.

Whumper is speaking and everything else feels quiet.

"...Kid comes waltzin' into your house, starts touchin' on your property. Can't hardly blame nobody for gettin' a little unkind."

There's a man on the floor in front of him. He's a couple years younger than you- twenty. He's studying geology, a topic that lit up his eyes endearingly. He's on his gap year.

You'd tried to warn him off you, gentle but insistent. Whumper likes you seen and not heard.

But the charming bastard had leaned in, eyes painfully kind, and he'd told you how pretty he thought your smile was. It'd been so long since anybody'd told you that.

The kid had brushed his knuckles over your wrist, coyly hiding his concern at your reaction. His compassion had distracted you.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

He'd dragged the kid away from the bar, away from you, and into a more open area. God, you'd forgotten to even ask his name.

You hadn't seen Whumper approach.

You don't see him now, either. You turn your face away and stare down at your drink. But the tourist's throat keeps flapping wet gurgling noises and you can't turn away your ears.

Another shot cracks through the air. Another terrible banshee cry. You count up from one silently to distract yourself.

It doesn't work, but you pretend that it does, and that's enough sometimes.

It was enough before, when Whumper had jovially condescended to the tourist and amicably levelled his shotgun at his knee.

(You'd missed the money shot. You always strive to when you can, innate coward that you are.)

Whumper loves that gun. He's always telling you that it's;

"a gorgeous weapon second only to one".

He'd won it from the Sheriff, during a poker game he'd hosted last month. The policemen in attendance tonight eye it with just as much desire as they do Whumper; the perfect power fantasy.

"Please."

The kid's warped voice rings too loudly in your head. You falter at 37 and can't start over.

Whumper does something to him that makes him hack up air like a cat, unable to scream any longer.

"Shut up and listen real fuckin' close. Whumpee is mine. Mine to touch, mine to use."

You feel the tips of your ears burn in violent shame. Your teeth feel wobbly with how hard you're clenching them.

Whumper's silent for a beat. You don't need to be facing him to know he's looking at you. "Sometimes, they're so damn good at bein' owned I get to thinkin' they like it." His tone turns jeeringly wistful, and indignation curls your hands into fists.

People's eyes and unspoken words become embedded in your skin like shrapnel. Pieces of you, of them, sting when you think you've found reprieve.

"All I'm doin' to you is some kindly teachin'. Got to set an example, you understand."

"Did- I didn't-"

You think he may be trying to say he didn't know, but it'd be futile anyway. Whumper wants an execution. The tourist begins to catch up and abandons his words for sobs.

Whumper hums in sympathy, the sound vulgar in its sincerity. "Whumpee. C'mere."

There's white hot needle points dancing over your body as you stand. The shrapnel sinks deeper as more attention shifts to you.

You find it harder and harder to avoid looking at Whumper's barbarity. The tourist's humanity entices your own; you grow unable to pretend either don't exist.

You reach Whumper's side and look down.

The bullet had shattered the kid's kneecap fully. There's a gorge where it should be; exposing jelly-like tissue the colour of pus and flesh and viscera. Dark shades of dried blood makes it look like somebody'd rubbed dirt into the gore - you can imagine Whumper doing that, tearing at the edges of the exit wound with gritty black fingernails.

His elbow is gone too, chips of shattered bone and viscous chunks of torn muscle the only remnants of it left.

You notice that the tourist's lips are moving once more, and gratefully take the opportunity to look away from the depravity. You can't hear what he's saying. Just the feverish, incoherent ramblings of a man from whom Death will have to beg for mercy.

Whumper's voice pounds against the inside of your skull like tinnitus, trying desperately to drown out the injustice he's caused.

"Kill him. Bastard's all used up." Whumper's cigarette wobbles as he snaps the order. His perverted sense of mercy makes you squeamish.

You've met people who mark their kills. Some do it to boast. Some do it to self-flagellate.

You've never had to carve anything into your bedpost. Every one of your victims live on, feeding, parasitic within you.

But this ... this boy, convulsing and begging in a pool of his own fluid; his death will be a tumour, destruction for destruction's sake.

You're suddenly not sure that you can handle another ghost.

"No."

Whumper's eyes cut into you. You used to believe he had the Devil in them. Now you don't believe there are any Gods or Demons here at all.

"Say that again?"

He's offering you an out he knows you won't take.

You lower your head, but peer up at him through your lashes, a veiled mockery of the submission he expects. He's pushed you just far enough tonight. The several shots of sickening, unidentifiable liquids coalescing in your stomach makes you too brave.

"No, Sir."

Whumper likes you brave. He'll fill your glass and enjoy the consequences.

His hand closes around your arm, fingernails ripping skin, and he roughly handles you into position. You try to jerk away, but the weight of his shotgun reminds you of his conviction.

The tourist is crying again. You can't remember if he'd ever stopped.

Whumper's chest is firm against your back. His leg parts yours sightly and he angles your body with intent, displaying you to the rest of the pub. He rests the long barrel of his gun on your hip, slowly guiding it lower. "I ain't askin', angel."

The pub's only sparsely populated today, and some people are only watching out the corners of their eyes.

But it may as well be packed to you.

Whumper lingers behind your knee purposefully; making you think he might actually do it, before he moves on again.

You feel your heartbeat everywhere; in your throat, under your fingertips, at your temples.

You feel terror everywhere, too. You think it's circulating the room, a plague of quiet fear. Endemic to the bar and your body.

The gun stops at your inner thigh.

Whumper brushes his lips against your ear. Radiant heat from his cigarette warms your clammy neck. "You'll do as you're fucking told."

He gyrates the barrel ever so slightly, a brutish imitation of a caress. Your breath hitches. I own you.

The muzzle's pointing down, safety on. He doesn't need a lethal weapon to remind you how to behave. I own you.

If you hesitate any further, it's only for a second.

Your defiance is brittle and impulsive. Your deference is always enduring.

The bitter pill Whumper feeds you settles on your tongue and makes you think maybe you do like being owned.

"I'm sorry."

The gun's driven sharply upwards, stabbing too hard even through clothing. Your ignoble cry seems to carry. He holds you in place and it hurts.

"Louder."

"I'm sorry-"

He slips his fingers down your back pocket and pulls out your revolver. He presses it into your hand and steps behind, painful pressure lifting off your back and from between your legs.

"Show me, then."

Eyes are boring into you. Whumper's, the patrons'. You hear somebody sniffling across the pub. You have the feeling there are more.

Under different circumstances you'd sneer at the pity, but the room's just seen Whumper what, assault you? Debauch you?

You're pretty damn pitiable right about now.

The tourist's lips are still fluttering. You lower yourself down on one knee to hear him better.

"...forgive thy... holy father ... mercy on me."

You glance at his neck in case you've missed anything. No cross.

You place your hand over his darting eyes, and your gun over his forehead. His mouth stops moving, and then he does too.

For one bleak moment you hope, much for the tourist's benefit and quite contrarily to your own, that there is a next life. You hope that Whumper will burn in infernal fire; searing with a fury rivalled only by the flames awaiting you.

There's more friction generated by the bullet than you'd like. Smoke from the barrel rises up, up.

Whumper's derisive words feel distant, but his fingertips gently carding through your hair seem to scald. "Wasn't so hard, was it?"

You breathe in and choke.

---

[whomeidontknowthem]

MOURN THEM (4)

Part 4/9 for the Alphabet of Whump. Masterpost.

Content warning: blood, torture, electric collars, living weapon whump, death, conditioning, dehumanization.

R is for Reinforcement

Eighteen was dragged down the narrow staircase, tripping and half falling as each step made the pain flare. She felt her bone move when she hit the sharp stones, air forced out with a pathetic whimper. 

“Kneel,” her handler hissed and yanked her head up. She hurried and struggled to balance the position in a way that didn’t put weight on her broken leg. Whimpered when a sharp slap made her head roll to the side. “What did you do wrong?” the handler demanded, fury so bright in their voice Niveth’s entire being lit up with terror.

“I disobeyed my order,” Eighteen forced through her tight throat, the only acceptable answer. There was no denying, no excusing herself. She prayed it would end quicker if she cooperated. 

Sharp fingernails pierced into her chin, forcing her to look up. “You nearly got your superior killed,” the handler clarified.

Their simple, clinical words went through Eighteen’s body like a blade, making her shudder and gasp. She did, she did, she’d fucked up, she didn’t– she’d learned her lesson, she knew what she’d done wrong, they didn’t have to– please, they didn’t have to–

“I know what’s wrong with you,” the handler said. It was almost a relief if not for the panic the rose the next second. Eighteen hadn’t wanted to fuck up, she wanted to do good. She wanted to know how to do better. She didn’t want to be punished.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered desperately. 

A kick to the face sent her falling backwards, and as her body twisted she felt the bone, deep inside her flesh, move again, leg bending where it shouldn’t. She screamed.

“You think you can avoid this, don’t you?” they asked, towering above her. Their foot settled on her thigh, not pushing. Yet. 

“I’m s-so s-sorry,” her throat constricted, sobs wrenching their way out even as she tried to speak. “I d-didn’t mean, I’m so– it won’t happen ag-again. Please, please, I’m s– aaAAAHHH!” the handler pushed down, and she felt, excruciatingly, as the sharp bone moved through the flesh, piercing and cutting and bringing agony.

“You try to avoid pain,” the handler told her as she tried to crawl away, fingernails catching on the stone and breaking off. “You don’t want to feel it, do you?”

Eighteen sobbed breathlessly. She knew better than to deny the obvious and better than to give an answer the handler wouldn’t like. She desperately wanted, needed it to be over. 

The pressure of their foot lifted, and Niveth was left to lie motionlessly in a heap of hurt and broken tears. Her mind faded in and out, and she couldn’t say how long passed or what the handler’d done before a shock jolted her back to awareness. She whined and was halfway standing before she realized they’d order her to stand. Just a bit of weight put on accident onto her leg nearly had her tumbling down.

The handler watched her and her eyes flew wide when she saw the whip they held: seven long, thin braids ending with thick knots tied around rough metal beads. Oh, Niveth knew this one, Niveth knew this one, and the memory was nearly enough to bring her back to her knees, begging and pleading uselessly and endlessly. 

The handler played with it, hitting their hand with no real power, then raised their arm, flickered their wrist, and–

She flinched so much she lost balance, stepped backwards and her leg immediately burned her nerves with excruciating pain. She hit the floor and writhed, agony overwhelming her senses. The whip hadn’t even landed.

“This is what I’m talking about,” the handler told her. “You don’t want pain. You, for some reason, let yourself think that you get to want it gone.” 

Eighteen breathed heavily. Didn’t reply. 

“Get up.” She couldn’t. She moved, slowly, forcing herself up on just one leg. The handler studied her, whip flickering around him. “Hold still now. What happened during the mission?”

It took her long, long moments to process his words, eyes tracing the whip’s movements in a growing panic. Even longer to force her mouth open. “I did– didn’t obey an o-order.”

“Which order was that?”

“To protect miss T–” the whip cut throw air with no warning, and no matter how Niveth tried to jerk away, she was too late, too slow – it landed across her chest, the impact fast as a lightning through her nerves, all tingling from the unbearable sting. She didn’t remember how she found herself tilted to the side, floor much too close.

“You didn’t stay still,” the handler noted drily. “We’re going to have to try again. Up.”

She tried. She couldn’t, her body didn’t cooperate, refused to move even as their steps came closer, much too close. They dragged her by the hair, body scraping across the floor, and pushed her against a wall. She clang to it, bloodied fingertips searching for just enough support to get herself upright once again.

It was barely enough to keep her standing when the whip hit again. When her body fired with pain the third time, she slumped against it. When it happened the fourth time, she couldn’t even scream, lungs locking from the endless flood of agony. On the fifth, she closed her eyes. The sixth didn’t come and it took her way too long to hear an order to look. She was expected to keep her eyes opened. She couldn’t stop herself from flinching when a new hit aimed for her face.

“Why didn’t you follow the order?” They must have asked her that a few times, many enough for her brain to process the words. She felt her body convulse and the floor was, again, right before her eyes. She didn’t know for how long it had been. “Why?” the handler pressed.

Eighteen closed her eyes. Fat, useless tears streamed down, helping nothing, doing nothing. She moved her tongue with great effort when the shock from the collar started to gather, sending her whole body tingling.

“I didn’t… I d-didn’t want to… to die.”

In the blur of her vision, she almost thought she saw the handler smile. “And now?”

Eighteen cried, too exhausted to even sob. Death felt like an unachievable mercy. The handler crouched by her, fingers settling on her neck, above the collar. They hummed, “We’re gonna have to continue this lesson tomorrow,” they decided. “You’re gonna have to learn that you don’t get to want.”

[necrotic-nephilim]

TimCass - "What is this 'mercy' you speak of?"

(not cassie)

send a ship and a quote and i'll write a short fic!

TimCass my beloved. this is 1.5k of just. mostly emotional whump with brainwashing involved. very inspired by that time in canon where Cass was working with Slade, but. done my way bc that arc was a shitshow. enjoy <3

Two months, three weeks, and five days.

That was how long they’d been looking for Cass since she vanished with no trace.

And now that Tim had found her, he was almost starting to regret it.

Any fight with Cass was a losing one, but Tim swore she was even more brutal than before. It wasn't like fighting a human. She was a living weapon, throwing knives at Tim and dodging every blow he tried to land on her.

He wasn't fighting to win. He was fighting to just stay alive.

“Cass-” Tim tried to say, dodging a slash from one of her katanas. She was duel wielding with perfect precision. Moves Tim didn't know normal humans were capable of. “Cass, it's me!” His bo staff stopped another attack. “You know me, it's Tim!”

If she recognized him, she didn't let on. The blankness of her stare made Tim guess she didn't. It twisted knots in his stomach, trying to figure out where the hell she had been.

Who had gotten to her.

Cass didn't say a word. Nothing Tim said could get so much of a reaction out of her. It was as if she didn't hear him at all.

He should've brought backup. Tim didn't think this lead would pan out, after so many false starts. And now, he paid for it. Backed in a corner, deep in the woods that surrounded Gotham where his tracker had no signal.

Tim was pretty sure this was a trap he’d walked right into.

Cass swung with a katana again, but this time, it was just a distraction. She kicked out Tim’s feet. The moment Tim’s back hit the ground and the wind got knocked out of him, a katana plunged into his shoulder. It went straight through to nail him to the ground, like a pinned butterfly.

Tim wasn't ashamed of his scream. The pain was indescribable. Blindly distracting. He had to force himself to not panic. Cass already had a knife in her hand.

“You’re not a killer, Cass,” Tim begged, trying anything to get through to her. “I want to help you. Please don't do this.” He tried to reach up to her. Cass threw her knife and Tim’s hand got pinned to the ground too, the blade slicing through his skin and muscles like paper.

This time, he managed to not scream.

Cass stared down at him with nothing in her eyes. She lifted her other katana.

“Mercy!” Tim was desperate. “Cass, mercy, please. Just let me talk, I swear.”

She paused.

Her face remained blank, but she paused. Tim held his breath, waiting for the katana to come down on his neck.

Cass opened her mouth. “What…” She was talking. Tim prayed that was a good sign. Just the sound of her voice made him want to cry. “What is… this… mercy you speak of?” She struggled on every word. Finally, her faced changed. Eyebrows knit together and mouth formed into the smallest of frowns.

It didn't sound like a mocking question. Her confusion was so genuine Tim wished he could reach up and touch her. Hold her face and tell her it was going to be okay. Cass’ eyes searched Tim’s face for an answer.

“You,” Tim said, blinking back tears. “You’re what mercy is. You don't kill, Cass. You believe everyone deserves to live. That's mercy.”

Cass shook her head. She looked angry for a second, then confused again. Every emotion seemed to be fighting against her for control.

“Weapon.” Cass pointed to herself. “Not mercy.”

“No.” Tim’s voice broke. “You aren't- whoever told you that is lying. You're the kindest person I know. You’re not a weapon.”

Cass was gripping the hilt of her katana so tightly her hand was beginning to shake. “Kind?”

“Yes.” Tim nodded emphatically.

“I don't… know you,” she sounded regretful. There was anger to it, but she seemed angry at herself now instead of Tim.

“Take my mask off,” Tim offered. He couldn't reach up to her, no matter how badly he wanted to. Both his hands were useless with how she pinned him.

There was hesitation. For a second, Tim was convinced she was going to peel his mask off his corpse.

But then Cass slowly knelt next to Tim, knees crunching against the leaves and pine needles on bare ground. She kept her katana in one hand, but her other one reached for Tim’s face. His mask was carefully peeled off, gentle fingers brushing against his skin.

Cass stared at him for a long time. Tim was vaguely aware he was going to bleed out soon, but all he could think about was his reflection in Cass’ sad eyes.

“Don't know you,” Cass repeated softly. He fingers traced over Tim’s face though, and he held perfectly still. “But…”

“But?” Tim proded when she paused for too long.

“I…” Cass pressed her lips together. It was all too familiar, the exact face she always made when she was trying to find her words. “Think I love you.”

Tim was crying now. Tears falling down his cheeks without an ounce of shame.

“Love you too, Cass,” Tim promised. He gave her the strongest smile he could manage. “Let me help you.”

The softness vanished from her face. She violently shook her head, leaning away from Tim.

“No,” Cass’ voice was strong and firm. “You can't.” She yanked her hand off of Tim’s face, as if his skin had burned her.

“If you love me, then trust me,” Tim begged. He wanted to hold her more than he’d ever wanted something in his life.

Cass shook her head. “Weapon. Will hurt you.” Her eyes drifted to Tim's shoulder and hand that were still pouring blood. “Hurt you,” she whispered, eyes going wide.

“I’m okay,” Tim tried to insist. He was lightheaded and fighting to hold onto consciousness. There was no hiding that from her, but Tim wouldn't let Cass blame herself. “You didn't do this. But you have to tell me who you’re working with. They did this, not you, okay?”

“Can’t.” Tears were starting to fall down Cass’ face too. “Orders.”

“They won't hurt you.” Tim blinked hard. He remembered every tactic Bruce taught him for staying conscious. “I’ll keep you safe, I swear on my life.”

Cass’ fingers twitched toward Tim. Unsure and unsteady. “Safe?”

Tim smiled at her as best he could. “Yes. We’ll both be-”

“If you caught something, you better have killed it by now!” A new voice shouted from a short distance. Followed by heavy footsteps.

Cass snatched her hand away from Tim. Her eyes went wide with unmistakable fear. Then her face went completely blank.

When Tim came to, it was on a medical gurney. He snapped awake with a gasp, trying to sit up. Too many machines were hooked up to him.

That voice. Tim knew that voice. If he just stayed conscious long enough to figure out who it was, he could-

“Careful!” Strong, familiar hands gently pushed Tim back down. “You’re going to tear your stitches.” Dick’s face came into focus as Tim blinked, adjusting to the light.

Tim’s head was spinning. He tried to think, grasping for any recent memories. “What happened?”

“We’re hoping you can tell us,” Dick said softly, concern in his eyes. Behind him, Alfred was cleaning up bloody bandages. “Alfred found you bleeding out in the cave. We… christ, Tim. We thought you weren't gonna make it for a second.”

Tim reached for the bandage wrapping his shoulder. Feeling where Cass’ blade had been.

Cass.

“No one else was here?” Tim asked.

Dick’s frown deepened and he shook his head. “The cameras only picked up on you unconscious at the mouth of the cave.”

“It was Cass,” Tim realized. His heart was stuck in his throat. “I found Cass and- she must've brought me here.”

“The cameras would’ve-”

“She would know how to avoid them,” Tim insisted. “I couldn't have gotten here on my own, Dick. I was already half dead.”

Dick’s face just twisted with more concern. Tim could see the hope he was trying hide, though. “Because of Cass?”

“Someone's manipulating her.” Tim couldn’t get the look on her face out of his head.

“Do you know who?”

Tim thought for a moment. That voice. He definitely knew that voice. He nodded. Tim sat up again, slower this time, already thinking of a plan to get Cass back. He promised her.

“Deathstroke.”

He loved her.

[lady-wallace]

Whumptober Day 24: Radiation Poisoning

More Vampire AU today's @whumptober prompt, but it's Giorno whump.

Prompt: 'I never knew daylight could be so violent' Fandom: JoJo's Bizarre Adventure Part 5 (Vampire Hunter AU) Character: Giorno

~~~~~~~

Read on Ao3

~~~~~~~

Too Close to the Sun

Vampire Hunter AU—Giorno accidently comes into contact with a serum that makes his weaknesses as a dhampir more prevalent.

~~~~~~~

Sounds of crashing could be heard behind the door as Mista put his shoulder to it, trying to force it open.

“It’s probably barred,” Giorno said. “We need to try getting him to calm down before we get him out of there or this could become a very dangerous situation.”

“Because talking went so well earlier,” Fugo snapped.

Giorno clenched his jaw, but couldn’t deny Fugo had a point.

They’d been asked to look into a young dhampir who had taken it upon himself to become a nuisance to the vampire society of Napoli and talk him down before he did anything he would really regret. However, as soon as they had gotten there, he had gone off on some rant about taking down the vampire aristocracy and ran off to the upper story of the house where he had locked himself into one of the rooms.

Mista looked between his companions with a shrug obviously deferring to their opinion.

Fugo huffed. “We need to get in there.”

Giorno stood back, arms folded over his chest. He still would have liked to go with a less violent approach, but it did seem like they wouldn’t get anywhere otherwise.

Mista took out his blunderbuss and pressed it against the lock. “Stay away from the door!” he shouted into the room as he fired.

Parts of the door splintered off and Mista and Fugo gave it a couple firm kicks to open fully.

Giorno rushed inside after them, stopping for a moment in shock at what he saw.

The room was covered in laboratory equipment. Liquids boiling and distilling in tubes and beakers. There were glass shards on the floor as if some equipment had broken.

The dhampir spun around, facing them with a large knife, glowering.

“You’re just the same as all of them!” he snarled. “You’re all on the side of the vampires!”

“That’s not true,” Giorno said, trying to put his hands up calmly, stepping in front of Mista and Fugo who were both carrying weapons at the ready. “It’s a Hunter’s job to be unbiased.”

“Then why are you coming after me?” the dhampir demanded.

“Because we’re worried that you’ll hurt someone who doesn’t deserve your wrath,” Giorno told him. “We just came to talk.”

“Then tell them to put their weapons down!”

Giorno shook his head. “They can’t do that. But you can just talk to me, okay? I’m a dhampir as well. Your name is Marco, right?”

The young man eyed him warily, before his face contorted in rage. “If you are a dhampir then you should understand more than anyone what it’s like, and yet you defend those who oppress us!” He threw an arm toward the beakers. “I have been trying to find a way to make us stronger, so that we at least have a chance to go up against them. Don’t you see, Hunter? The future will be ours. You should join me so we can take down the ones who wish to grind us into the dirt.”

Giorno felt a deep sadness at the desperation on Marco’s face. “I can’t speak for you, Marco, and the life you’ve lived, but the one thing I have learned is that for every bad person in this world there is a good one who is also seeking change. I know it’s hard to see it this way, but flashy displays of violence only hurt a cause like ours. I know it can sometimes seem that there will never be a light at the end of that tunnel but that light isn’t going to be made with an explosion either.”

Marco seemed to contemplate his words for a few moments, before his fists clenched again. “Have you ever thought that you’re just a coward for thinking that way?”

Giorno tried not to let that bite at him, but he could feel Mista and Fugo’s impatience behind him, their unease as the dhampir got more and more agitated. He needed to stop this. He stepped forward.

“Marco, you have two options here. Either come with us quietly or we’ll be forced to take you down to the prison.”

Marco sneered. “You really are just like all of them, aren’t you?! Why don’t you all just go to hell!”

He rushed the Hunters, and grabbed Giorno, flinging him to the side. Giorno crashed into one of the tables tipping over a rack that contained multiple vials of liquid. The vials crashed to the floor with Giorno and shattered. He hissed as glass from one dug into his hand.

“No!” Marco shouted, clenching at his hair, distraught. “No, no NO! That was my serum! That’s all I had!”

He tried to rush for Giorno, grabbing for several of the unbroken vials that rolled around the floor when Fugo and Mista managed to grab hold of him from behind, dragging him backwards as he screamed and fought like a madman.

Giorno pushed himself up, removing the glass from his hand. He had no time to think about what might have been in those vials and now consequently in his body, because Fugo and Mista were struggling to restrain the dhampir who was spewing curses at them.

“You alright, Giorno?” Mista called, barely avoiding a flying fist.

Giorno plucked a couple more shards of glass from his hand. “I’m fine. We need to call the constables.”

“Well, do it quick,” Fugo snapped as he and Mista finally wrestled the dhampir to the ground and started to tie restraints around his wrists and ankles before tying them together.

Giorno tied a handkerchief around his hand as he hurried out of the room and down the stairs. His footsteps clattered uncomfortably loud in his head for some reason—must be the emptiness of the house.

Their carriage driver was waiting outside and Giorno planned to ask him to run to the police station in town.

However, as soon as he stepped from the shade of the house, his body burned as if he had suddenly caught fire.

Giorno let out a shocked scream, staggering backwards as he stared down at his right hand, seeing it red and blistered. His whole arm, up to his neck and that side of his face also felt raw and painful.

The driver leapt off the carriage and hurried over to him.

“Signore Giovanna! Are you alright?”

Giorno gritted his teeth, wincing at how loud the man’s voice was, his heartbeat so much more prominent than it should have been. “I-I’ll be fine. We need you to run for the police now.”

The man looked skeptical, but Fugo burst out the door in a second, staring at Giorno.

“What happened, why did you scream?”

He trailed off as Giorno turned to him and his eyes widened, crouching next to him. “Giorno! You’re face, what…?”

“I’ll go get the police,” the driver promised, seeming satisfied that Fugo would help Giorno now as he hurried off down the street.

“What the hell happened?” Fugo demanded again.

Giorno cringed. “Please, be quiet,” he pleaded. “My head….everything is so loud.”

“Was there some kind of booby trap?”

Giorno shook his head. “Just…the sun. I don’t…I don’t know what happened.”

Fugo took Giorno’s good hand and helped pull him to his feet, allowing Giorno to lean on him as he helped the dhampir back inside. “I’ve only ever seen these kinds of burns on a vampire who got exposed in the sun.”

Giorno nodded, wincing as Fugo sat him down at the base of the stairs in the foyer. “Stay here for now. I’m going to go see what the hell that little bastard put in his ‘serum’.”

Giorno sat there, slumped against the railing as Fugo headed back upstairs. He could hear everything they talked about from where he was.

“What’s in it?”

“I told you,” Marco snapped. “It was meant to make a dhampir more powerful.”

“It doesn’t seem like it worked,” Fugo replied.

“It simply magnifies our senses and abilities.”

“You realize it also magnifies your allergy to sunlight, right?”

Giorno furrowed his brows. The serum was interesting in theory but it did seem rather counterproductive even if it seemed to work the way it was intended, more or less.

“How long does it last?”

“I don’t know, I’ve only done one test run. Not very long.”

Giorno wished his body wasn’t in such agony at the moment. The burns pulled against his clothing—it really hadn’t done much to protect him. Was this what it was like to be a full vampire?

The police showed up and took the dhampir into custody as he continued shouting threats. Then Fugo and Mista hurried to help Giorno up and get him out to the carriage.

“We’ll get the driver to pull it as close as possible,” Mista promised. “In the meantime, take our coats. We’ll use this umbrella too.”

Mista and Fugo settled their coats over Giorno’s head and Mista held the umbrella over him as Fugo helped him to the carriage, shutting all of the windows as soon as he was inside, leaving them all in darkness.

“How bad is it, Giorno?” Mista asked him worriedly.

“I’ll…be okay,” Giorno grunted. He thought, anyway. Every mild bump the carriage went over jostled his body painfully, and his increased audio sensitivity was really starting to make his head pound on top of it.

They repeated the procedure of getting him out of the carriage covered as much as possible. Giorno could still feel the uncomfortable heat on his lower body, but the house was blessedly cool since the maids kept the curtains drawn for the most part with so many supernaturals living in the mansion.

“Infirmary,” Fugo said.

Footsteps sounded and Giorno could see Trish heading down the stairs.

“Oh, you’re all back? I assumed you would still be at the police station. Bucciarati just headed over there.”

“Giorno was injured,” Mista said.

“What?” Trish demanded, hurrying over to them. As soon as she saw Giorno’s face, she gasped. “Did you get burned?”

Giorno cringed and Fugo turned to Trish. “Try to keep your voice low, he’s overly sensitive right now.”

They explained what had happened as Trish followed them to the infirmary.

“Trish there should be some salve on that shelf over there for burns.”

Trish headed over to look and Giorno slumped onto one of the cots as Mista and Fugo helped him take his coat and shirt off.

Giorno hissed, the burns stinging abysmally as they were exposed to the air.

“Here, I found it, oh—Giorno those look awful.”

Trish looked horrified at the sight of the burns. “Was that holy water?”

“The sun,” Giorno said, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose against the headache.

“These are pretty bad,” Fugo murmured. “Hopefully the salve will help a bit but it will probably take a few days for you to recover fully.”

“I’ll let you have some of my blood fresh for extra nutrients,” Mista promised.

Giorno nodded and slumped there on the cot as Fugo started on his face and neck, spreading the salve on thickly and following it with gauze Trish helped to wrap on.

The pain of any pressure at all on the burns made Giorno nauseous and he swayed, trying to resist the urge to pull away from Fugo completely.

“Here,” Trish gently coaxed, sitting down on the cot beside him and helped lower Giorno down until he was lying on his good side with his head in her lap. Giorno stiffened in surprise and Trish flushed slightly, but stood her ground as she turned to Mista. “Could you get him a cool cloth for his head?”

Mista nodded and hurried to fetch the cloth as Fugo continued.

Giorno was tight with pain. The burns were getting worse as they traveled down his arm to his hand and Fugo’s ministrations were quickly becoming agony.

Trish seemed to see how much he was suffering and reached for his good hand, squeezing it gently.

Mista brought the cloth back and Trish placed it over Giorno’s eyes and forehead, giving him something blessedly cool to help ease his headache.

“I just need to wrap your hand now,” Fugo said, carefully twining the bandage around his fingers.

Giorno let out a small sound of relief as Fugo finished and settled his hand carefully down on the bed.

Mista came over with a freshly drawn cup of blood.

“Can you drink?”

Giorno nodded and Trish and Mista helped him sit up to drink before laying him down and tucking him into bed.

“I’m afraid that’s all we can do for now,” Fugo said. “I’m going to have to go to the station to make our full report.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him,” Trish assured him.

“Thanks,” Giorno murmured. He felt a little better after drinking the blood, but he was mostly exhausted. “I think the serum is already wearing off. Nothing is as loud as it was before.”

“Good to know,” Fugo said. “I guess next time we corner someone so delusional we need to be more careful not to do it in his lab.”

“Is he really so delusional?” Giorno couldn’t help but ask. “All he really wanted was to be equal. Isn’t that what everyone wants?”

“Most of us aren’t okay with murdering for it,” Fugo pointed out. “What you said to him back there was true—essentially that it’s better to make small changes for good, instead of big changes for bad.”

Trish nodded. “And hopefully in a world without Diavolo in charge, we might have a better chance of those small changes being impactful.”

Giorno smiled slightly. “Yes. You’re all right. Thank you.”

Trish pulled a blanket over his waist. “Get some rest. Let me know if you need anything.”

Giorno let his eyes slip shut as his companions left and dreamed of a brighter future.

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Living Weapon Whumpee part 17

Warnings: forced living weapon/fighter, recovery whump, reluctant alliance, rejection by peers, betrayal

But the men were growing bolder and more confident the longer Whumpee was around, and it was on the fourth day that Whumpee faced his first round of genuine, direct trouble.

It was usually passive-aggressive with them, but this time he was being directly challenged by Jake himself.

"So you've suddenly switched sides, eh? I don't buy it," Jake sneered boldly after a long training session. Whumpee raised a single eyebrow at him, and a few of the men behind Jake shrank away at that movement alone.

"Flint seems to think you're tamed now, docile. But we all know the truth, and I'm tired of pretending I'm okay with this. And I'm pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say that."

A few murmurs of agreement rippled through the group.

"What are you hoping to accomplish by telling me this?" Whumpee asked flatly. He kept his expression carefully neutral to avoid escalating the situation.

A lot of men will likely go out of their way to cause you trouble, Flint's words echoed in his mind. Whumpee needed to keep calm, show he wasn't a threat if he wanted to earn any trust whatsoever. If it was a rise Jake was looking for out of him, he wouldn't give him the satisfaction. But his blood still boiled at Jake's words.

"What I'm saying is that we don't want you here," Jake scoffed, lip curling. "If what you say is true that you want to help, run away from this place, and don't come back. We're all safer without you. You're a ticking time bomb."

It hurt more than Whumpee expected, stinging him in the chest, a pang of hurt. "...I will leave if Flint tells me to." He spoke slowly, deliberately, choosing his words carefully. "Flint is now my leader as much as he is yours. And I only take orders from leaders like him."

Jake's eyes flared and darkened with anger. "I am leader of this team, or have you forgotten? So by your own logic your loyalty should apply to me too, right? So if I tell you to leave, shouldn't you obey like a good dog?"

The heavily conditioned part of Whumpee instinctively wanted to cling to the order and follow it, but he consciously stopped himself, revolted by the mockery of being called a 'good dog'.

In his peripheral, Reed caught his attention, back turned to him and peering down the hall like he was looking for something. Something about it didn't feel right, but his attention snapped back to Jake when the large man took a menacing step forward.

Whumpee's mind was already analyzing the situation and preparing for a fight out of pure habit.

Favors left leg, typically feigns to the right during sparring...

He shook his head with a frown. No, what am I thinking? I'm not supposed to fight these men, he reminded himself firmly. But Jake was egging him on, and it was really starting to get under his skin.

Suddenly, Reed let out a single short whistle, low and quiet, some sort of signal, and Whumpee stepped back in surprise as Jake lunged toward him, swinging a loaded right hook. He was under attack, instinctively defending himself. It was a bold move from Jake, one he hadn't seen coming.

⏪️ Back Next ⏩️

Masterlist

@scoundrelwithboba @lumpofsand @isikedmyself878 @iamheretohurt @fleur-a-whump

@ay5ksal @otterfrost @sausages-things @i-don't-know-sal @togzy

@whump-till-ya-jump @cravesunconditionallove @whumpwritinglover222 @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl

[floral-comet-whump]

hello! this was supposed to be the original post where both I as a whump writer and walenty debut, but I got inspired by this post and wrote a snippet

contents: captivity whump, fantasy whump (hardly mentioned), institutionalized whump, interrogation whump/tortured for information, restraints, mention of suicide attempt, discussion and threats of death, off-screen past and future torture, lady whumpee (she will probably never appear again sorry), attempted conditioning, defiant whumpee, cold/impersonal whumper, remorseful whumper, minor whumper/whumpee (16-17), (non-combatant) living weapon whumper

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

Walenty blinks. That’s not the answer they wanted. Ruby looks right back, damp hair sticking to her face. They’d offered to move it out of the way if she answered a question.

“No,” Walenty puts their cheek into their palm, using it as an unneeded crutch for their head. “I don’t.”

“You do!” The prisoner snaps, yanking her head forward as best as she can. They internally note to secure it to the back of the chair before they leave so she can’t kill herself by slamming it back until her skull breaks. “You- You keep saying I’ll get stuff if I talk! I see what you’re doing with that reward system,” she hisses out, “And that incentive, and good behavior. I’m not some dog you can train!”

That’s literally just how interrogation works, they bite back. They wait to see if she’ll continue, tracing the stitching of their chair. Ruby's eyes are just as full of rage as when they’d gotten here. Maybe because they’ve cleaned her wounds? It doesn’t matter so long as they receive correct intel.

“Answer me, dammit!”

Their free hand pauses at the shout.

“This is my job,” gloved fingers interlace on their lap. “I need answers, Ruby. If tying your hair back isn’t enough, what would you like I do?”

“Let me go!” She demands loudly again, and they don’t flinch this time. “I’m not cooperating with the likes of you.”

She’s like a broken record, they think.

It’s gone in a loop for hours. They question and she refuses to answer. They threaten and she answers and they don’t know if it’s true. They question again, and she refuses again. They go through with the threat. She caves. They question. She refuses. She refuses. She refuses. They threaten something else. She caves. They question. She answers. They question, she answers. They question, she hesitates. She refuses to answer, and it restarts.

“That’s not how this works,” Walenty, too, is a broken record. “So give me something. At this rate, your wounds will get infected and you’ll die. Do you seriously want a torture chamber to be your deathbed?”

Silence settles over the dim room.

“...I’m not getting out alive anyways.” Her voice breaks, and so does eye contact with the interrogator. “At least I’ll go out nobly.”

Walenty looks down at their notepad. Everything’s encrypted anyway, so there’s no reason not to write draft reports in front of her. They close it, bookmarking their page with elastic and adding a loop for their pen.

“This isn’t working,” they finally say it out loud, standing to put the logs on a seperate surface. “And you’re obviously not gonna talk.” Walenty takes the scalpel and wipes it with already-wet cloth. “So I’ll leave you to rot down here.”

“...What?”

The enby finishes, putting both on the tray of to-be-cleaned instruments.

“You can’t be serious.”

They walk to the door, “You said you wouldn’t mind dying,” they reminded, removing their badge and imbuing the password in it, unlocking two of three locks. “So have fun succumbing to nature.”

“I haven’t told you everything.” Ruby points out as they walk back and fetch a blindfold. She’s returned to glaring. “You’re bluffing.”

They put the badge back and return to tie the blindfold around her eyes, utilizing the chair’s high back and fabric’s stretchy material to secure— “Stop that!” —the girl’s head too.

Walenty strolls over to the counter they left their notebook on and puts it in their bag. They detach the only key that’s actually just a key for this room.

“You’ll come back.” She insists, and they simply hum, inserting the key into the lock.

They twist it.

“They won’t let me die until they know everything and we both know it.”

She’s right, but she’ll begin to doubt herself soon. The heavy door creaks open. They slide the light glyph off, and only then take the key. They step out and slam it shut, showing the still-enchanted badge to the mechanism’s sensors. They hear it lock. Walenty inserts it once again, spinning counterclockwise this time. Click.

Walenty sighs, deflating. They resist the urge to actually slouch. Instead, the interrogator remains standing there. It’s so damn bright every they step out that it has to be its own kind of torture. They extract the key from its hole and clip it back in its place.

They sigh a second time, turning around to lean back against the closed entrance.

This is enough information for just one session, they think. She’ll get desperate next time, and start to believe that they really had left her to die in there, only to have her reality reshaped again when they're back.

It’s going fine.

It’ll work. Ruby will break, Walenty will have information, and then they’ll kill her. Or maybe she’ll be recruited, she’s young enough. They’ll ask around. Can’t risk wasting resources.

A third sigh leaves their lips, and the human glances around to make sure nobody is watching before resting their forehead on the door.

Breathe in. Hold.

They really have become heartless. It’s reasonable to get desensitized, they know that from observation and experience. It’s still jarring. They wish they could leave it all behind. Run away from the suffering they’ve inflicted and been complicit in without facing consequences.

Breathe out.

But they can’t. There’s no way. They’ll be found. They’ll be found again and they don’t think desertion will be pardoned this time. Even the execution will be extremely painful, but it’s not as if it’s nothing compared to the suffering they’ve inflicted. Screams and healing spells and bloodied clothes and the stench of vomit and disgustingly damp fabric and compliance and—

Don’t think like that.

Walenty sharply inhales at the still locked door, touching the corner of their eye with a glove. Flaky blood stays flaky. Phew. They spin around and begin to walk out of this dreadful place, because they’ve broken both themselves and others to have that privilege. Walenty won’t fall apart. They want to live. Even if they torture again and again, they don’t want to die.

Walenty doesn’t want to die.

[forwhump]

a/n; sorry I’m posting again :’) I’m losing track of what I’ve posted because I’m not posting in any sort of chronological order so if I’ve posted anything about the auction (technically it’s a fundraiser but I’ve always called it the auction) then this is a prequel !!! if I haven’t then >:) enjoy this totally innocuous thing, nothing horrible happens after this at all

also I’ve been losing track of the names I use for the background soldiers since the very beginning so if I ever use a name more than once it’s up to you whether it’s the same guy or two guys w the same name <3 LOL

tw/cw: dehumanization, captivity, mentions of dismemberment, implied rape/noncon, misgendering, transphobia, grievous bodily harm, stabbing

living weapon whumpee, military whump, creepy whumper

Any night that Silas spends with Wren is a good night.

It doesn’t matter how much he’s bleeding, or how much he hurts, if Wren is nearby and Silas is sure that he’s okay, that he’s safe, then it’s a good night. He’s died happy knowing that Wren is safe.

There’s something to be said about the nights, however, that Wren is safe and he’s okay and Silas isn’t bleeding. He isn’t in pain.

Silas is sitting on the floor, back against the side of Wren’s bed, head tipped back against the mattress. Wren is curled up nearby, his hand in Silas’ hair, and he’s reading quietly, something Silas isn’t really following, fixated as he is on the soft sound of his voice, on his strange, Wren accent. Silas has his face turned, cheek against grey sheets, watching Wren as he reads to him, holy, even more inhuman than Silas in his beauty. In the yellow glow of the lamplight, cast from Wren’s desk, his hair glows something golden and his eyelashes cast long shadows on his cheeks.

It’s a good night.

It starts that way, anyway.

“You’re beautiful,” Silas says, because he’s beautiful and Silas is nothing if an honest, maybe blunt person.

Wren looks up at him and he wishes, for a moment, that he could draw like Wren can, because it’s a picture he’d like to remember and he doesn’t think he will. He doesn’t get to remember very much. But Wren smiles at him, soft and sweet, and Silas forgets about anything that doesn’t make him so pleasantly warm it makes him a little uneasy. “You’re not listening to me at all,” he says, “are you?”

“I’m kinda listening to you,” Silas says, “mostly I’m looking at you,” and Wren laughs, pushing his face away with the hand in his hair.

Silas turns his face back to try and bite his fingers and Wren laughs again, a sound that makes Silas feel so warm all over he might flush with it. Wren is beautiful, arguably, all the time — some really ugly things have happened to him, have been done to him, but Wren, at his core, interwoven into his DNA, is so beautiful that Silas sometimes has a hard time looking at him. It’s like staring too hard into surgical lights, too bright, it makes him see the same sort of spots. Wren’s always most beautiful when he laughs.

He doesn’t laugh often — not often enough, anyway. But Silas has gotten good at bringing it out in him, and he’s best at it when he doesn’t try. At the end of his life, when his brain is removed from this thing they’d turned him into and what little is left of him is destroyed, if they bother to ask him what his proudest accomplishment was, this is what he would say. That he got to make Wren laugh.

“Sorry,” Silas says against his knuckles, and he tries to bite him again and Wren bats him away with a smile that makes him dizzy.

“I don’t believe you are,” he says, and Silas can’t help the smile that pulls at his own mouth on one side.

“I’m not,” he agrees, and the way Wren laughs reverberates through his chest.

“I picked this for you because I thought it would hold your attention,” he says, and the way he smiles at Silas would probably give Silas a headache if he let it.

“I want you to read the one that Hal wanted you to read,” he suggests, just because Wren keeps telling him no.

“No,” Wren says, predictable, and Silas smiles against his knuckles. “Hal wasn’t being nice. You won’t like it.”

“I’ll like anything if you read it to me,” Silas says.

Wren has a very peculiar way of looking at him sometimes, soft and sweet, eyebrows pulled together in the middle. He looks at him like that now, and it warms Silas in almost the same way his laughter does, even if he doesn’t quite know what it means. “Not Frankenstein,” he says, but he laughs again when Silas ducks his head and obligingly presses a kiss to his hairline. “You’re cute,” he says with a smile, “but still no. I’d read you anything else.”

“Just not what I want,” he says, and Wren laughs.

“You don’t even know what it is!” He protests, which makes Silas grin, despite his best, most valiant attempts not to. “You just like to argue with me.”

“I like to do everything with you,” Silas says, kissing his knuckles.

Wren snorts out a laugh as he pushes his face away again. “Shut up,” he says, and he says it with a sort of fondness that makes Silas’ chest constrict. He reaches towards him because he can’t help himself, grabbing Wren around the waist and hauling him off the edge of the mattress. Wren laughs again and Silas smiles properly. “What are you doing?”

Silas pulls him into his lap. “You’re not close enough.”

“No?” Wren says, and he puts on the voice he uses when Silas is in trouble but his smile is blinding and he leans his weight into Silas’ chest, arms around his shoulders. Silas’ hands span the entirety of Wren’s back and Wren is looking at him really closely, a little pink across the bridge of his nose. His hand on Silas’ cheek is almost painfully gentle.

He’s so close. “You’re beautiful,” Silas says again, because he is, and it bears repeating. “Even more beautiful up close.”

He’s so close Silas can see perfectly well the way he flushes, pink, beneath a splattering of freckles Silas only ever sees when they’re this close. It makes him grin, which makes Wren laugh again, pinching his cheek. “Shut up.”

But he’s so close. He’s so close that Silas can see freckles splattered across his face, clustered closest across the bridge of his nose and along his hairline. He’s so pale, and his hair is so light, but his eyes are so dark, and they’re huge, and he’s so beautiful but Silas has thought it’s given him a surreal sort of quality, that sometimes he looks even less human than Silas. “More than beautiful,” he says softly, because he doesn’t quite know how to put it into words. “Extraordinary.”

Wren angles his head and his smile takes on an odd sort of softness that never fails to make Silas’ face feel hot. “You’re too sweet to me,” he murmurs.

It’s kind of a dumb thing to say. “I’m in love with you,” he says softly, because he thought as much was obvious.

He can feel the way Wren’s breath hitches against his chest, and that’s all the time he gets before it all goes to hell.

The door is kicked open with a force that makes it sound like it’s been blown to pieces. Wren flinches with his entire body and Silas holds him protectively to his chest without even really thinking about it. A man called London, with an accent Silas doesn’t like, stands in the doorway and his lip curls back from his teeth as he looks down at them, his gun at the ready against his chest.

To Wren, he says, “I thought we told you no dogs in your room.”

“No dogs on the bed,” Silas says, and if his eyebrows lift, challenging, he can’t help it. “I’m not on the bed.”

London’s lip curls back a little further. “Common room,” he barks, accent grating. “Both of you. Let’s go.”

“Why?” Silas says.

“A talking dog,” London remarks, sharp. “One that talks back. How peculiar.”

Silas starts to lift both his middle fingers and Wren quickly pushes his hands back down. “We’re coming,” he says, and he says it in the weird, kind of saccharine voice he only ever uses with the soldiers.

Except London’s gun is still drawn. Except London isn’t wearing the usual black tactile uniform of the soldiers on patrol. He’s wearing a black uniform only Silas has ever seen, because it’s the black uniform the soldiers only ever wear in active combat. Whatever’s waiting for them out there, it isn’t good.

“Wren,” he says softly.

“Silas,” Wren pleads, even quieter. “Please.”

Silas grunts, but Wren had said please so Silas would’ve been obedient if he’d asked him to amputate his other leg. He heaves himself up, into his chair, and follows close at Wren’s back. London falls into step at Wren’s side, and tells him, “beastiality doesn’t suit you.”

Silas says, in his best imitation of London’s accent, “cunt.”

London pivots and hammers the barrel end of his assault rifle into Silas’ hollow eye socket in one, fluid motion. Something in his face, something that feels like his cheekbone cracks under his skin and he grunts in pain.

Wren starts to gasp, “Silas,” but London silences him with a snap of his gloved fingers and a crude point.

“Move,” he snaps.

Wren turns towards him anyway. “Silas —“

From the end of the corridor, from the common room, Hal’s voice says, “Silas?”

Silas stops trying to dry his bleeding eye socket with his sleeve. The throbbing headache of his broken cheekbone dulls to a beat drowned out by the roar of his heartbeat. Being summoned from his room in the middle of the night is one thing. Wren being summoned, too, by a soldier in full combat uniform is another. Hal also being called on —

Wren feels it, too, because his hand finds Silas’ arm and his fingers are shaking. “Hal?”

“Wren? What the fuck is going on?” Hal calls.

London growls, “move.”

Wren looks down at Silas, who turns his head to kiss his sleeve, as soothing as he can manage.

He should’ve grabbed his fuckin’ leg. He’s still new to needing it — to feeling this fuckin’ helpless without it. What’s going to happen to them? How is he going to get Wren out of it with one fuckin’ leg?

Hal isn’t alone in the common room. He’s standing with Robin and June, huddled close in a space crowded with soldiers. Every one of them is dressed in full combat uniform.

Point stands proudest among them, and he looks up with a grin.

Silas groans. He can’t help it.

Wren pinches him through his sleeve. “What is this?” He asks softly, not quite looking at Point, who looks at him intently and like a predator.

With another lecherous grin, he says, “field trip.”

Wren makes a sound that would probably be amused in any other situation. “What?”

“Field trip?” June repeats.

Point holds up a hand, quieting her without looking at her. “We’ve got a long ride ahead of us,” he says. “Let’s move, soldiers.”

And the whole thing is kind of surreal, clouded by Silas’ worsening concussion and broken orbital socket, pooling with blood. Hal, June, and Robin are led down a different corridor than Wren and Silas; Wren and Silas, flanked on all sides by soldiers and Point, are led to a service elevator.

Silas, in all his years in the district, has never been outside. This isn’t really any different.

The service elevator lifts them to a section of the district like any other — dimly lit, chipped grey concrete. Down a corridor, a huge metal grate had been lifted out of the way, opened to the back of an armoured van, doors closed and secured.

It’s Point, of course, that unlatches and opens these doors to the back of the van. It’s crowded with soldiers, with Point’s favourite men, crammed on the benches lined along the inside, standing along the back. Point jumps up into the van and whirls back around with a bizarre sort of flourish. “The girl will ride with me,” he announces. “Animal transport will be up next for the dog.”

Wren’s voice has gone flat, but his accent is probably the thickest Silas has ever heard it when he says, “you’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

Point grins with all his teeth and he looks even less human than Silas. “You know I don’t kid ‘bout you, cowgirl,” he says, mocking, and Wren takes a quick step back, knocking into Silas. “I ain’t playin’ with you, neither. Get on up here.” He pats his thighs, beckoning.

“Fuck you,” Wren says, but his voice sounds brittle and his accent sounds even thicker. Silas curls a protective hand around his hip.

“C’mere, girl,” Point says, and whistles, patting his thighs again. “C’mere.”

“Fuck you, I’m not getting in the rape van,” Wren snaps, and Point’s jovial mocking drops off his face. It’s like he’s been wiped clean, replaced by something totally and uncomfortably blank.

“You’ll do whatever I fucking tell you to do,” he deadpans, “or I’ll make your dog bite the bumper and you’ll be forced to watch as I crack his ugly head in half. And then I’ll fuck you anyway, mm?”

He takes a step back down from the van and Wren’s whole body tenses. Silas pulls him close, into his lap, away from Point, who pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t start with me, freak,” he says. “I don’t want to kill you while I’m hard. Give me the girl.”

“You’re a fuckin’ weirdo,” Silas tells him, and something twitches in Point’s jaw.

“You’re a failed fucking science experiment,” he snaps. “An crippled fucking dog. A waste of fucking skin, and I fuck your girl better than you do. Give her here.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “I’ll tell you what, Darren,” he says, and Point’s eye twitches, this time. “Why don’t you go fuck yourself?”

“Silas,” Wren breathes.

Point’s lip curls back from his teeth. He angles his head at a soldier standing close, Haunt, who quickly lifts his gun and shoves the barrel hard against the nape of Silas’ neck.

Whatever, what’s another gun to the head? But Wren gasps, reacts, human, and he’s distracted just long enough that London’s able to grab him by the arms and haul him out of Silas’ lap.

Time warps. Slows down.

Wren screams.

Point grabs him around the waist, lifting him off his feet as he struggles.

Silas reaches for him and he’s stabbed quickly in the throat.

It happens so quickly that his crewneck is already sticking to his chest before it even starts to hurt. Then the pain starts to gurgle at the back of his mouth, sucked into his chest as he takes a wet, choking breath in. Point doesn’t look at him as he opens his jugular, but he looks up with a grin as Silas bleeds, wrenching the buck knife out of Adam’s apple. A rush of blood follows the blade, and Silas’ prison greys are already black, soaked with blood.

He thinks his ears are ringing, but when the blood stops rushing he realizes Wren is screaming and Point is laughing at a garbled, cackling pitch.

“I was waiting for you to try something,” he cackles. “You’re getting predictable, Silas.”

Silas raises a hand to the wound and his shaky fingers dip into the opened meat of his throat, gagging him.

With an ease that makes him gag in much the same way, Point pulls Wren’s hands behind his back and lifts him as he struggles. He throws him into the back of the van, onto the floor between the benches, and as soon as Wren hits the ground, face down, a soldier steps down hard on the back of his head, pinning him. Wren screams bloody murder and it sounds nothing like blood rushing in his ears.

A different soldier peels down Wren’s waistband with the toe of his boot and the way Wren screams echoes between Silas’ ears, bouncing off the inside of his skull. It makes him vomit, but he doesn’t know blood or bile, but most of it seeps from his opened throat and only a mouthful makes it to his tongue, long numb and useless.

Point pats his cheek twice, hard, and Silas vomits into his lap. His chin finds his chest and he doesn’t have the strength to lift it off again. “You’ll follow in the med van,” he says, and Silas hears him in odd bits and pieces. Somebody close is making horrible, wet gasping sounds and he has a really sick feeling it’s him. “And you’ll be good as new by the time we get where we’re going. We got a long ride ahead of us.” Silas can’t see anything except blurry red spots, but he doesn’t need to see Point to know he’s grinning when he says, “your girl’s gonna be in good hands the whole time. Don’t you worry.” He knocks Silas over the back of his head and his laugh is a cackle.

Silas doesn’t see it, but he can hear Point jump into the back of the van. There’s some kind of sound that follows it, skin on skin. Wren sobs loudly and Silas vomits down his chest. “Alright, girl,” he says, loud and theatrical, probably more for Silas than Wren, in a sour, mocking version of Wren’s accent. There’s a creak of the hinges as he grabs at the doors. “Time to get fuckin’.”

The doors close loudly and something in the sound feels like a bullet to the brain, a sudden, sharp explosion of pain that ricochets behind Silas’ eyes.

He doesn’t remember anything else for the next three days.

[paingoes]

Destroyer - Bottle Episode

(Masterlist)

multiple whumpers. hot day. everyone’s mad.

this is like. vintage destroyer. gang's all here. i got nostalgic writing this.

not a lot happens in this one i kinda just wanted to play around some w the original cast because i thought it'd be fun. and it was.

(Content: living weapon whumpee, royal whumper, multiple whumpers, carewhumper, casual whump, dehumanization, drug mention, manhandling, slapping, guns, joke about animal death, minor temperature whump)

==========

Delta squinted into the morning sun. He already felt like he was baking. The length and color of his hair did not help, trapping the heat all down his back. He wasn’t built for this kind of weather; it dried his skin out. They’d been waiting since well before sunrise.

“Quit glaring.” Martino tugged roughly at the fin of his ear.

He hadn’t even said anything.

“Why? He’s right. This is bullshit,” Paris interjected, seizing any opportunity to complain. He readjusted the water bottle against his temple, his other hand still messing with the radio’s dials. “They had three months to fix the warning system — it only would’ve taken a day. I don’t know why the fuck I’m rewarding their bad behavior by coming out here. Should’ve just let them hang. Not my problem.”

He wasn’t faring much better in the heat. The uniform he wore was too regal, too thick for the climate. The sweat against his pale skin made him look sickly.

“Who still fights cavalry?” Simon mused. 

“I know.” Paris gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t even know why we have the units. I’m going to disband them soon, it’s just…I mean, I don’t think they can be trained to do anything else.”

“What are you going to do with the horses?” Delta asked quietly.

“Glue,” Paris said. 

Delta couldn’t tell if he was serious. 

He made the C’mere gesture with his hand. Delta stood up from where he’d been sitting cross-legged by Simon’s lawn chair. He knelt down on the grass beside the prince. 

Paris wound the cable around his palm.

It’d been an accident discovery. Something in his body’s chemistry made the signal grow louder and clearer. All he needed to do was get close to it, but it worked better if he was directly connected to the circuit. It didn’t require any conscious effort on his part. It mostly just made him feel tingly.

“That is not the intended use case,” Martino said with bitter disapproval.

“Ask me if I give a fuck.”

Dr.Martino tapped the side of his nose in warning. Paris reflexively wiped at his own. He always fell for it.

“Oh, like you’re any better.” Paris snapped when no powder came off onto his sleeve. “Good luck with the opioid settlement, prick.”

Delta smirked at that. Paris noticed — and seemed mildly gratified by it.

From up on the hill, there should have been no better line-of-sight for the signal. But only static came through, audible even when the headset was off. Paris kept playing with the settings, getting visibly frustrated when they only produced different shades of meaningless noise.

“Did you fix the SWR?” Simon said.

“No, the ratio’s fine. It’s the RFI. Nothing’s getting through with all the aerial traffic.” Paris shook his head.

“I bet it’s the SWR. You probably connected the meter wrong. Let me see it.” Simon stood up from the chair. 

“No.” He pulled the wires closer to himself.

“Just let me see.” Simon adjusted the antenna.

“I know what I’m doing,” Paris insisted.

“Then why isn’t it working, Your Highness?”

They were both wrong. Annoyed, Delta quickly readjusted the dials before they could stop him.

“Get off.” Paris shoved him back with a totally unnecessary amount of force, especially considering he was already off. He just caught himself on his free hand.

“Oh, did that work?” Simon asked curiously, releasing the antenna.

Paris put the headset back on. He didn’t answer, which meant yes. He glared at Delta, who was already gazing at the ground as if nothing had happened, careful not to look too smug about it.

========

An hour had passed. The enemy had yet to reveal itself. There was nothing else to do but rehearse. Delta glanced in between the map and terrain it represented, paying careful attention to the grid he was to superimpose onto it. He targeted each position as they instructed.

“B9.”

Delta put out the warning light to B9.

“A4.”

Delta put out the warning light to A4.

“E6.”

Delta put out the warning light to C6.

“I said E6.” Martin yanked Delta’s hair sharply, forcing him to look further east. He hissed softly.

“You know you can talk to him without hurting him, right? He can hear. You’re not even giving him a chance to obey.” Simon’s voice had a rare edge to it as he leaned forward in his seat.

“It’s correctional.” Martino pulled his hair tighter, just to prove a point. “He’s used to it. I don’t think I need you telling me how to do my job. We were doing just fine without you.”

His hand was still in his hair. Delta adjusted himself in its grasp, trying to take the pressure off. It was not successful. 

“He’s actually shown a lot of improvement under me, so I don’t know what point you’re trying to make.” Simon crossed his arms.

The hand was still in his hair. 

“No. No. That’s just because you changed the metric. Don’t think I didn’t catch that. You don’t get to manipulate the data and say you fixed it. I’m onto you.”

“All date is manipulated,” Simon insisted, “It just depends on how. I wouldn’t have even needed to fix the metrics if your colleague could keep her records straight. Those were inconsistent across the board.”

“Let’s not speak ill of the dead, shall we?”

“I’m not speaking ill of the dead, I’m speaking ill of you.”

The hand was still in his hair.

========

The enemy still had yet to appear by midday, though the murmurs said they were close. Delta could almost feel the soldiers’ restlessness mounting on the ground below. But up on the hill, he was far removed from it. He still saw nothing over the horizon. He paged through the yellowed fantasy novel he’d nabbed from the base camp. He heard Paris well before he saw him, cursing incoherently to nobody but himself. He put the book down.

“Delta.” The string of expletives concluded abruptly with his name. Delta looked up.

The prince knelt down onto the grass beside him. He watched intently as Paris leaned over the map, studying it. With a thin black marker, he drew a small “X” onto a spot just along the river.

“Can you reach here?”

The target was about a mile outside of the agreed upon radius. The scale of the map made the distance seem trivial. It wasn’t. Delta hesitated.

“Paris-“ Dr.Martino began to object.

“Shut the fuck up. I didn’t ask you. I asked him.” 

Delta considered it. He turned his head and started to whisper something to Simon. Paris snapped his fingers in front of his face impatiently.

“Answer me.”

“I’m thinking.” Delta’s voice got sharp.

Paris slapped him in the face. Delta winced. He took a deep breath before he looked back up.

“No. I can’t do it.” Delta glared.

Paris slapped him again, harder this time. It actually stung a lot.

“Your Highness, he can only work within a certain range. It’s not reasonable for-“

“I don’t care about the range, you don’t fucking talk to me like that.” 

Delta was breathing heavily. They both were.

“Let’s take a break, huh?” Simon suggested.

“Mm. Yeah. Perfect.” Paris stormed off.

=======

Delta looked over the remains of the battlefield, studying the patchwork of scorch marks he had left upon it. It had been relatively mild, as far as the operations went. He hadn’t passed out even once. The planet had a very traditional style of fighting — there’d been no need for any excessive shows of power. The enemy numbers were shorter than the signs had indicated; the sensors were more broken than they thought. It was all too easily won. The morning’s events seemed even more trivial because of that. 

Delta was tired. The breeze felt nice after burning in the sun for hours. He could feel the tension draining out of him. His head always cleared up as it got closer to nighttime.

Paris had disappeared just as soon as the actual fighting had begun, slipping back into command. Dr.Martino had disappeared just as soon as the fighting was over, very happy to retire after a whole day of it. He was too old for that kind of heat to begin with. It verged on elder abuse.

Only Simon remained with him up on the hill. The sun was setting. It cast long shadows over the hills and bathed all the rest in golden light.

“Can I stay up here for a little?” Delta asked shyly as he noticed Simon packing up to leave.

Simon glanced back at base camp, clearly a bit concerned by the request. Delta really wasn’t meant to be unaccompanied.

“…You promise not to wander off?” He asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Alright. Come find me when you’re ready.” Simon squeezed his shoulder.

Delta nodded gratefully. He listened as the footsteps faded. He leaned back against the tree, watching the sky darken.

=========

“So you actually glow in the dark?”

Paris appeared up on the hill. The fight seemed to have left him by nightfall as well. Delta figured he was more tempered by the victory than the weather, though.

Delta was surrounded by a soft blue aura. He took a minute to examine it, as if noticing it for the first time. Only his eyes glowed, really. And he couldn’t see those. 

He didn’t know what kind of response that comment would warrant. His instinct said zero.

Paris shifted his arm. He was carrying a stupid amount of equipment on him. Several bags worth of weapons and machinery. They made a metallic sound from within. He seemed distracted by it.

“You knocked the numbers station offline, by the way."

“Sorry,” Delta said numbly.

“Forgiven. Anyway, ship’s leaving. Come on.”

Delta stood up. Paris slid one of the rifles off his shoulder and passed it over to him. The gun was awkward, but not heavy. Delta toted it, pulling his long hair off to the side so it wouldn’t get caught in the mechanism. He took the other bag Paris handed him. He heard something clicking around inside of it. 

It had been about thirty hours since he had last slept. For a second, he swore he heard the bag nicker.

…………

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