#implied institutionalized whump

[sir-fenris]

Sweet Creature

Content: magical living weapon, dehumanization, "it" briefly used as pronoun, dangerous whumpee, magical euphoria, shock collar, sensory (visual) deprivation, manhandling, military whump, implied institutionalized whump, magical slavery, heavily implied mass murder, hallucinations.

(chapter 1) | next chapter ->

(Curse of Withering masterpost)

Cyrus wishes to at least have a look around while outside. It would only be a military camp, soldiers walking around, tents set up, maybe some horses on one side. Not a very pleasant nor interesting view.

But at least he would be seeing the sky, and the grass, and people.

He's not. He's seeing pure black from behind his nullification glasses, being guided by an unrelenting hand on his neck, just above his heavy collar. Not even allowed to feel skin, only the tough material of a glove.

Around Cyrus, talk dies down, and muttering comes to life, as he's used to. It never stops making him feel ashamed.

Also not allowed to curl up or hide in any way, he's just dragged forward to keep walking.

A strong sensation of nausea hits him when they enter his designed post tent of this campaign. It feels like the protection barriers put around the tents are getting stronger each campaign.

Being on an empty stomach doesn't help, either. Regret fills him from refusing breakfast, but he's sure his stomach wouldn't have kept it down anyway.

"... This is it? The rumors made it look spine-chilling, not... this." A voice from his right side says, a bit far back. Further into the tent, then. Cyrus doesn't recognize the voice, but the words are familiar.

The gloved hand on his neck squeezes, and he stops after a second of trying to figure out if it was out of frustration or a command to stand still.

No scolding comes, so it must have been a command. Or both.

"Wait until you see it destroying a whole military camp while laughing like a maniac," Mr. Wilson says. That voice he does recognize in the very core of his being. And by the coldness of it, his handler is audibly used to that question as well.

Cyrus doesn't have time to feel ashamed of the words before a pressure on his neck commands him to kneel down. Even with the knee pads, a mercy not chosen by his handler, the impact hurts a bit.

"Behave." Is what reaches his ear before the leather gloves are unfastened from his wrists.

Magic wraps around the metal gloves that were beneath the leather ones and bend it open. Cyrus didn't even hear the metallokinetic's handler telling them to do that. Maybe this gifted doesn't have a handler, he knows there's some free Gifted that serve the military willingly.

Unlike Cyrus.

He obediently waits with unmoving hands until his handler applies pressure on his head in another silent command. No one speaks as the nullification glasses are unlocked from his bowed head, nor when his half-necrotic fingertips find the floor beneath him.

It's not grass, it's rocks. He suppresses a disappointed sigh.

Cyrus knows better than to look around or shift from his position, but he's still able to see a bit of the tent's inside. The metallokinetic does in fact have a handler, and a black eye. He can't see anyone else, they're all behind him for safety.

That black eye must hurt, there's probably more bruises under the clothing, it never stops at just one.

Cyrus shouldn't care that the gifted was hurt. But he did. They deserve someone to care.

Mr. Wilson blocks his vision of the gifted by crouching down. The direct, practical delineation of where the enemy camp is sinks into his mind easily as his handler speaks. It's easy to map in his head exactly where he needs to focus on.

"You have permission to use your power, Wither." An uncomfortable eagerness blooms in him at the words.

"Yes, sir," Cyrus whispers and his collar beeps, its blue lights turning red as magic comes to life under his skin once again.

𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Pain doesn't even register in the sea of feelings building up in his body. The rocks puncturing the palms of his hands aren't nearly enough to ground him, not after years of the magic slowly numbing his nerves.

The tent disappears and all he can see is colors erupting from the blackness, like thousands of little roots travelling through the ground, coming from his fingertips. Ignoring the surrounding life had become easier over the years, and the withering knew to travel until it's closer to the delineated area than to him before branching to reach all soldiers of the other side.

It took less than a minute for him to spiral into euphoria this time.

Faintly, he knew his lips were moving, in that same eerie murmur of always, singing words he couldn't understand, but also couldn't forget. An incantation that breaks the laws of nature. A chant that was never created... only repeated. The echo of something that always existed.

And so he repeats. From the words, waves of withering magic follows the colorful branches and pushes it forward.

His hands crack and dug further into the ground, and he repeats the chant again. Again, again, again...

𝙰𝚐𝚊𝚒𝚗.

Cyrus could see, or in a way feel, the life bursting out of the enemy's camp. It was hard to separate what was greenery and what was people, but it didn't matter in the end.

Wither magic fills the entire enemy camp with thousands of black ramifications that only he sees the colors of. Growing, rotting, decaying.

Every cell in his body beams with giddy energy.

A warm mist swirls on his arms pleasantly. Something similar started filling his eyes, and Cyrus's head was pure delight. His chest shudders with a bubbly feeling as a smile grows on his face.

And then everything goes black. The cold, painful reality crashes down on him, harshly taking all the cheerfulness away and leaving behind an itch, a hysteric uneasiness. A faint beeping of his collar tells him he's done today, it had turned blue again.

Cyrus didn't even know he had made a noise until the collar beeps again with a warning electrical shock. With a flinch, he goes dead quiet. An argument was happening over his head.

Cyrus wants to keep using his magic, why can't he? It's so warm and happy-

"It was fucking smiling, it is fine to keep on! What is the point of having a weapon that can't be used?!" A man behind him almost yells. Not the same one from before, a slightly more familiar one. It might be the general, but without seeing it's hard to be sure.

Yes, Cyrus was fine to keep going, he was! It's been less than a minute with the nullification glasses back on, but he misses the colorful cheerfulness already, his body is taut with the need to move, to do something, anything.

But Mr. Wilson is right there, so he stays obediently still.

"I'm not telling it to launch an attack again! The magic would consume it's head and-" Mr. Wilson pauses, and Cyrus recognizes his temper rising. It's an effort not to flinch. "Ugh, you have no idea how bad it gets. Wither. Up, we're leaving."

"Mmn?" The order takes a second to click. "Oh... yes, sir..." To speak was hard, his tongue didn't move the okay he wanted it to. Cyrus could hear the ecstatic smile on his own voice, and he almost winces at it, but without knowing why. To smile was good, wasn't it?

Should he even be speaking, actually? Wilson doesn't usually like him speaking. Did he say "Sir" as he was supposed to? He doesn't think so... but no shock comes. Perhaps he did. It's hard to remember.

The floor seemed to spin beneath Cyrus when he stood up.

A gloved grip squeezes his arm and Cyrus knows to stay completely still, despite the dizziness. Magic envelops his hands as the metal gloves are bent to fit them again. He still couldn't hear the metallokinetic's handler telling them to do it, maybe it had been a silent command.

He feels the leather gloves being fastened on his wrists, too, before Mr. Wilson grabs him by the upper nape and guides him out. The sound of many boots around them tells him the escort team is here already.

On the way back, there's no longer any murmuring. Even blinded, he knows everyone is just staring. There's only the sound of heavy steps and the wind slowly bringing the smell of death into the camp.

The heavy metal door shuts with the escort team outside, and the only steps that echo inside the container are his and Mr. Wilson.

Blindly, he's pushed to sit inside his resting capsule. Oh, that's right, he's at a campaign, his den isn't here... the sad longing only lasts a second.

The thin mattress is cold, and the restraints are too tight. Cyrus hates the cold, but it feels so weird, he can't help but giggle. It sounds off, but he can't pinpoint why.

"Quiet," Mr. Wilson scolds sternly, fastening his legs securely inside the capsule. Cyrus flinches and tenses from the upcoming shock that doesn't arrive.

What a silly thing, to flinch from something that didn't even happen. He suppresses another fit of giggles.

The pressure building up behind his eyes and neck is getting harder to ignore. His fingers twitch with the need to use his magic again, but the nullification doesn't let him.

The pressure gets worse.

𝚂𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚞𝚜, 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎.

Now the shock comes, and Cyrus's flinch is not so funny this time. It wasn't just a warning shock, but he doesn't know why he has been punished. Mr. Wilson doesn't clarify it, either. He's scared of not knowing.

The twitches are getting worse. He wants to move. The cold is starting to creep in again, and he wants the warmth back.

His hands move slowly under the temporarily loose restrictions, trying to relieve some of the painful nervous energy without grabbing Mr. Wilson's attention.

It doesn't work. His handler always sees everything.

"Did I say you could move, Wither?" Cyrus freezes from the gelid tone. His shoulders go up chastened just before a gloved hand fists his hair harshly. That'll form a knot later... he wants to wash up and detangle his hair already, before it gets too bad.

From how harsh Mr. Wilson's grip is, he doesn't think he'll be allowed that so soon.

"Stop trying to be sneaky, that's the only warning you'll be given." Cold and firm as always. Frightening as always.

"Yes, sir," Cyrus answers quietly. It's weird how he still feels afraid and sad even when he's feeling giggly and euphoric.

Euphoric. Didn't that word mean something important? The headache is getting worse.

Mr. Wilson's grip only grows even more painful. There's more to be said, but Cyrus's head is not working well. He doesn't want to talk, he wants to move.

What weapons want doesn't matter.

He tries again. "I'm... I won't be sneaky again. I'm sorry, Mr. Wilson." The hand leaves his hair without any further words.

The need to move only gets worse in the silent. He knows Mr. Wilson knows. Cyrus's body is so tense it hurts.

He needs to use his magic, he needs to. It hurts, it's bad, he wants the giddy energy back, and not this nervous, restless cold creeping in. Everything is still pitch black, and the restraints are too heavy, and he wants his magic free again-

So you can kill more people with it?

No. What? No, no, no-

Your handler stopped you before the euphoria truly took place. Where is your gratitude, you vile thing? Why must others die just so you can smile?

That's not what he wants, he just... he just wants the colors back, the happy feeling of-

Of killing.

The memories of colored forms change. Those were people.

People you killed.

"Are you crashing already?" Comes the distant, cold voice. It takes long seconds for Cyrus to recognize it's Mr. Wilson's.

Crashing. Yes. Yes, he's crashing, and he's still on war camp, so he doesn't even get his white den-

Images strafe his mind. People died. People were killed. By him. And he was just smiling. He giggled to people losing their lives. Not only soldiers, there were medics, and servants, and-

A cold, sharp thing runs his arm and he flinched away, swallowing hard. He tastes blood. He knows it's not his.

Vile thing. You're a plague on earth that should be eradicated.

Cyrus's back presses against the capsule mattress, and he can barely separate what is real touch and what isn't. Sharp goosebumps run up his arm, his hands are being held, there's a pressure on his chest and a numbness on his left leg.

"It's euphoric state was pretty fast this time, it was a good timing to retrieve it," Mr. Wilson's out loud thinking reaches his ear along with a faint noise of screams that mustn't be true.

They're true, you're just hearing them too late.

"Today will be easy, then."

Cyrus couldn't disagree more with his handler.

-

-

-

Want to see Mr. Wilson's pov? This is the drabble this series began as. You can consider it a loose version of this chapter, but in Mr. Wilson's view.

Curious to what Cyrus called "den"? Here we go. And why did he call it a den, when it's just a white room? Here we go too.

Curious to how the capsule he's in is like? Here.

Taglist: @whump-till-ya-jump @floral-comet-whump @paingoes @bonbonbobomb @inhurtandincomfort @half-duck @scoundrelwithboba

-

[paingoes]

Cuckoo Egg

@echo-goes-aaa: Speaking of uniforms Slave whumpee belongs to a general in the army. As a punishment for being "disrespectful and ungrateful" the general puts him in uniform and sends him out "on mission" to "see what I do for you" Whumpee gets captured by the enemy, and it's only after an interrogation that the enemy realizes something is very very wrong with this soldier...

@sowhumpshaped: sucks to suck! saying this to both whumpee and the enemy. idiots lol also there goes a perfectly good general uniform, ugh. whumper's never getting that back

inspired by this post. i really couldn’t get over how much i loved this prompt, i wrote something out last night! it ran a little long so this is part one of two. i’ll upload the next section soon.

(Content: verbal abuse, implied physical abuse, institutionalized slavery, military content, minor character death, fear, begging, lot of crying, blood)

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

“I didn’t mean it like-,” The sharp look his master gives him cuts off his speech. Cillian shrinks back in on himself, tucking his chin into his chest protectively.

“Did you iron the flag as I instructed you to? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.” Cillian says through gritted teeth.

“Did you take care to make sure the emblems on the uniforms were in their proper state? Yes or no?”

“No, sir.”

“When you disrespect the symbols of our nation, do you disrespect those who have given their lives so that you may live? Yes or no?”

“No, sir,” Cillian answers automatically. His eyes widen.

“No?” The general asks, danger in his voice.

“Yes, sir.” Cillian corrects himself.

“That’s right. And when I asked you why you had neglected your duties like that, did you accept your failure and apologize? Or did you talk back to me and disrespect me further?” The general stares at him, as if challenging him to argue more.

“I talked back, sir.” Cillian lowers his head in apology. 

The general taps the riding crop against his own leg. Cillian flinches, but it does not strike him immediately. The general bounces it idly, as if caught in deep contemplation. Cillian waits, barely breathing.

“I don’t think you appreciate the sacrifices we make every day for you. You’ve been sheltered all your life. If you spent a day out in that heat, you’d shrivel up. Where is your gratitude, son? Don’t you have any respect?”

Cillian looks down. It’s not a question he’s meant to respond to. He can recognize when he’s being scolded. The general’s voice booms throughout the small space. Small, stinging tears begin to form at the boy’s eyes. The general gives him a disgusted look.

“Maybe you would benefit from a day in the field. Would it stop you from crying your eyes out everytime you get disciplined?”

It is decided for him that quickly. He’s sent immediately to bed, knowing well he’s expected to rise early the following morning. He blinks and the sun is up. 

The general dresses him personally. He is particular about the details. Cillian only catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He has seen the soldiers brought into the manor. They have been large, strapping. Their muscles bulged out from beneath their uniforms, the fabric well-worn and natural looking. On Cillian, the effect is clownish. It hangs off him loosely. His sleeves and pant legs both have to be rolled up and pinned.

His master guides him forward, his hand clamped tightly over Cillian’s shoulder. For better or worse, the encampment is not set up far from their current lodging. Cillian is dropped off without fanfare, rolling out onto the hot sand of the desert.

He falls in line. One of the officers was made to expect him. She retrieves him quickly from the entryway, shuffling him in amongst the other soldiers. He’s noticeably shorter than most of them, just barely meeting the height requirements for enlistment. 

It was only meant to be a day trip. At the same time, she understands the exercise is punitive. She puts him onto one of the offroaders set to leave that morning. It pushes off into the hottest parts of the desert, well past where the gore begins but where it’s unlikely to see any action. There is not much that is required of him. She does not care enough about making a point to endanger her own mission. All he has to do is keep watch. He is not — under any circumstances — to be given a gun.

Cillian shifts uncomfortably in the seat. The leather burns him even through the uniform. The other soldiers there are content to ignore him. He gazes out into the horizon, his eyes catching on the painted rocks that jut out from the sand. The craters in the ground become more and more frequent the further they go. The offroader shakes in protest as it hits another one.

“Whoops,” the driver lets out a laugh, pulling over before the whole thing topples. They’re close enough, anyway. The soldiers pour out. Cillian climbs to the top of the vehicle. The sun beats down on him immediately. His neck quickly burns up. The dark brown of his hair captures the heat. It makes him feel feverish. 

The pack takes off further into the desert and in between the painted rocks. They carry their devices with them; gunpowder, thick coils of wire, shovels. It’s not demolition day today, but it will be when the insurgents next arrive on the scene.

You can imagine their shock when they are already waiting for them. 

They’re dressed in slick black despite the desert heat. Their bikes are tucked safely into the shade of the rocks. Almost thirty of them are pressed against the rock face, all of them armed. Outnumbered two to one, there is no fight.

Cillian isn’t fast enough. Of course he’s not fast enough. He falls quick and hard when they catch him, his hands bound up with zipties before he can even see the face of the man doing it. He does catch a glimpse of the soldiers fleeing. Most die before they reach the threshold. The bag is pulled securely over his head and the last thing he sees is the blood boiling in the sand.

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

There’s a hand against his face. 

“The fuck? Did you waterboard him or something?” A voice says, feeling the dampness of the fabric.

“No. Crying, probably.”

“That’s hysterical,” The voice says flatly. 

Cillian thrashes as his wrists are yanked back. The knife nicks him. Its wielder curses. The ziptie breaks abruptly, but his hands are pulled in front of him just as quickly. He whimpers as the cold steel bites into his wrists, pinning both his hands to the surface. The hands depart and the door slams shut. It is dark and silent and cold.

He has no way of knowing how much time has passed, but the bag is abruptly yanked from his head. Even the dim light of the room is shocking to him after the hours spent in darkness. He winces. Tear tracks stain his face. His eyes adjust enough to just make out the features of the woman standing in front of him.

Black eyes. Black hair. It falls off her shoulders in sharp edges. Strangely pale skin. Her eyes don’t blink. Her blank expression does not change. She leans against the table, only inches from his face.

“I swear they get younger every year,” She mutters to herself.

“Please let me go,” He sobs. “Please, please.”

It’s like she doesn’t even hear him. Cillian gets the overwhelming urge to hide himself. Her stare seems to go right though him, so much he begins to think she isn’t here for him after all. He’s just in her sightline by mistake. Stupidly, he glances behind him. It’s a blank wall. When he looks back, her expression hasn’t changed. She still hasn’t moved an inch.

She tilts her head as if it’s about to roll off her shoulders.

“What’s your name?” Her affect is flat and cold.

“C-Cillian,” he sniffles.

“Sicilian?” 

“My name is Cillian,” he takes a shaky breath.

“Hello, Cillian. My name is Nicolette.”

Her slowness is agonizing. The silence hangs in the air, interrupted only by Cillian’s little gasps for air. 

“Please let me go,” he repeats, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please.”

It seems like the silence will go on forever. He startles a bit when she is first to break it.

“Cillian, why did you try to bomb us?” She asks.

How could he possibly answer? He panics at the question.

“I didn’t- I’m not-. I’m not with them,” he manages, cut off by his own sobs. 

“Cillian?”

He glances up.

“I don’t like liars.”

She withdraws from the table. Her hand disappears behind her back, appearing just as quickly. She places the dagger gently down on the table. She fixes him with a final look before she withdraws from the room. The door slams shut again. His frightened sobs are still audible even down the hall.

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

She’s perched above him on the table, rolling the knife between her fingers. She rests her head in her other hand, her eyes narrowed. Cillian sobs, trying to put as much distance between the two of them as he can. The cuffs make it impossible. She’s practically sitting on his hands. 

“Cillian.”

He regrets having given her his name. He flinches at the sound of it.

“Are you going to be good?”

It’s a familiar question. His mouth answers before his brain can catch up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Oh, I kinda like that,” she says, as if she’s surprised too. He blushes. She doesn’t notice. His face is already flush from crying nonstop. He jumps in alarm as her hand suddenly presses up against his chest.

“No,” he mutters in protest.

She flattens out the insignia on his breast pocket. “E5, sergeant? That’s not bad.”

“It’s just a uniform,” he whines in protest, about to break down again.

“Cillian,” she says in warning, “Enough games. You know what I want.”

“No I don’t!” He protests, “I’m not enlisted, I’m not-“

She cuts him off with a sharp slap. Again, his reaction is involuntary. He curls in on himself.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly. 

Nicolette withdraws her hand, placing it back in her lap.

“They’re carving out supply tracks along the Eastern Stretch. Why? What’s the target?” 

“I’m sorry,” he says again, absolute misery entering his voice, “I don’t know. I’m not part of it.”

A brief look of frustration crosses her face. He almost misses it. He’s been so trained to anticipate that twinge of annoyance, he reflexively flinches.

Nicolette stops twirling the knife. His breath catches. It’s poised at such an angle that it’d be very easy to just stab him in the chest and end this whole thing. She moves the tip down by his fingers instead. It doesn’t touch, not yet.

“I don’t know,” he curls his hands up into fists, “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, ma’am. I don’t know. Please. Please.”

“You seem like such a nice kid. Why are you making this so hard on yourself?”

“I’m not trying to,” he sniffles, “I’m sorry. I’m annoying you, I know. I’m not trying to.”

“You aren’t annoying me,” Nicolette says. She does not elaborate.

The tears start back up. He doesn’t speak again. Nicolette twirls the knife on the table, its tip making a small dent in the surface.

“You know, in the old days of the war, your men would cut the noses and ears off of ours. When they’d come back to village, we could barely recognize them. They didn’t die from it. Neither did we. They only meant to terrify us. It’s the fear that gets you. It’s always the fear.”

Cillian twists his neck, wiping his face on his shoulder. He shivers.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“Me too.” She stops twirling the knife, holding it firmly within her fist.

“I’m sorry,” he yelps, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, god, please. Please, I don’t know. If I did I would tell you. Please, please, don’t.”

He jumps back in the seat, his wrists still fastened firmly to the table. Her silence draw on. She doesn’t move. He keeps talking.

“I don’t know, I’m not lying, I promise, I don’t know. Please don’t. I wasn’t even supposed to be here today. I’m not one of them. It’s a mistake.”

“Some mistake,” she says, but she still doesn’t move. His crying is too out of control for him to speak further.

“Do you need more time to think about it?” She asks patiently. 

“No,” he insists, “I don’t know.”

She drives the knife clear through his palm.

(continued here)

[whumpsoda]

Intake Paperwork: Wesley

Masterlist cw: dehumanization, bbu/bbu adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, mentions of sedation, implied future noncon, kidnapping

——————

SUBJECT: 369719

DATE OF ACQUISITION: 12.15.XXXX

TIME OF ACQUISITION: 1:44 AM

LOCATION ASSIGNED: FACILITY 014, [REDACTED], USA

PREVIOUS ALIAS: Eugene Gabriel Reyes

AGE: 20

DATE OF BIRTH: 03.28.XXXX

HAIR: Dark Brown

EYES: Brown

HEIGHT: 5’10”

WEIGHT: 145 lbs 

SEXUALITY: Gay

DESIGNATION: Romantic

KNOWN SKILLS: Subject attending school on a sports related scholarship. Subject refused to disclose information on sex life, or any other details.

HOBBIES: Subject refused to report, providing only various expletives as his response.

KNOWN CONCERNS: Subject has shown to be increasingly aggressive as well as violent, taking any measure possible to repeatedly attempt an escape. Subject has shown to be a danger to those around him, recommended and requested to be kept in solitary for the entirety of his training.

KNOWN IMMEDIATE FAMILY: Angela Reyes, mother, and Gabriel Reyes, father. The couple was reported to have been divorced for 16 years. Both are still living.

SIBLINGS: Lewis Reyes, brother, five years older and living.

METHOD OF ACQUISITION: Involuntary. 

ACQUISITION DETAILS: Subject was apprehended after a night out with friends during his walk home. Subject fought back relentlessly before being injected with a sedative, although not before giving an employee a black eye. Subject was reported to have made continuous noise as an attempt at resistance during the transfer to the WRU facility.

CONTRACT SIGNED: 12.15.XXXX 2:58 PM

ASSIGNED HANDLERS: 

           PRIMARY: Amanda Reeves, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

           SECONDARY: Jermey Martinez, Senior Handler and Processor, Romantic Division

SIGNATURE PROVIDED INVOLUNTARILY, SUBJECT SEDATED FOR SIGNING. SUBJECT DISPLAYED MULTIPLE SIGNS OF INJURY AT TIME OF SIGNING, MOST NOTABLY A BROKEN NOSE.

CONTRACT SIGNATURE: Eugene Reyes, aka 369719

ESTIMATED COST FOR TRAINING: $150,000 USD

COMPENSATION PAID BY PROSPECTIVE:  $800,000 USD 

ADDED FEES: $50,000 AGORAPHOBIA TRAINING FEE

REQUESTED TRAINING: ALL Positions 1-35, Flexibility, Sensitivity, Endurance, Agoraphobia

COMMENTS:

This one’s gonna be a pain in my ass for a while, I’m sure of it. He already is, and we haven’t even begun his training. The drip will just make his fight stronger, his desperation ever present. I’ll get him under control though, as fast as possible. I always do. I can already see him groveling at my feet, quiet and docile with a head stuffed full of cotton. I imagine agoraphobia training being an interesting perk to this trainee, though.

[manhandlingmayhem]

Daniel Jackson Whump List: Stargate (1994), Stargate Sg-1, The Ark of Truth, Continuum, & Atlantis

The other whump lists I’ve found for Daniel have been quite minimal so I decided to make my own since he is my latest hyper fixation.

This is a work in progress. I’ll add seasons as I watch them. Only Atlantis and Continuum are left.

Stargate (1994)

Dragged by his foot through the dessert by an alien horse, manhandled, captured by Jaffa, forced to kneel, shot and killed by staff weapon protecting Jack, brought back to life by sarcophagus, threatened, non-con face touching, shot at throughout ending battle

Season 1

1x01 - distressed, guilty, crying, thrown against a wall, imprisoned, held back, forced to kneel, held down, shot at by staff weapons

1x02 - emotional about losing Char’e

1x03 - threatened with a knife

1x04 - beat up by Jack, attacked by The Touched and infected, carried by Teal’c

1x05 - gun held to kneck

1x07 - shot and killed with staff weapon, brought back by the Knox

1x12 - kidnapped, pushed against wall, general intimidation, strapped to a table, memory searched painfully

1x13 - brainwashed/manipulated by Hathor and implied rape

1x15 - manhandled

1x16 - goes rogue, threatened with court martial

1x17 - violently thrown through gate, head injury, comatose

1x18 - knocked out with scanning device, duplicated, weak, falls through gate

1x19 - gun point, handcuffed, manhandled, sedated, detained, interrogated, shot with staff weapon

1x21 - injured by ribbon device

Season 2

2x01 - knocked out and blinded by stun grenade, imprisoned, shot with staff weapon, presumed dead, revived in sarcophagus

2x02 - gun to head, shot with zat gun

2x03 - violently thrown through gate, choked, passed out

2x04 - taken by an alien devices and put into a coma, repeatedly forced to watch his parents die, tries to stop it but his parents perceive him as a child so they won’t listen to him, distressed and angry, held back, handcuffed, confined

2x05 - captured by Jaffa, chained, forced to kneel, manhandled, forced labor, limping, crushed under rockslide, healed by sarcophagus, addicted to sarcophagus, strapped to bed, extreme withdrawal, escapes infirmary and gets into a pretty violent fight with Jack, emotional breakdown

2x06 - surrenders

2x08 - emotional throughout, forced to kneel

2x13 - knocked out with dart, confined

2x17 - body swapped into old man, in hospital bed near death, emotional (the old man as Daniel gets handcuffed and confined)

2x19 - emotional, angry/vengeful

2x20 - gun point, hands on head kneeling, detained

2x21 - wakes up in kryo tube, caught trying to escape, threatened with becoming Ga’ould host

Season 3

3x01 - threatened (Hathor brings up when she r*ped him) gash on leg from staff weapon, kneeling, hands tied, threatend with zat gun, generally looks very tired this whole episode

3x02 - gun point, forced to kneel, brainwashed by Seth, thrown by ribbon device

3x04 - hallucinations which get worse until he is institutionalized, passes out, forced sedation, general manhandling

3x06 - bloody scrape on his cheek, surrounded by Jaffa, kneeling, shot with zat gun

3x07 - runs face first into force shield, forced to surrender, gun point for most of the episode

3x08 - struck by zat lightning, caged, shackled, chained and left as sacrifice to the Unas

3x09 - shot by stun gun, threatened with stun gun

3x10- tortured with ribbon device, emotional, nightmares

3x11 - emotional from the death of Shar’e

3x12 - captured, kneeling, imprisoned

3x13 - imprisoned, kneeling, slapped, punched, knocked to the ground, interrogated

3x14 - drugged, gun point

3x19 - zapped unconscious by force field, hands tied, kneeling, blood sample taken, caged, interrogated, tazed with staff weapon multiple times, manhandled, Jack and Sam tortured to get information out of Daniel

3x20 - surrenders to Jaffa as a ploy

3x21 - sent out of phase by crystal skull, not really whump but I love to see Daniel frustrated and helpless

3x22 - Michael Shanks had an appendectomy so Daniel had one too

Season 4

4x02 - gun point

4x03 - alien device stuck on his arm, passed out, weak, falls through gate

4x05 - hit in the face and knocked over

4x06 - knocked out and captured by unas, wrists tied for entire episode, pulled along by rope, dragged, knocked over, cut on cheek, threatened, lots of flinching

4x08 - memory loss

4x09 - gun point, zip tied to chair, interrogated

4x13 - manhandled, choked, thrown to the ground, tortured with ribbon device, extreme headache

4x14 - laying under a floating bomb trying to disarm it

4x16 - shot and killed by laser weapons in the future

4x17 - passes out, in a coma

4x18 - suicidal, Jack talks him off his balcony, coma, flatlines, Jack fireman carries him through the gate, headache,

4x21 - duplicate Daniel captured, hands tied, kneeling, manhandled, head shot off by staff weapon

Season 5

5x01 - gun point , imprisoned

5x04 - gun point and disarmed, shot with zat gun

5x07 - shot with zat gun, imprisoned, chained by ankle, electrocuted

5x09 - captured, thrown by ribbon device

5x13 - shot by zat multiple times

5x15 - undercover as Goa’uld slave, manhandled, kneeling

5x16 - undercover as Goa’ould slave, knife to throat, punched and knocked to the ground, grabbed by the throat and threatened with knife, thrown to the ground

5x19 - thrown into bookshelf, arm twisted/injured, thrown to the ground, kneeling, emotional, crying

5x20 - burned hands, slowing dying of radiation poisoning, jumps through glass windows, emotional, ascends

Season 7

7x01 - wakes up in a field naked and with no memories

7x02 - captured by Jaffa, tackled by Jonas to keep him from being shot

7x06 - passes out, wakes up with multiple people in his mind, collapses, medical restraints (belt with cuffs that attach to it), lots of emotions in this one, angry, terrified, sad, etc.

7x07 - kneeling, intimidated

7x10 - woken up with a staff weapon in his face

7x11 - almost drowns in a tunnel complex, captured by guerrillas, hands zip tied, blindfolded, manhandled, locked in a shed,

7x12 - manhandled, food and water deprivation, interrogated, tortured (off screen unfortunately), dragged, weak/unable to walk, zip tied to chair, punched in the face, bloody mouth and cheek, shot in the leg, slams into tree, limping, on crutches

7x15 - Osiris manipulating his dreams, tortured with ribbon device

7x17/18 - if you like emotional Daniel you’ll like this, one of the best war drama story lines of the entire show

7x19 - wakes up on the ground after being knocked out

7x21 - Jack grabs him and pushes him against a wall

Season 8

8x03 - shot in the arm, arm in sling, shot with zat gun

8x05 - arm in a sling and shrapnel cuts on his face, grabbed by the collar and threatened with gun

8x06 - shot in a simulation multiple times

8x07 - threatened with sniper fire, kidnapped, handcuffed, manhandled, interrogated, forced to give up information to save a friend, shot with zat gun

8x10 - shot by zat gun, punched in the face and knocked to the ground

8x12 - shot with zat gun, zip tied to chair, interrogated, slapped, shot in the shoulder, punched in the face several times, kicked in the stomach, kneed in the face, head butted

8x13 - disarmed, held at gun point, hit in the stomach, choked

8x14 - manhandled, detained by the Russians, blood sample taken

8x16 - captured by Replicarter, pinned to the wall, mind searched

8x17 - interrogated by Replicarter, stabbed through the chest, dies again lol

8x18 - accended and the sent back to earth

8x20 - alternate timeline Daniel knocked out by stun grenade, punched in the face, manhandled, forced to kneel, tortured with ribbon device, implanted with Goa’uld off screen, killed by T’ealc

Season 9

(a lot of whump gets moved to Cam this season)

9x01 - gets alien bracelet stuck on his wrist, passes out

9x02 - manhandled, held back

9x03 - thrown and held against a wall, manhandled, punched in the stomach, chained, almost burns to death

9x04 - passes out, handcuffed as part of a ruse

9x06 - collapses

9x10 - manhandled, knife held to throat

9x15 - imprisoned, manhandled

9x16 - captured, tied up, tortured mostly off screen, cuts on his face, almost shot (I greatly dislike this episode because the whump potential was great but the terrible writing ruins it with plot holes and time skips, boooo)

9x19 - ‘possessed’ by Vala using the Ancient communicator device

Season 10

10x01 - captured at gun point

10x02 - infected with a sleep inducing parasite

10x07 - captured by Jaffa, hands on head, choked by Adria, kneeling, mind searched

10x08 - gun point, talks Vala down

10x09 - shot by zat off screen, hands tied behind back, hostage

10x10 - threatened by Adria

10x11 - uses Ancient downloading device, head aches, weak (this is a nice long scene) falls to his knees after trying to fight Adria, non-con face touching, thrown to the ground, cuts and bruises on his face, uses Merlin’s powers to let the team get away and is captured by Adria

10x14 - turns up as a Prior, shot by zat, strapped to a chair, weak from use of powers

10x15 - shot at by assassin, held at gun point

10x16 - tazed, unconscious

10x19 - thrown across the room, trapped in a room with toxic coolant leak, falls to the floor

Stargate: The Ark of Truth

Captured by Ori soldiers, captured again, dragged by guards, thrown into cell, cuts on his face, mentally tortured by Ori priest, shaking in pain, so weak he can’t sit up, crying/begging while speaking with Morgan Le Faye, thrown against a wall, holding his arm in pain (this movie also has plenty of Cam Mitchell whump if you like that kind of thing)

[ghost-whump]

An Uphill Battle

CW: Institutionalized whump, (mental) hospital setting, vaguely creepy whumper, doctor whumper/patient whumpee, restraints, implied future whump. (Let me know if I need to tag anything else!)

Whumpee thrashed, tugging and pulling at their bonds—a tightly fastened straitjacket—while the orderlies dragged them away. The cold, empty stares of their fellow patients did nothing to ease their concerns.

The doors shut behind them with a clang, auto-locking in place. The metallic sound only doubled Whumpee’s efforts to escape.

“No- Let go! No, no! Lemme go, I-” They fought and struggled, though neither of the two orderlies were phased. Both kept dragging them along, down winding linoleum hallways. The scent of antiseptic only grew more intense. “Please! Please-” They begged, “I don’t want it today… I don’t! Please!”

“Ah,” A familiar, drawling voice interrupted their pleas, “Whumpee, causing trouble again, are we?” Whumper leaned in the doorway to a dark room (a dark, dark room… lit alight by-) with a lazy smile that reflected in the fluorescent lights.

Whumpee stilled at the sound of their name. Their pleas cut short, and all they could do was stare and shiver.

Whumper took a step forward, sending away the orderlies with a dismissive wave. Even though they'd been let go, Whumpee couldn't even think of running away. Whumper stopped only a few feet from the patient, pausing to pull a clipboard from under their arm. Turning a few pages, Whumper tsks, "Assaulting another patient with a spoon, attempting escape, even biting a nurse who'd restrained you?"

"I- I-"

"Hush."

Whumpee's jaw snapped shut.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Whumpee," The doctor hummed, "And I thought you were on the road to recovery..." They pause, then shake their head. "Well, no matter. I suppose recovery is an uphill battle after all. But to think, we'll have to start your treatment all over again."

a/n: first original thing i've posted here! always wanted to create and post on a whump blog, so this is a big moment for me :]

[whumped-by-glitter]

Chapter 1, Part 4: Poisons

⚠️CW: Institutionalized Slavery, Food Whump, Poisoning, Dehumanization, Implied torturer. (I think that's all actually today. Let me know if I missed anything, though)

✨️A special thank you goes out to my lovely beta reader @3-2-whump. I also just heard their OCs took over their blog. Go check it out. it's pretty cool! I've definitely got some words for some of them..... 😏

⏮️ Previous

Story under the cut:

The dog rose quickly, ignoring the slight protest from his ribs, and followed his master to his study. He knew the room well, the scent of various poisons at various stages of completion was almost a comfort, almost was the key word again.

He was safe from beatings in this room, as there was too much fragile equipment to be knocked into here. However, this room held the promise of a different type of torture.

“Sit cur.”

The bands thrummed their reward as he pushed through his instinct to resist. Normally, Dog wasn’t allowed to sit on furniture. Using any furniture would get him punished, but this particular chair was an exception. It had plates along the arms and legs and back that his bands would be able to bind to.

He obediently placed his arms and legs in the appropriate places, swallowing his nerves. This was a routine done twice a week that started a few years ago, when it was deemed his resistance to poison was strong enough to start taking Divinity’s Downfall. That was the world’s most deadly poison. He could only handle a drop still, and even that made him weird.

To the mutt’s surprise, his master did not bind him in place. Instead, he even took his blindfold off. He sat a tray containing about 30 vials in front of him. Each had a number on it.

“In these vials contain your most commonly misidentified poisons over the years. You will grab one, tell me the number. I want you to smell it then drink half. I want you to tell me what it is, and its appropriate antidote if there is one. You may begin.”

The mongrel picked up a purplish one first, he knew that it had to be berry derived, which narrowed down the list. He fingered he might as well knock the easier ones first before moving to the more challenging clear ones. A sour smell emitted from the vial as soon as it was uncapped, balla wood berry juice. A taste of the liquid confirmed his suspicion.

“Number 27, balla wood berry, also known as devil’s fruit. It’s deadly at about 3-4 berries. It’s in the same family as Divinity’s Downfall but is the least deadly of the group. The antidote is dirt of the fire or syrup tea made from the leaves of the Lel bush and sap of the mesa tree boiled together.” The Mutt rattled off the information. It came almost as a reflex, much to his surprise.

Still lightning ripped through his body, and he had to catch a scream before it could leave his throat.

“Want to try that again? What does a lowly tool like yourself have to be proud about?” his master hissed, withdrawing the ring that controlled his bands. It was a pain that though familiar, he would never get used to. If it touched him too long the pain would eventually get so intense it would knock him unconscious. This was a protection against a slave ever trying to steal it to free themselves.

Evidently his voice sounded too proud of himself…. Rule 3. Mutt didn’t try to understand the rules, he just obeyed, which was rule 1. Where other slaves were allowed to take pleasure in correct behaviors and obedience, even encouraged to, he was to be empty, nothing more than an object. No emotions, ever, were to show.

The test continued, vial after vial. He eventually realized the lower the number of the vial the more often he’d missed it. Each poison began to compound the last inside his body until he finally got to the last one. It was a clear liquid; the odor was so slight that even he couldn’t discern it. “Number 1,” the dog called out, hands tremoring. Before he could spill it, he dumped half of the glass tube onto his tongue.

The liquid was nearly tasteless. He closed his eyes to focus on the texture and flavor, it had a slight saltiness to it. That was useless though, it wouldn’t be able to be picked up once it was mixed into food. He focused harder, there had to be something distinct there he could use. Then the trick hit him, he realized over the 45 seconds or so he was holding it in his mouth, it was making his tongue slowly go numb.

The dog wanted to almost laugh. In the 20 years he had been doing this, he had never once gotten this one correct. All the grief and beatings over this one liquid and it never occurred to him to hold it in his mouth for a while. he choked back the giddiness and gave the identification to his master. “Caecus,” he said, evidently too smugly again. Another charge ripped through him, searing every inch of his skin without leaving a mark. That’s the only thing he could figure as to why he was being punished again.

“Come on, tell me the rest,” his master ordered cruelly without pulling the ring away.

Dog quietly gasped air, trying to get enough into his lungs to speak, to hopefully end the agony. “colorless….. odorless…. Tasteless…. it is almost…. impossible to detect,” he choked out between pants. His only consolation was the gentle thrumming warmth of the bands as a reward for obeying. “It does take a rather…. large amount….. fire dirt is the only antidote,” he gasped out, vision blackening. He was on the verge of screaming when the ring was pulled away.

The Mutt drooped in the seat, spent from the pain, the poisons, and the uncharacteristic cruelty of his master. It didn’t make sense to him; his master never used the ring as punishment like that before.

“Well done.”

His master sounded and smelled pleased! This made the dog’s heart swell. He wanted to smile badly but he quickly caught himself. His master hadn’t praised him since that day 5 years ago. Well except for when he offers himself to be hurt in the place of his betters. His master always says protecting his betters is very good.

Two words though, and everything bad that had happened just melted away. His heart felt like it was going to explode, he was so happy, he only wished he could smile. He had earned a praise!

“Thank you, Master,” he said simply, bowing.

He pushed all the happiness out, emptying his emotions. A tool shouldn’t be happy. The last thing he needed was for his master to read his mind and see all that nonsense.

“I have some preparations to make, be back here in an hour,” his master instructed.

“Yes, Master,” he acknowledged, bowing again as his master walked out of the room.

@whumpsandbumps, @whumperofworlds, @skittles-the-whumpee, @wounds-seen-and-unseen, @generic-whumperz

@emptycalories-splitlip, @pigeonwhumps, @i-eat-worlds, @starfields08000, @onlywhump

@snakebites-and-ink, @aloafofbreadwithanxiety, @turvuren

As always, please let me know if you want to be added or taken off my taglist!

any asks or DMs are also more than welcome as well! I live for the interaction.

Masterlist

Next ⏭️

[ennead-of-whump]

Psych Whump Masterlist

💉💉💉

This is going to be my go-to list every time I find something with medical or psych whump in it that I want to remember. I'll reblog it frequently and try to keep it updated but it's going to start small because good psych whump is so hard to find. (This in no way endorses medical abuse, I'm a mentally ill individual but I love consuming psych whump in media. Just about everything in these movies, books, etc are at the very least morally gray so consume at your own risk. Also, I only enjoy these things in fiction. Irl it makes me sick to my stomach, I know bc I've experienced some of this.) I'll try to add trigger warnings for each one but I might miss some so I apologize in advance. If you have any recommendations please message me! I'm scouring the internet for good psych whump but medical/sickfic whump is also wanted.

Movies:

A Cure For Wellness: Guy gets tricked into becoming a patient at a "resort" that's really a mental hospital in disguise that uses its patients for nefarious means. CW: incest, medical abuse, teeth falling out, sexual assault, some weird eel shit ^^There's probably more but I haven't watched the film in a while.

TV Shows:

Moon Knight: Whole season of psych whump, the main character has DID and loads of past trauma. Has a huge ancient Egypt theme and the MC gets (kind of) forced to accept psychiatric care. CW: lots of ableism, mental break, psychotic episodes, forced institutionalisation, child abuse, restraints

Books:

House of Leaves: This book is a fever trip but the MC (kind of?? The book has multiple authors, it's honestly very confusing but it's great) suffers from declining mental health and spirals hard. CW: child abuse, lots of sexual content, mentions of a caretaker beating a child, mentions/delusions of sexual assault, death of a dog (it was brutal, huge warning), mentions/descriptions of suicide and attempted murder

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest: This is chock-full of psych and medical whump, it all takes place in a psychiatric hospital (I've actually been to the one in the film! -Not as a patient) CW: huge amounts of abuse from staff, doctors, nurses, there's also a scene where SA is implied on a patient, the MC is there after being convicted of SA'ing a minor and he's pretty unremorseful (the MC is a dick though anyways), racism, ableism

OG Works (not mine):

Redwood Psychiatric Insitute: Forced institutionalization, great read and it has just about every trope I look for in fics all packed into one series. Please give it a read, it's fantastic. Source - https://www.tumblr.com/only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are/706656298337435648/redwood-psychiatric-institute-masterlist?source=share by @only-shadows-dwell-where-we-are

Fanfiction:

Into Your Arms: This is a Star Trek fanfic that follows a girl who has a severe eating disorder and mental illness. It's not the normal kind of sickfic or psych whump I go for but the aftercare in this is topnotch. Source - https://archiveofourown.org/works/15185897 by moose-misses-sweets on ao3 CW: suicide attempt, severe eating disorder, abusive partner, cutting/self harm

Note: If something you made is on this list and you want me to remove it, please message me and I will. I don't check messages very often but it doesn't mean I'm ignoring you, I just forget I have a tumblr sometimes.)

This has now been moved to @caspers-delusions which is my main blog. I'll be updating the post from there

[starryybrained]

Creeping Sensation

Whumptober Day 6: “It’s not my blood”

Content: BBU, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, blood, lightly referenced/implied noncon

Riley wipes his hands, wringing the paper towels from the WRU bathroom between his fingers. Blood is crusted underneath his fingernails, flaking off from the pads of his fingers as he rubs the flimsy sheets against his skin. They come away a dull red, damp and rusty-hued and sharp-smelling, coming apart before being promptly thrown into the trash.

God, he doesn’t know why he still tries to wash his hands between his duties and training sessions. They always end up red and raw afterwards. But for his sake and the trainees’, he washes them until they’re beyond sterile.

Truthfully, working here is disgusting. He can’t count how many times he’s been spat on — because surely that’s a reasonable thing to do to someone who has a baton in his hand. He beats them senseless every time but the crawling sensation never leaves. He has to clean up after trainees sometimes, vomit and shit and piss and other wonderful things that come from the body, because the senior handlers are above that.

Riley flicks the rest of the water from his hands. They smell floral and sweet now, pleasantly clean, but all he can do is stifle nausea because the scent has been tainted over and over again.

Of course, there are some small victories to be had — at least he’s not a Romantic handler. He would rather end his own life before he put his lips onto a trainee’s. Or multiple trainees, judging how well the Romantic handlers got around. It’s like they had no thoughts about their safety and only cared about how much they wanted to put their hands all over their trainees. He didn’t even want to think about that.

Leaving the bathroom, he walks to his next assignment, dully aware of the sensation of phantom bacteria creeping up his arm.

It may not have been his blood, but he wishes it was.

[justplainwhump]

Processed (pt 1)

Dany is entered into WRU preprocessing.

Part 4 of Angel's abduction arc. [1][2][3]

800 words

[Making Angel]

Content / warnings: BBU, institutionalized whump, facility whump, implied future noncon, noncon nudity, noncon kissing, abduction.

"Patrick," somebody called, their voice oddly distorted by the echo in the small garage. "What's taking you so long? Stop deviating from protocol."

The hands roaming Dany's body paused for a moment, one on her ass, the other pressing down on her throat. She didn't open her eyes. Refused to give in to reality.

She could rationalize being naked, getting kissed, being tied up even - however the handcuffs at her bed at home never cut into her as painfully deep as these zip ties did.

She wouldn't be able to make sense of the rest. The car, the garage, the face of the stranger claiming her.

Please, she thought. Please, go away, please shut up, please leave me alone, please take this messed up reality with you.

They didn't leave her alone though. "Such killjoys," her captor - Patrick, no, her captor, she'd never wanted to learn his name, it just made it more real - murmured into her hair. "Guess I should've taken you up on that offer after all."

Dany swallowed back bitter tears. She'd tried, at least, she told herself. Tried, and failed.

"But well then," Patrick went on, his arms wrapping around her as he lifted her out of the trunk. "Let's get you processed, princess, before the real fun begins."

Dany Hammond wasn't a princess. She wasn't a sweetheart, a babygirl, a darling, or a fucking angel. She'd stood up to many men, who tried to elevate themselves by belittling her. She'd won, always, the small battles, and the bigger ones as well.

Dany was successful, bright, charismatic, influential, she'd held power.

At least she'd thought she did.

It had taken so little, to strip her off it - these men had done it almost as easily as they'd stripped her off that white summer dress.

"Open your eyes, Ms Hammond," the other voice said, closer now, his voice clearer, almost sanitized. A gloved hand was around her chin, tilting her face to the side.

Dany blinked her eyes open. The new man was shorter than her, thin, with a frown on his face and dark eyes. He didn't wear a uniform, as she'd expected, nor combat gear as her captors had; just a plain white shirt and a pair of jeans. "Whose blood is that?," he asked, dispassionately. "I hope it's not all hers." His fingers ran over the gash on her forehead, where Patrick had slammed her head against the trunk. She hissed in pain. The stranger clicked his tongue and glanced up at Patrick. "No damage on the merchandise," he said. "That was part of the deal. If that leaves a scar, I'll deduce it from your compensation." He grimaced, as he looked her down further, reached back to his belt.

His hand came back with a box cutter.

"No!" Dany flinched against Patrick's firm hold.

The stranger rolled his eyes, and with a flash of the knife, the zip ties around her ankles fell off.

"Hold still," he ordered flatly, and she did, as those around her wrists followed. "We don't use these here. Horrible effects on body parts." Another grimace, as his gloved hands reached for her fingers. He let go, when she jerked her hand back. "Yeah. Cold as ice. Can you stand on your feet?"

On cue, Patrick settled her down, his arms still wrapped around her naked body. His breath was too quick, too intimate, too hot in her neck, his hand too greedy on her breast, his body pressed too close to her naked skin. And yet, when her legs buckled under her, she was disgustingly grateful for his hold. She couldn't feel her feet from her ankles down, just an odd stress to her legs as she connected to the floor.

Just some dozen meters away, a stream of sunlight fell into the garage where the entrance ramp was. She was an athlete. Stronger than she looked. Fast, too.

Unbound.

Yet she couldn't even move a foot.

A desperate sob escaped her throat.

The other man huffed. "As expected. Well then, Patrick, you know where the showers are. I want her all clean for the intake documentation. Get that blood out of her hair. No make up, either. Client will want to see her all natural."

Dany's breath hitched. "Client," she whispered. "What the fuck. Who? Who's behind this? Why?"

The man raised an eyebrow and looked her down again. "We don't disclose information about our buyers, Ms Hammond. But since you asked; I assume it's obvious that this was a targeted operation. The client ordered you, specifically. And the why is extremely simple. It usually is." He shrugged nonchalantly. "It's because they want to fuck you, Ms Hammond. And because our company can make sure that you'll never say no to that."

As Patrick picked her up again, close against his chest, carried her towards the doors into the facility, Dany's gaze focused on the single, hazy stream of sunlight falling down the entrance ramp.

---

-

Tag list (ask to be added or removed): @whumplr-reader @there-will-always-be-blood @whimpers-and-whumpers @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @risk606

[sir-fenris]

I'm back on track :)

This is a short scene inspired by this post of @floral-comet-whump 's whump ask game.

(Colored sentences are part of the prompt)

Magical Euphoria

Content: magical living weapon, dehumanization, "it" used as pronoun, dangerous whumpee, magical euphoria, handler (professional whumper) pov, shock collars, minor sensory (visual) deprivation, manhandling, military whump, implied institutionalized whump, implied magical slavery.

(Drabbles' masterlist)

-

Handler was used to seeing Whumpee spiraling down into euphoria every time it was allowed to use its power. How its eyes turned wide and lifeless, blood vessels strained. How its lips moved in eerie, giddy-edged murmurs. How its body twitched and its hands cracked while it drained the life out of an entire field of enemy soldiers in waves of dark magic.

Handler was used to it, but it never stopped making a chill go down his spine.

Withering was an insanely powerful magic to have, and no one with that much destructive potential could be left to roam freely, to run wild in the world.

Whumpee's murmurs are very quiet, delivered almost in a singing tone. The same words it repeated thousands of times, for each withering wave it ever sent. At this point, Handler is able to repeat the words in his own mind.

Pale, necrotic fingers dig further into the dirt inside the tent, sending the next wave of destruction. Handler pays attention to make sure it spares the tent area to focus the attack only on the enemy.

It's been years since the last time Whumpee had acted out or accidentally let the withering magic impact their side's camp. But it's never too cautious to still pay attention.

The black mist that swirls around Whumpee's arms spread further, coming from the black tip of its fingers all the way up to its neck, almost looking like veins growing on its skin.

Similar misty veins appeared on its eyes.

And that's when Handler knew it had to stop. Last time he had let the weapon's eyes turn completely black, it had been 3 whole days of actively bringing Whumpee back to lucidity.

"This is the last wave of attack. I'll retrieve the weapon after this one." He says firmly to the soldiers present. Another 30 seconds or so, and they would leave. Handler clicks his communicator, warning the escort team and his superiors that he'll take the weapon back.

"What? No! There's still enemies left. It doesn't leave the tent until the work is done." The general barks at him.

Handler doesn't back down. "You have a large amount of soldiers and other weapons to use. This one is done."

Whumpee gasps as the nullification glasses are put on its face, blocking its vision entirely and keeping it in pure darkness. Its regulating collar also beeps, going into nullification mode.

The weapon knows better than to complain or move without being told to, but Handler gives it a warning electrical shock at the almost pouty whimper. It flinches and goes dead quiet.

"It was fucking smiling, it is fine to keep on! What is the point of having a weapon that can't be used?!" The general seethes and Handler has to bite back a sarcastic, angry comment.

Whumpee had turned every living soul in a 5 miles line into withered corpses. All grass, plants, any aspect of living nature, turned dead, dried out. It's an entire wasteland that might never recover.

But of course a general wouldn't understand that living weapons need much more complex and delicate handling than actual objects. These people never saw the proportion of destruction that Whumpee is truly capable of. They didn't know when to stop.

Handler did. And it was so annoying to always have to fight empty minded soldiers to prove he knew how to do his fucking job.

"I'm not telling it to launch an attack again! The magic would consume it's head and-" He could spend hours describing how the euphoria made Whumpee impossible to contain by himself. How the crazed giggles turn into hiccuping sobs once the euphoria gives space to a harsh comedown. How the euphoric muttering and the inconsolable weeping were equally distressing to hear.

But again, these people wouldn't understand that the euphoria had an absurd destructive potential, and that the comedown, or better yet crash down, had an unnecessarily high risk of breaking down Whumpee's mind.

"Ugh, you have no idea how bad it gets," Handler settles for saying. "Hey, Whumpee. Up, we're leaving."

"Mmn? Oh... okaaaay.” Its speech is a bit slurred, with that giddy edge and exhaustion strain. It can barely stand up by itself. Handler hopes that today will be an easy recovery, there's barely anyone qualified to help him if Whumpee freaks out again.

Handler could tell the soldiers weren't happy with his decision, but they could take it up with his superiors if they wanted.

He guides it out of the tent by the collar once its hands are tucked into the metal gloves again. The escort team is already there to take them back to Whumpee's designed cot.

They lock the door behind Handler, and he immediately begins the routine of comedown from the magical euphoria.

As always, it's an active effort to not show any discomfort. If Whumpee sensed uneasiness from its handler, then everything would go to shit. This type of weapon needed a constant, firm, and steady structure.

Even with the nullification glasses, metal gloves, regulating collar and the heavy conditioned obedience, Handler still felt like Whumpee was way too powerful.

He wondered once again if using this... things as weapons was actually smart. Or if it was a huge mistake that would backfire badly on all of their faces soon enough.

-

-

-

Just a little extra. What Whumpee is mumbling is a fan version of the hurt incantation from tangled:

Wither and decay, cease this misery. Break this earthly chains, and set the spirit free. Bend it to my will. Steal the sunlight's glow. Take their final breath, and let the darkness grow...

-

[paingoes]

Cuckoo Egg

(continued from here)

(Content: institutionalized slavery, military content, minor character death, fear, begging, lot of crying, blood)

tags: @echo-goes-mmm @sowhumpshaped @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @teachunks @4th-dimensional-writer

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

She leaves it there, too. She disappears again. It bleeds continuously onto the table, staining the sleeves of his uniform. He has to keep it perfectly still to stop the pain from reigniting. He sobs dryly.

The door opens again. Nicolette slinks in. She’s carrying a glass full of clear liquid. He tries to apologize again, to beg. She quiets him.

“It’s just water,” she says. With his hands bound, she has to bring the glass to his lips for him to drink. He flinches, fully convinced she will break it off in her mouth. But her hands are careful.

“If you lose a lot of blood, you get thirsty,” She explains, “And you’ve been crying a lot.”

He drinks the whole thing. She pulls the glass back, placing it on the table.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Cillian says weakly. This time, she does a worse job masking her surprise.

“You’re welcome,” she says slowly, “Are you ready to talk now?”

He tries not to cry again, to immediately lose whatever hydration he just gained.

“I told you,” he whines.

 She makes a small noise at the back of her throat, “Unfortunately, I don’t have another knife.”

“Wait-“

She plucks the knife out from the table, through the layer of flesh. It hurts just as bad going out. The blood pours with renewed force. Cillian screams. 

She doesn’t get back up on the table this time. It’s too soiled now. She doesn’t want the layers of accumulated blood to strain her clothes. Cillian recoils as she presses the knife flat against his uniform, wiping his own blood on the fabric. The metal catches the gleam.

“Please stop,” he gasps. 

“I’d like to.” Nicolette is right beside him, leaning on the same side of the table that he’s chained up on. All the blood has shocked him. All the terror.

“I’m trying,” he says quietly, going into a kind of trance, “I’m trying, please. I’m trying to be good.”

“Do it, then. I’ll let you rest after. Give me something.”

“I don’t know,” he practically yells. His voice breaks, “I am domestic. I’ve never been in a warzone before. I don’t know anything.”

She holds the knife to his throat. He sobs, barely flinching.

“I don’t want to die over this. It was just supposed to be a day trip. I’m sorry. It wasn’t my choice.”

“What do you mean?” The knife moves down a little, more to the collar than the jugular. It digs into his chest, not quite breaking the skin, but still thorny and painful.

“I don’t-“ he blinks back tears, cutting himself off. It’s so hard to speak now. The pressure in his throat has grown so immense.

Nicolette cuts him, unexpectedly. He jumps in pain and shock, forcing the dagger along a longer trail. It cut through the clothes, along his chest. Its shallow, but it bleeds heavily. His hands clench up reflexively. The muscles tensing triggers pain within the new wound. 

“Stop,” he pleads. She withdraws the knife. He wants the pain stop now, not just the interrogation. But the cuts still throb and burn. There’s nothing anyone can do for that. It takes him a minute to catch his breath. A moment too long and Nicolette presses the knife to the other side of his chest.

“I was only here as a punishment,” he chokes out. His face burns. It’s such a deep instinct for him to try and evade it. The shame cuts through him. 

“I’m sorry,” he manages, “I don’t- I’m not supposed to be here. I’m not a soldier. I’m not. It was just to punish me. I’m sorry.”

He can hardly see her through his tears, “You don’t believe me.”

Without moving the knife from its spot on his chest, she traces her hand around the bare skin of his neck. He winces, expecting her to tighten the grasp. She doesn’t. She’s looking for something.

“No dog tag. Cillian, what’s your full name?”

“I don’t have one.”

The knife enters, just a little.

“I don’t, I swear. They didn’t give me one.” He rushes the words out.

“I don’t- I don’t know,” his face burns, again, deeper, “My master.”

He hates how the word feels in his mouth, but it gets her to take the knife out. 

“No name on the uniform, either. All the others had one.”

He cringes as she realizes she is talking about the dead bodies of the soldiers he’d come with. He wonders where they’re keeping them now.

Nicolette slides off the table, turning back towards the door. Cillian can’t see her expression though the tears. Even if he could, it wouldn’t tell him much.

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

She returns quicker than he expected, but it still feels like hours have gone by. Cillian had calmed down a little, just enough to stop crying. Her sudden reappearance dashed his progress. She was trailed by two men. 

“Please don’t, please, please,” Cillian panicked, his imagination already running wild.

“Tell them what you told me,” her voice is more urgent now, almost beseeching, “Why you were in the desert.”

“I don’t know!” Cillian’s voice rose in frustration, his anger only slightly subdued by the blood loss.

“No. You, specifically. You know. Tell them.” She insisted.

If his hands were free, he’d have brought them to his face, in spite of the way the blood would smear. He wants to hide.

“They sent me on the mission as a punishment. I didn’t come by choice. I’m not a soldier.” His breathing is heavy and uneven. It makes his voice pitch.

Nicolette exchanges a look with the men she brought with her. They eye the wounds he’s been given. Without any words sharped between them, they all turn to leave. Cillian collapses back in the seat, too exhausted to live.

They return shortly after and without Nicolette. There is not much in terms of discussion, but one wraps a piece of cloth around his hand and another on his elbow, stopping the blood flow and cutting off circulation. It’s a little late for that. The cuffs are undone from the table, but not removed from his wrists.

“Where are we going?” Cillian says weakly

“Infirmary. There’s been a mistake,” The man says, not exactly looking at him. It doesn’t matter. Cillian can’t even hold his head up.

=======

They find the brand quickly. Cillian had forgotten it was even there, it was the last thing on his mind. He had put a lot of effort into pretending it didn’t exist. In this instance, it saves him.

Their tone changes immediately. It is not one of apology or of outrage, but of hushed guilt. They can’t even look him in the eye. Still, he counts himself lucky just to have been left alone. The cuffs come off. They strip the bloodied uniform from his back so they can treat the shallow chest wounds. The medics there wrap his hand in a cloth bandaid. They do not seem to be in any hurry to get him a new shirt, but some of the desert heat seeps through the walls and it’s not at all unpleasant. The bed is so soft. He sits on the edge of it, still party curled in on himself. He rubs at the flesh where the metal bit him. His skin is still stained a bit pink.

He doesn’t hear it when Nicolette returns. She seems to maintain some barrier between herself and Cillian the entire time. She crosses her arms over the top of his headboard and rests her chin on top of them. Cillian jumps, scooting closer to the foot of the bed.

“Does it hurt, Cillian?” She says in the same emotionless voice. He cringes a little.

“No, ma’am,” He answers fearfully. It was true, though. The shot they gave him made his whole body numb. There’s a strange tingling feeling where the pain should be.

“Don’t call me that. I don’t like it anymore.” Her eyes are so wide. Cillian doesn’t respond.

“You are very upset with me,” She observes.

“I told you,” he hisses. He can’t hold it in. He wants to apologize for it immediately, but to his surprise, she speaks first.

“You told me what anyone in your position would say.” She readjusts herself, pulling one hand free to brush her hair back, “All the others had stories just like it.”

He shakes his head. She keeps going.

“You have to understand, Cillian. There’s nothing we find more despicable than an evil coward. Someone who can inflict pain onto others but can’t take it themselves. You’d be surprised how often we see it among the ranks. It needs to be stomped out.”

“But I didn’t do that.” Cillian says and feels as if he’s right back in the cell.

“I know. I’m sorry.” She still doesn’t blink, but her lips press into a thin line. 

The apology snaps him out of it. He’s not any less angry, but he is less afraid. He wants to cry again.

“My hand is never going to heal.” He clutches the cloth tightly. He might as well get her while he has her, before she can change her mind.

“It will,” Nicolette insists. She holds up her own palm. A jagged scar runs down the center of it.

“One of the most sensitive parts of the body, you know,” She speaks without feeling.

Cillian shivers. He did know.

“Are you going to let me go now?” He asks quietly. The room feels colder.

“Go where?” She tilts her head in that familiar motion, smooth and uncanny. 

He blinks. Back to his master, of course. Where else would he go? Nicolette eyes the brand, a deep purple against his tan skin.

“I don’t think so, Cillian,” She shakes her head, closes her eyes.

“I think we should find you new clothes.”

[whumpsoda]

How would all the WSFSP recues respond to being flirted with by a creepy stranger?

Masterlist

Sorry but this inspired some writing!! Here’s how Agnes would react :]

cw: pet whump, lady whump, box boy universe/bbu adjacent, Institutionalized slavery, conditioned whumpee, past abuse, dubcon implied, creepy whumper, bar setting, intimate whumper, drinking

——————

The words were flying right over her head, jumbling up in a throbbing ache either from her training or the loud, bumping music swirling around her. She used to read all the damn time, and now she couldn’t even string a sentence together. Agnes grit her teeth, continuing.

Sh- she… at the… no… I have no fucking idea what that word is.

Slamming the book shut, she threw it to the side carelessly. How could everyone else seem to do it so easily?

Agnes settled her sights over the maze that was the bar, filled with the sounds of people. Too loud, she thought, yet didn’t leave. She knew a good lot of the people in said maze, a lot for the same reason they knew her. It was never hard for a pet to recognize another pet.

Agnes made eye contact with a woman making her way to the counter, tall and slender, who eventually looped around the open chair beside her.

“Hey, there.” Grazing a hand over Agnes’ back, the woman slunk her a grin. “You having a good night?” She had long, dark hair, and a face caked with precisely done makeup.

“It’s going alright.” Agnes shrugged. She looked the opposite, hair unbrushed and face bare.

Taking a seat beside her, the woman’s bracelets jingled along with her movement. “Could be better with a drink, I assume.” She dipped a strand of hair behind her ear, biting her lip.

“I’m okay.” Agnes told her, as casually as possible. She didn’t really know why she was even there. “Thanks, though.”

“So you come to a bar and you’re not even gonna drink?” She laughed, a kind of sting to the ears. Hearty and low. Agnes joined in, weak and faked. Easy, though. “C’mon, don’t be a buzzkill. It’s on me.” Before Agnes could refuse - not that she would’ve even had the guts - the woman had already ordered them both something. “I’m Carter, by the way.”

“Agnes.”

“That’s like-,” again she laughed, but this time it felt more so at her than with her. Kind of like- “What an old lady name you got there.”

Agnes dipped her head, allowing herself to look through her lashes, twisting her abdomen to face the other woman. Exactly like with- “Yeah, I guess you could call it that.”

“Ah.” The woman - Carter - looked to find the bartender - Derrick, his name was - handing her their drinks. “Here’s yours, and mine.”

Agnes took the cup with both hands, tapping it with her fingers. A touch of cold. “Thanks. You really didn’t have to.” She failed to catch what Carter had ordered, but didn’t really care.

Carter smiled, stealing a sip out of her cup. Agnes watched the bob of her throat. “Drink up, pretty girl.”

Drink up, pretty pet.

Maybe… one drink couldn’t hurt. She was going to need it if she couldn’t find a way to see herself out of this conversation. She took a swig, bitterness filling up her mouth and down her throat.

“What’s that?” Carter gestured to her book, discarded beside her.

She chuckled, awkwardly. “Just a book I’ve been reading.”

“Here?” Carter made a face, a scrunch of her expression with an amused smile. “That’s pretty weird.”

Discreetly Agnes slipped it back into to her bag, a cross body big enough to fit her most important belongings. “Yeah, I know.”

“To each their own, I guess.” She didn’t say it like she really meant it. “You’re nervous, I can tell,” She muttered, bumping Agnes’ drink with a gentle nudge, “drink a little more. It’ll make you feel better.”

She said it like Agnes wouldn’t fucking know that, as if she didn’t come here at least like a twice a fucking week. Agnes, obedient as ever, took another gulp.

“Good girl.” Agnes almost spit before she could swallow, a dribble slinking out of her pursed lips. Carter looked as if that was the most normal thing she’d said all night. “What?”

Agnes swallowed the burn. “Nothing. Sorry.”

Carter sat in a way that made sure her body was facing Agnes’. “You’re very gorgeous, y’know.”

“Me?” Agnes huffed a laugh, as if she disagreed. How could she when that was why she was made romantic? “You’re joking.”

“Nope, I’m serious. And, if you’d let me,” she licked her lips, keening in, “I’d love to see more of that beauty.”

“Oh, um-,” Agnes slunk back, “Sorry, but I’d rather not… tonight. Maybe another time.”

A yank of her arm, and she was level with Carter’s shoulder.

“Oh, you can’t fool me, pretty thing. I know what you are, okay?” She whispered, lips smacking in Agnes’ ear. She froze, utterly still. “No more dancing around it, baby, everyone can tell you’re one of them.” Carter leaned back, resting her head on her knuckles. “You’re not a very good actor… or, well, maybe you were just trained so good you can’t help but show it.”

Agnes’ mouth moved, so many words dying right in her throat. She hesitated. “I’m not-,”

“Hush, okay? You’re prettier when you’re not talking.” She tisked, trailing a thumb over Agnes’ lips and down to hold her chin. “No one likes a smartass slut.”

It’s okay, Roxy, you don’t need to speak. No one wants to hear a dummy like you talk, anyways.

“But, I mean,” her arm brushed Agnes’, “Reading? In a bar? I’m surprised it’s not a kids book. I know you guys can’t read very well, if at all.” Again, she bit her lip, inspecting her prey. “You’re definitely not a reader one, I can just tell.”

“Stop-,”

She held Agnes’ wrist with an iron grip. “Do you really want to play this game with me? I could call up a couple handlers right now to take you off my hands. A refurb is what they’d call you then, right?”

“I-,”

“Come back home with me, baby. Just one night, okay? I bet it’s practically routine for you.” Carter leaned in ever so closer, a hand pressing to Agnes’ thigh. “Then I’ll leave you on your way.”

“I don’t-,” In, and out. Her lips firmed. “No thanks. Like I said, maybe another time.”

“Well you’re just a waste of space, aren’t you? A romantic who doesn’t want to fuck?” Her hand brushed Agnes’ cheek. She yanked away. “That’s crazy.”

She turned Agnes’ wrist to the inside of her arm, nudging up the bracelet that covered her scar. “Please- let go of me.”

“I will if you give me your number.” Carter cocked her head. “I won’t call anyone, if you do, either.”

“Wh- whatever. Fine.” The hold on her wrist released as Carter reached for her phone, allowing Agnes to provide her a contact.

“See ya, pretty girl.” She called as Agnes grabbed her things, making her way out as fast as possible.

Pushing her way through the crowd was the hardest part, through the noise and the lump in her chest, but the chill of the outside smacked her as she finally left. Taking a sharp, almost immediate turn, she stumbled into an alleyway, phone in hand.

The light was bright on her face, blinding her for a moment before her vision settled. Putting in her passcode - Isaac’s birthday - she looked for Isaac’s contact, which was a bit tougher when you weren’t great at reading.

Agnes had her number saved, knew what her name looked like, but never really used it. Not unless she needed to.

She was such a dick.

She pressed the call button, biting her nail with every next ring.

“Hello?” Someone answered with a click, a drowsy rasp sticking to their voice.

Agnes sipped in a shaky breath. “…Isaac?” She whispered, fighting a sob.

It was obvious in her voice, as she could practically see Isaac shooting to her feet.“Agnes? What is it?” Her words were trembling then. “Are you okay?”

“N- no.”

“What do you need? What can I do? Should I come pick you up?”

Agnes swallowed. “Yes, please.”

“I’ll be right there. Send me your location.”

“Okay.” Swift, one nail in her mouth and the others typing, she did just as she was told.

She heard the jingle of Isaac grabbing her keys. “Do you want me to stay on the phone with you?”

“No… I’m okay.” She hid the sob in the back of her mouth well. “Just get here as fast as you can. Please.”

“You sure?”

“Mhm. I’ll be fine.”

Isaac sighed, but relented. “Okay. See you soon. Love you.”

“Bye.” Instantly as the call ended, her eyes clouded, a wail clawing up from her throat.

Agnes counted down the minutes it took her to get there, phone more near death with every check. A little over twenty minutes.

The car door swung open as they pulled up, the car not even stopped, someone jumping out and running at her. She flinched back, for a second seeing something different, something that made her head burn with white. They were here for her they were fucking here, everything she’d built was over, before she realized who it was.

“Oh! Uh, hey, Wesley.” He grabbed her by the abdomen, pulling her in tight.

“Hi.” He mumbled, face scrunched into her sweatshirt.

The window rolled down, Isaac sticking her head out from in the drivers seat. “Sorry. He caught me leaving and wouldn’t leave me alone until I let him come with.” Agnes patted him on the head, hugging him back. “Got pretty worried when I said I was going to get you.”

“Nothing to worry about, man. Everything’s all good.” She mumbled to him, brushing his bangs out from his eyes. He didn’t respond.

She looped her hand into his, leading him back to the car and opening the door to the passenger seat.

“So what happened?” Isaac was tired, heavy bags under her eyes, but when was she not?

“It…,” her gaze shifted from Isaac to Wesley, then back to Isaac. “It’s nothing. Just a rough night.”

“Mm.” Isaac didn’t believe her. Agnes didn’t blame her.

“Are you, um, gonna sleep over? Agnes?” Wesley asked, piping up from the back seat, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“Uh…,” Isaac cast her the smallest of a glance. She was wondering, too. “Sure.”

“Really?” He grew a smile, wide and smooshing his cheeks. “Can you stay tomorrow? Do stuff with me? Can I show you my drawings?” He spit off rapid fire questions, radiating excitement.

Her face, red rimmed and tear stained, softened. Maybe her night wouldn’t be so bad after all. “Whatever you want, Wes.”

——————

Masterlist

Taglist - @softvampirewhump @ivymyers @taterswhump @octopus-reactivated @tippytappytyping

@distracted-obsessions @starfields08000 @bitchaknso @silly-scroimblo-skrunkl @scoundrelwithboba

@whumped-by-glitter @whumpering-heights @arlin-always-writing @bilightningwhumper @sharkyydoesnothing

@whump-till-ya-jump

If anyone wants to be removed or added to the taglist, please let me know! :)

[borom1r]

I am as always late to the ask game (time zones smh) BUT

Headcanons about Marlott’s Bedlam years?

Also for Marlott, it always makes me laugh in season 1 how he let Flora sleep in his bed and just. Never took it back. Eventually set up a wee cot in the other room because presumably Old Scarred Ill Man + Uncomfortable Chair is Not a good combination. But man was having bat fucking insane dreams/visions that whole time and I’m like. Did Flora ever see the nightmares? How did she feel about all this? She never felt unsafe there (up until the end) but she must have witnessed SOMETHING.

And one for Aramir because I woke up feeling like a Trash Can Man: in your general whump Situation (illness or injury or both), which one is the worse patient? XD

I think like obviously Flora HAD to have seen his nightmares + I think she just kinda let him have his space about it?? like he’s not going to trouble her with the nightmares of an old man, least of all when she’s got her own trauma. like I can’t imagine she was sleeping particularly well at first either, so I do kind of imagine she’d go wake him up if she could tell the dream was particularly bad. then at least they can sit together instead of being miserable alone. share some 2am post-nightmare tea in tired silence.. she’s probably fallen back asleep leaning against him before (and the realization that like. oh. he’s inadvertently wound up with a surrogate daughter, hasn’t he? and she trusts him enough to fall asleep around him. oooooo that would hit Hard)

+ Bedlam years…… good question actually?? like Hervey has him institutionalized + visits the cell after John escapes but iirc the doctor implied John got dropped off and Hervey never fuckin came back to visit which is. like MAY have been a lie bc he was talkin to Nightingale but considering Hervey’s miraculous return to society, I don’t think so? which means John was completely alone, catatonic, for however many years. undergoing electroshock therapy and like. who knows what else.

and it’s like. he could escape. 1) he was plenty aware of his surroundings with Hervey, enough to kill a man and orchestrate his escape there and 2) he’s fully strong enough to rip chains out of the wall. he could’ve escaped earlier. so the question I think really comes down to what triggered his catatonia? bc Hervey is not a particularly kind or forgiving man, and his weird obsessive god complex “I could never let you die” shtick seems to develop (mostly) in season 2 after John escapes. I.E. when John begins to exceed his expectations. bc Hervey was fully content with the idea of dumping John in a cell to rot for eternity. Another failed experiment stored away + forgotten in pursuit of bigger, better things

(th god complex IS there in season 1 but again, as soon as John “fails” in his eyes, tries to escape, any feigned care/concern is Gone)

+ with the catatonia thing, 1) was it a response to the treatments in bedlam to protect himself by dissociating his mind from his body. or, was it 2) sth triggered by however the hell Hervey reacted when he found and recaptured John. because he certainly was not happy, and Hervey is notttt above harming those who disappoint him (he’s certainly not above harming those he claims to care about either, though more in the manipulative mental sense).

HM. Boromir for sure. Aragorn was raised in Rivendell, his foster father is a renowned healer, like he may Complain about it but he knows when he needs to take it easy.

Boromir would HATEEEEE being sick most of all bc at least an injury is like. a tangible external thing? sickness he would try to power through until he collapses or sth. Aragorn sitting next to his husband in bed, tending to him after he tried to take care of some papers and passed out at his desk like “you are a nightmare. do I need to lock you in our rooms to make you rest???” (Boromir fully threatens to climb out a window before being hit by the worst coughing fit ever).

I think an injury, he’s more willing to rest bc if he fucks up the healing process it may permanently affect his ability to move/fight (depending on where/how severe ofc— he will fully just Ignore a minor injury and go about his day. as long as it doesn’t get infected he’s fiiiiiiiiineee)

[writereleaserepeat]

Hear No Evil - Chapter 6

Previous // Next (tbd)

CW: bbu, bbu-adjacent, pet whump, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization, dehumanizing intent by using it/its pronouns, ableism, implied past noncon

Pet was so, so, so tired. Its bones felt like they were made of lead, heavy to the point that every small movement felt almost insurmountable. It hadn’t slept properly in days, and that bath had lulled it into contentness. The water had been so warm. The water had also been filthy when it was finally drained, swirling down the drain with pale copper hues, and Pet knew that was because of its own blood. 

It was Master’s possession, and it would not be tolerated to bring such dirt into Master’s home, much less Master’s bed. The bath made that much clear. This was something that Pet was expected to know: cleanliness was important here. 

After its bath, Master took the time to clothe Pet in soft garments. Master had pulled a long-sleeved sweater over Pet’s head, and then carefully eased sweatpants over his narrow hips. The clothes caused a strange, almost suffocating sensation against Pet’s skin, despite how soft they were and how they pooled in folds of loose fabric. It couldn’t recall the last time it had been allowed clothes, and it had certainly never been allowed clothes so comfortable.

When Master looked away for a moment, Pet dared to bury its nose deep in the plush fabric and smell the aroma buried within. The sweater smelled like Master, a delicate cleanliness accented by a faint floral touch. No matter how odd it was to have clothes on, especially on its first day in a new home, Pet found itself soothed by the kind gesture. 

As soon as Pet was clothed, Master led Pet back to the room that it had been in before, the room with the strange bed that was low to the ground and covered with blankets. Even though Master’s mumblings were still indistinct to its ears, Pet was certain that it knew what was coming next. It had been through this routine countless times before. 

Master had cleaned it, because Master wouldn’t want to use such a filthy creature. Pet was far too dirty, undeserving to take its place in Master’s bed, so disgusting that it had to be covered with clothes. 

Shame burned in Pet’s cheeks, especially so when it realized it couldn’t hear Master’s commands. It might have understood what awaited it on this strange bed, but there were so many things that Master might have wanted. Every master was different, of course. It thought for a moment about what position Master would want Pet to take, because although Pet couldn’t hear, it had become quite good at guessing. Its old Master only wanted to take Pet in two different ways, but Handler had made it practice all of the old positions again. They were fresh in its memory, its body ready to bend however its Master called. 

Pet was so desperate to earn Master’s approval, every part of its heart yearned for praise, for some sign that it had done something right. So it thought to the position that was most likely the one to have come from Master’s lips, something simple, something that would prove it was capable of the only thing it was good for. 

Pet crawled towards the bed on hands and knees, and quickly stripped off the pants that had just been pulled up around its legs. It buried its face in the thick blankets, arched its back, and spread its knees apart. After a moment it closed its eyes, because it knew how much it was going to hurt, and it wasn’t going to cry. 

This one, Pet thought, this one might be right. Please let it be right. 

---

Rowan watched in horror as the boy bolted for the blanket-covered futon. His movement on all fours was surprisingly quick, and he stripped to the bone mere minutes after Rowan had coaxed the clothes onto his bare skin. Before Rowan could so much as blink the boy was spread on the bed, exposed and presenting himself - 

“No!” Rowan yelped in horror as he realized what was happening. “No, no, no. I’m not going to- I’m not- that- we’re not going to do that here.”

Only when the boy curled in on himself did Rowan realize that he’d raised his voice. 

---

Pet heard that word. It knew that word well, and it knew what that word meant. Master was loud enough for Pet to hear this time, and Master was angry, Pet could tell by the razors that laced his tone. 

No.

Its body moved without conscious thought. It curled up so its back was exposed and ready for blows from the whip, the cane, the open hand, the metal bar. There weren’t any instruments that Pet had seen in the room, but maybe Master had them hidden elsewhere. Maybe Pet had to wait for the discipline and show that it could be patient, still, quiet. 

Its assumption about Master’s needs had been wrong, and now it was going to suffer the consequences of such presumption. Pet hadn’t fulfilled its sole purpose as Master’s possession. It was a failure, so very bad, so deserving of punishment. 

But no, the hand that touched its bare back was gentle. Pet stayed cautiously still, offering no resistance as it was pulled upright onto its knees. Master was a blur of motion, pulling the sweater back over Pet’s head while murmuring an endless string of words. Master wasn’t yelling any longer, instead mumbling in that same warm tone he had used during the bath, all but tripping over himself in a rush chatter. The pants Master had given it soon followed the sweater, and then its bare skin was wholly covered with fabric, hiding all that it had to offer. 

Pet was sick to its stomach. Had it truly been so awful, so disgusting, that Master didn’t want it? How could it have been so wrong? It had been given a bath, and then led to the bedroom, so what could Master have wanted from it now except pleasure? 

Maybe it had been clothed because Master was waiting to deliver a more painful punishment. It was Pet’s first day, after all, and it had yet to learn its place here. 

Even if it was going to be more painful, that was going to be okay, it was always okay. Even though Pet was shaking with the fear that coursed hot through its veins, it knew it deserved it. Disobedient pets were punished, and that was how it should be. That’s where he belonged. 

—

The only thing that saved Rowan from his own hapless rambling and unabashed horror was the sound of his cell phone ringing. The familiar ringtone echoed from a distant kitchen, beckoning Rowan to answer. He looked down at the boy, who was at least clothed again, and then glanced back to the doorway. 

He held up a hand, on which the boy focused intently, his eyes glassy and unfocused. Rowan wasn’t sure a single word would get through to him, but tried to comfort anyway. 

“Just- I’ll- I’m going to be right back.”

Rowan bolted from the bedroom and made it to his phone on the last ring. 

“Hello, this Rowan speaking,” he panted, apparently out of breath from the ongoing ordeal.

Sharp femininity came sharp through the phone, seemingly eager to greet him. 

“Rowan, nice to hear your voice. This is Allison Herrera, a volunteer rehabilitation specialist from the PLF. It sounds like you have your hands full over there.”

“Oh, thank god,” he said as relief coursed through him. The situation in the makeshift bedroom instantly felt much more manageable. “I’m so glad you’re calling. I’m in over my head here, I just wanted to do a good thing-”

“And you did.” Her smooth voice was level and reassuring. “Even if you don’t think you’re ready, you’re ready. You have to be ready. I do have a question, though - how does a ten-year activist with the PLF go so long without ever having to actually interact with a pre-rehab victim?”

Rowan bit back a groan - of course she’d dig right into one of his most sensitive statistics. Of all the work he did with the PLF and other Pet liberation groups, his actual time spent with pre- or post-rehab victims was slim. 

“Grey sent you my file, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did. And that file’s why I’m not worried about taking this on, even if you haven’t worked much with victims directly before. You’re clearly intelligent and motivated, and your heart is in the right place, which is more than enough for us to get started. It’s already a bit late in the day for me to come over and do my assessment, and I’m sure you’re both exhausted. What if I come over early tomorrow morning? I’d assume you’re taking a few days off work to get him acclimated.”

“Yeah,” Rowan confirmed, thinking of the hastily penned email to his boss at the station. “I’ve got the next week open just for this. I just- I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t.” Clearly, she was practiced at soothing distraught rehabbers. The boy undoubtedly needed that confidence and certainty, even more than Rowan did. When her voice came again it was slightly softer, the edge not quite so sharp. 

“You two just make it through tonight, okay? Try to get him some food and water, tend to any emergent wounds, and wait for me to get there. I’ll be at your front door nine-AM sharp.”

“Thank you,” Rowan said. The relief was immense. He wasn’t in this alone - both he and the victim had someone at their side. Maybe, just maybe, they were going to make it.

---

Master came back quickly, and Pet was so grateful that it wasn’t alone anymore. It was starting to tremble from fear of its punishment - waiting was always the worst part - and now it felt relief that it would finally get the punishment over with. Master would put Pet in its place, and it would learn how to avoid disappointing Master in the future. Even if Pet couldn’t always hear what its masters wanted, it was quick to learn.

But there was no command shouted by an angry voice, or a vicious strike to Pet’s clothed body. Instead there was more of that soft murmuring - this Master really liked to talk - and a gentle hand in Pet’s hair. Its hair was still damp from its washing, and no matter how much it feared the pain to come, Pet couldn’t help but lean into that touch. Those fingers were so gentle, so tender, and it sent shivers of pleasure down Pet’s spine. That small kindness was worth any amount of pain to come.

A moment passed and the hand withdrew. Blankets were wrapped around Pet’s shoulders, pooling around its knees, and a glass was lifted to its lips. This was as clear as a spoken command could ever be, so Pet tilted its head back and drank hungrily, its mouth still so awfully parched. Master never pulled the glass back, so Pet drank until the glass ran empty. It could have drunk three more glasses, maybe four more, but that one was enough. It would have to be enough. 

Then Master paced away and shut the door to the room. There was more talking as Master departed, the words inaudible above the endless screeching in Pet’s ears, but it thought it knew well enough what Master had wanted. Pet would stay there, kneeling on the bed, draped in blankets. It would stay there until its Master came back.

---

Taglist (ask if you would like to be added or removed!): @honey-is-mesi @aswallowimprisoned @kira-the-whump-enthusiast @honeycollectswhump @rekiroyalstraightprincemaru @tragedyinblue @clairelsonao3 @octopus-reactivated @maracujatangerine @peachy-panic @whumplr-reader @dislexiher @cc1010foxy @onlybadendings @panstardalia @tempoghast @whumpzone

[ghost-whump]

For Your Own Good

Second part to my first post!

CW: Institutionalized whump, (mental) hospital setting, vaguely creepy whumper, doctor whumper/patient whumpee, [discussed] shock therapy/ECT, restraints, implied future electricity/shock whump. (Let me know if I need to tag anything else!)

Whumpee didn’t struggle. Couldn’t struggle.

“Come on,” Whumper held on tight to the front of the straitjacket, hand wrapped around the belt, “We shouldn’t waste time, should we?” A vicious smile tugged their lips.

Whumpee remained silent, biting at the skin of their lip. Their feet dragged slowly forward, a death march into the dark, dark room. The fear that shot down their spine at every step couldn’t hold a candle to the fire that lit under their heels, pressing them forward still.

Then, kck! shhhh… whoomph. Door closed.

No more escape. Even without the jacket, even if Whumper couldn’t catch them, the air-locked door wouldn’t budge for anything. Only illuminated by the glow of the various screens and panels and buttons and keypads, the room is a void.

A single cold slab of a “bed” stands menacingly in the center. Adorned with worn leather straps that rubbed skin raw, scuff marks from banging and scratching at the surface, all topped off with a tasteful spatter of blood near the middle.

Though, large hands undid each buckle on their person, leaving the jacket to fall to the floor. Whumpee immediately wrapped their arms around their torso, trying to cover as much bare skin as possible. Not that it would help, but it made them feel better.

“Well?” Whumper, who had pulled away by now, “You know what to do.” They gesture vaguely to the table and turn around to play with the buttons and screens.

And the doctor isn’t wrong. Whumpee does know what to do. Lay down, head forward, legs together, stare up and up and up at the ceiling.

“You’re getting quite good at this, Whumpee.” Whumper’s face came into light above them, a wicked grin twisting their face into one even scarier than usual.

Whumpee closed their eyes. They couldn’t look anymore. If they didn’t look, maybe it would stop. Maybe they’d wake up in their cell (…or their home, if they dared dream that far) and would behave this time. Never have to—

“Ah!” A thick strip of leather tightened suddenly around their wrist. Whumpee yelped and their eyes flew open.

Whumper shook their head, “Tsk, Whumpee. You were doing so well,” They buckled the strap, far too fast and tight than anytime before. They tilted Whumpee’s head, doing the same to their other wrist. “You know, I was even considering letting you off easy with some solitary. Yet you had to go and look away from me. You’re usually so good at eye contact.”

“That—agh, that hurts!” Whumpee pulled at the restraints, though they knew it was futile. “P-Please, I’m sorry, I—mmpf!”

The final strap of leather struck their face, its specialised rubber gag worming between their teeth. Protests now barely audible, Whumper smiled and pulled away. “There you go, Whumpee. That’s better now.”

Phantom pains shot through their veins, preparing for what’s to come. Each sticky node placed under their shirt wracked another sob from their chest. No matter how much it happened, it never got easier. Feeling their body seize with each passing second, flashing colors and lights that didn’t really come, nightmarish terror that never stopped.

“It’s alright,” Whumper flashed their teeth, placing the final two nodes on Whumpee’s temples, “The ECT is for your own good. Don’t you feel better after it’s done?”

They tried to shake their head, No! It feels bad! Bad bad bad! It hurt! But it didn’t stop Whumper. The doctor turned around, taking their time in approaching the large lever on the wall.

Whumper’s hand gripped the lever tight, throwing one last glance to their writhing patient. Readjusting their grip, they get ready to finally pull down. “Don’t worry, Whumpee, you’ll feel much better after we’re done.”

really not sure how happy i am with this one, but i figured it be best to post it! enjoy :]

[flowerslut]

shamefully despite how easily i am influenced i have not made my way through your ao3 catalogue. where would be a good starting point? (licking kink not required but always appreciated)

wow thanks for giving me an excuse to make a compilation of my (shorter) twilight fics that I want more people to read!!!!! ok ok so all my best favorite ones (minus call of the night. we are pretending call of the night does not exist, okay? dont think about it. dont even look at it) are my mid-length ones. now, first and foremost: I am an angst writer, and boy do I love to whump on alice and jasper, so in no particular order, you should read these fun little jalice fics while you wait for me to update roots over the next few weeks/months

North Star

rated: M words: 20,336 chapters: one-shot summary: "He’s the Eye of the South. The god of war. Master of battle and oracle of death. He’s not just the most dangerous weapon the world has ever seen, but he’s a man in love. And combining those two just makes this so much worse. Jasper sees a girl in his head, and he's afraid of what comes next."

thoughts: okay i lied, they are in a particular order. or at least this one is. this is my favorite twilight fic I've written (I think) and I got dramatic as fuck with it. written for jalice week back in 2021, the prompt was "power/ability swap" and you get exactly that: jasper is the psychic, alice is the empath, everything else is the same... or is it? this is also notably the first fic I ever sent to someone (g, obviously) to look over/give corrections to, so that might be why it has fewer stupid grammatical/sentence structure issues than most of my other stuff (minus roots). content warning for physical abuse, implied sexual assault, and mild sexual content. (also on ff.net)

The Almost Quiet

rated: T words: 10,365 chapters: one-shot summary: "He wants to blame loneliness, but maybe this is what was meant for him all along. A long road that leads to a depressing end. Longing after a girl he doesn’t know whose mind is lost."

thoughts: the last line of this fic is my personal favorite one I've written in recently memory! anyways this is an all-human AU, (sort of). in 1920, alice and jasper meet as humans and jasper's job gets much harder after that. this one is far from the best on this list, but it's entertaining, angsty, and has a satisfying ending imo. content warning for forced institutionalization and ableist language. (also on ff.net)

Déjà-rêvé

rated: T words: 6,551 chapters: one-shot summary: "It's nothing Alice had ever seen. It was no vision, no dream. It was only a possibility that had haunted the back of her mind like a nightmare for as long as she'd known what was out there for her to fear. Jasper had never known about this fear until it became their reality."

thoughts: this is the shortest one on this list, and since you like roots, you'll probably like this. its vaguely similar in that it's a whumpy post-breaking dawn AU, but this is only a snippet of an aftermath in which alice loses her power. wrote it for secret santa 2022 and had a BLAST with it. (if you want more whumpy one-shots my ao3 is chock full of whumptober prompts)

No Friend of Mine

rated: T words: 15,199 chapters: one-shot summary: "He contemplates telling Peter about Alice’s visits, but something holds him back from doing it. Perhaps because it doesn’t feel like Alice whenever she’s lying on his bedroom floor, curled in an old blanket that’s too small for him but perfectly sized for her, utterly still and silent even while awake. A part of him feels like it would be a betrayal to reveal this side of her to someone even as close to him as Peter is. After all, Peter is his friend. And Alice is… well, not."

thoughts: I think this fic is severely underrated, but maybe that's because I literally came up with the concept and wrote it over the course of a day and a half or something insane like that, and I think that for a hastily written secret santa gift from 2020, it holds up sooo well. it's an all-human AU where alice is the weird new girl, and like always, jasper is in way over his head. all the cullens get a role, it has the 'fluffiest' moments, and its faaaantastic. content warning for child abuse.

The Hunted

rated: T words: 26,664 chapters: 11 summary: "It's not so wise if you try to run."

thoughts: this one is the most self-indulgent (with the most questionable characterization tbh) based on g's post from 2019 that says 'twilight, but when bella slips away from jasper and goes to the ballet studio to meet james, he isn’t there. he waited until everyone split up in the airport, and then went for alice instead. in the ensuing chaos, while everyone is freaking out, victoria grabs bella.' this is the only one on the list I might take a look at in the future to rewrite chunks of, but it's great fun your honor. ignore what anyone else tells you about the ending. but make sure to keep this short sequel/epilogue handy, for... reasons. (also on ff.net)

A Loyal Wife

rated: M words: 21,930 chapters: 5 summary: "Alice is only a Lady because she was forced to be one. She much rather preferred being untitled. Just a constant in this strange family of women. Girls both grown and not, betrothed to the man who protects and spoils them. Quickly the newborns realize that Alice is more weapon than wife, and that suits her just fine."

thoughts: last but certainly not least is my attempt at 'jalice enemies-to-lovers' that I wrote over the course of two days while on vacation. this story has everything: southern wars, a marriage cult, weird power dynamics, and [checks notes] trying to seduce your enemy mid-fight. this is another one of my favorites, and maybe the messiest (affectionate) as far as story content goes (of course, minus roots). content warnings for sexual assault/dubious consent.