#implied minor whumpee

[wolfeyedwitch]

Trail of Blood with Weapon? Bonus points if it shows a bit of what Weapon’s abilities actually are

Takes place after "Force Feeding" but before the main storyline.

CW: blood, gore, amputations, minor character death, conditioned whumpee, it as a pronoun, internalized dehumanization, living weapon whumpee, implied minor whumpee

Masterlist

---

“Weapon is in position. All handlers, stand behind the Weapon,” Command’s voice came crisp and clear through the Weapon’s earpiece. 

It flexed its fingers, taking advantage of the momentary freedom of movement. Its mitts were only taken off for demonstrations; as soon as it had fulfilled its purpose, the mitts would be put on again. ‘Like the safety on a gun,’ a handler had once called it.

“Weapon. Fire.”

It raised its hands, palms extended towards the building in front of it. 

A second later, the screams started.

This was a larger demonstration than it had done before. Previously, it had demonstrated its powers on prisoners brought into the compound. Now, though, Command wanted to demonstrate its ability to neutralize enemy agents while leaving infrastructure intact. 

Meaning the Weapon had to focus its powers to disintegrate biomatter only. 

It lowered its hands after a long moment, breaths coming slightly faster from the exertion. The building was still intact, so that objective was achieved. The objective in question was the elimination of the targets inside.

Surely that had been enough? If nothing else, the screaming had stopped.

“Hold position. Scanning for bio-signs,” Command’s voice came again.

Behind it, the handlers shifted uneasily. They had gotten increasingly disturbed by the Weapon as its demonstrations grew in scale. 

A different voice came through the comm. “There’s still one bio-sign inside the structure, sir.”

“Handlers, escort the Weapon. Weapon, eliminate the remaining threat.”

The Weapon gave a short hum of acknowledgement and held back a wince. Even though it had been weeks since the surgery to place its communication device, its throat still operated at less than maximum efficiency when it made vocalizations. 

Slowly, the Weapon entered the building with its handlers barely a pace behind. It recalled the schematics for the structure and began to clear it room by room as it had been trained.

It didn’t take much searching to find the surviving hostile. Their trail was easy to follow, given that it was marked in blood.

The trail began as mere drops, but quickly grew. The Weapon walked, trying to avoid the blood. Despite its attempts, its shoes were soon soaked in the liquid. It swallowed down bile at the subtle squish beneath its feet as it continued walking. 

It knew from its training that the human body contained approximately ten pints of blood. But it was one thing to know that fact in the abstract, and another to be confronted with the truth of it in viscous puddles. 

The trail changed again, now smeared across the floor as though something had been dragged through it. The Weapon didn’t understand why until it reached the end of the trail, and the woman who had made it.

The woman’s legs were gone. Her thighs ended in ragged stumps. Only one arm remained intact, with the other ending just below the elbow.

Seeing the woman’s blistered, peeling skin, the blood smeared across her arms, her belly, her thighs, the Weapon realized what must have happened. Wherever she had been when it began its attack, she had avoided most of its power. Most— but not all. As she tried to escape, more and more of her had disintegrated until she was forced to drag herself along with what remained of her limbs. 

Behind the Weapon, one of the handlers let out a string of curses in a prayerful tone. Another retched softly.

Seeing this woman, the Weapon couldn’t help but wonder what she had done to deserve this. It knew such thoughts were detrimental to its functionality, but… it failed to see any malice in her frightened eyes. 

“No,” she whispered. “Please, no. Kid, please, please…”

It couldn’t allow itself to be swayed by such displays. It was deployed to ensure the safety and security of all lawful citizens of this nation. It wouldn’t have been deployed against this woman unless she posed a threat.

She wouldn’t survive anyway, either. Not with the blood she’d lost. The least it could do was ensure her death was swift, rather than drawn out.

It raised its hands again. 

---

Taglist:

@ghostfacepepper, @kim-poce, @badluck990, @cupcakes-and-pain, @lonesome--hunter, @wits-and-wrongs, @neuro-whump, @winedark-whump @aswallowimprisoned, @rose-pinkie, @whumpy-writings, @whump-cravings, @secretwhumplair. @hobiisthesunfiteme, @whumpcreations, @myhusbandsasemni, @heart4brains @kixngiggles @neverthelass @extrabitterbrain @towerlesskey @ohnowhump @vickytokio @whumpinggrounds @thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @extemporary-whump @pigeonwhumps @ifurd4d @aswallowimprisoned @the-magpiesystem @someonecradlemeintheirarms

[sir-fenris]

You thought I was done with that prompt? Ha.

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

"Agreeing to be your handler was the worst mistake I've ever made..." + living weapon + "... Understood." Under their breath, shaky, "I thought you liked me."

Content: living weapon whumpee, handler carewhumper, reluctant carewhumper, parental carewhumper, dehumanization, minor whumpee (child whumpee), child soldier, child endangering, implied child injuries, implied child possible death, blood. (The child is safe and happy at the end, despite the scary content warning, they were not hurt in scene)

"Agreeing to be your handler was the worst mistake I've ever made..." Handler can't look Whumpee in the eyes.

Not when they're covered in blood. Not when all he sees is a kid covered in blood.

Whumpee was caught by surprise. Handler has always been... kind and understanding of them even when they were bad. Much more than other trainers. "... Understood," they say as firmly as they can.

Under their breath, Handler can hear them shakily add, "I thought you liked me." His heart clenched so hard he could barely breathe. It was such a childish thing to say, wasn't it? They sound more affected by his words than them almost dying.

When Handler turns to see them, his eyes are filled with concern. "Before, I could see you as a weapon. But ever since I've made the terrible choice to be your handler... I just can't," he whispers.

He does like the kid. More than it was safe to get attached to a weapon.

Whumpee raises their head in confused surprise, and all Handler can see is his own children in their eyes. How could he ever treat Whumpee just as a weapon, when they have so many childlike habits, despite never being indulged to act like a child?

It's like their humanity tries to push through everything else to remain with them. Whumpee still cries when people from their side die. Still clings to Handler's arms when someone is being intimidating towards them. Still whines and sulks when they're tired. Still looks back at Handler when they feel insecure.

Handler has raised this kid more than his own kids. How can he pretend this is just a weapon?

"I can't keep sending you out there. But as your handler, I have no choice but to do that," Handler adds. He really should stop speaking, saying those things wouldn't help anyone.

And that is proven immediately.

"But... Did I do bad today?" Whumpee asks. "I'm sorry if I made a mistake-"

"No, kid, you didn't," Handler looks at him, all the blood, and has to look away again. "You did exactly as you were told." Against his better judgment, he adds, "but you shouldn't have been the one to do it."

"... Why...? Weapons have to do it. And I'm a weapon," Whumpee whispers hesitantly.

You're a child, Handler wanted to answer back.

But this talk has already gone too far. He shouldn't be saying those things to a living weapon; it will only bring trouble to both of them.

"Forget it. I'm speaking nonsense, kid. You did well today, let's get you cleaned up and fed, yeah?" With a firm hand on their shoulder, Handler guides Whumpee outside.

He has to ignore how Whumpee clings to his shirt for security and beams with a smile at the rest promise.

That smile doesn't belong on a bloodied weapon.

That blood doesn't belong on a child.

-

(The child got cleaned up with warm water, had a good meal, then got to rest safely in a cozy little room. They're fine, and Handler is caring for them as his own kid <3.)

-

[tictac-murder-spaghetti]

Mother Stands for Comfort - Lifetime Achievement Award Oneshot #1

As part of my effort to uh, actually post here again, there’s that Strychnine backstory piece I said I was writing forever ago! Finally finished it :D

Go little lab boy go

Content Warnings: Minor whump, lab whump, verbal and mental abuse child abuse, dehumanization gore, implied character death

Story under the cut!

She hadn’t run a test all day. #07 kept expecting it, for her to ask him to climb back onto the exam table, to ask him to stretch out his arms for more shots or lay down so she could cut back open his still healing vivisection scars, take another look at the black goo that filled him where organs should have been- but she didn’t. The closest thing she’d done was ask him to pull off his thin hospital shirt for a moment so she could change the bandages wrapped around his torso. Beyond that she’d… left him alone. He wasn’t used to it, but it was nice.

She’d stayed elsewhere in the lab all day, back turned to him as she cleaned tools and mixed chemicals, only stopping once to get him lunch without speaking to him at all.

It was almost peaceful.

#07 didn’t have the best track of time, but it was late by the time Belladonna finally came back to him, playing house with a couple random glass vials he’d found.

"Now #07, sweetie, I need to talk to you. You're merely a rough draft, you've served your purpose and it's time for us to move forward in my innovation. You've got a brilliant mind and an even better heart, and those parts would serve the project well, so I'm going to... repurpose you."

#07 gave his mother a confused look, his yellow eyes wide, "What does that mean Belladonna?"

"Now, don't be scared #07, you're merely a step on the road to perfection. While you're not the one, you will help me towards him. It will only hurt a little bit. Now go get ready, please, sweetie, go get yourself up on the exam table now."

"Okay Belladonna."

#07 turned and made his way towards the metal exam table, the straps on it used to hold him down countless times while he'd laid patiently as a scalpel drove through his chest or she poked him with syringes full of glowing substances that he'd have no way of knowing what they contained. He was always good. He was always perfect, why wasn't he perfect now? He stopped in front of the table, back still turned to her as he looked down at his gloves. He was a child, yes, but he wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t unaware. He’d put up with Belladonna’s procedures for years- his entire life, and it was finally starting to click. This wasn’t how a parent was supposed to treat their child. She’d talk about him sometimes, the one he was created to make up for, and she’d never treated him like this. He got to go to the park, see the sun and get ice cream, he got to read the books that Belladonna had only read to him once or twice whenever he wanted, he got a name.

“I- I don’t want to do that.”

“What did you say, #07? Get on the table.”

There was a threatening tone to her voice, one he was all too familiar with.

“You’re going to hurt me.”

“Not more than is needed. This is all just procedure-”

He cut her off, turning around to face her. His gloves were unbuckled.

“You’re gonna hurt me and I’m going to disappear.”

“Don’t be silly #07, it’s not like I can continue with you. You’re not my son. You’re broken. You are not human. So yes, you’ll go away, dear #07, but the next one may be the one to make it.”

“You hurt me-”

“#07, stop this! I don’t need your guilt trip, gods, maybe it was better that the previous ones couldn’t talk. Get on the table or I will force you onto it!”

#07 just gave her one more pleading look before he peeled the gloves off of his hands, black goo already running from his palms and sizzling as it hit the tiled floor. He ran at her, grabbing her left hand tightly in his own, feeling flesh peel away under his grasp. Dr. Belladonna screamed, trying to shake his grip as her own red blood mingled with the black acid running across her hands.

“YOU LITTLE MONSTER! I SHOULD HAVE SCRAPPED YOU THE FIRST DAY- WHEN YOU CAME OUT LIKE THIS!”

She attempted to toss him off again, but he kept his grip, feeling bone as his grip just tightened. She grabbed him at the hips, lifting him up quite aggressively and slamming the small boy down onto the metal table, making a desperate grab for the leather restraints that perfectly fit #07’s small size. He didn’t stop struggling from underneath her, crying as he desperately grabbed at the front of her labcoat.

She screamed again as a hand went straight through the fabric of her coat, searing directly into the flesh right near her collarbones. He kicked out wildly with both legs, causing Dr. Belladonna to recoil, #07 scrabbling to sit up and stare at Dr. Belladonna with wild eyes. He barely knew what he was doing, driven purely by panic and desperation and rage.

He launched himself at her, both mother and son hitting the hard marble floor as she tumbled backwards from his bodyweight. The noise when her head hit the floor was a horrible, dull thunk, but he could barely hear it over his own scream. He straddled her waist as he kept clawing at her, Dr Belladonna raising her arms to try and protect her face. Her struggles grew weaker as he continued, tears streaming down his face and breathing ragged until the rage subsided and the horror flooded back in.

He tried to stand, to back away from her, but he couldn’t, collapsing to the ground not far from her body and attempting to reign in his breathing.

He couldn't tell the difference between what was her blood and what was the acid dripping from his own hands. She just lay prone in a growing puddle of black, #07 himself kneeling on the slick ground, hands pressed to the cold tile floor. His hands, up to the wrist, were covered in a thin dark sheen, the same that coated his mother’s arm and saturated her lab coat as she lay there, unmoving. He couldn't tell if she was breathing.

"Belladonna?” No no, doctor, she’d be mad, she’d want him calling her doctor.

#07 crawled on his hands and knees, ignoring the wet squelching of the goo underneath him as he went to kneel beside her. Tears streamed down his face, dark as the acid that dripped from his hands as he raised a hand to gently brush a strand of her hair out of her face and touch her cheek in the foolish hope that it'd wake her up. Instead, the young boy recoiled as his hand went straight through flesh, more blood pooling around his fingers as her skin peeled away under his touch, skittering backwards in the puddle, smearing blood and gore across the floor as he did so.

"Doctor-" his sobs took away the rest of that sentence before he could even get it out. He pulled his knees towards his chest, curling into as small of a ball as possible as his hands still dripped, staining the knees of his shorts black. His hair fell across his face as his chest heaved with panicked breaths, he'd- he'd... his creator was lying there- he'd done it- she'd tried to. He was eight. He was eight years old and he could barely process what had happened. What he'd done. What she'd tried to do. #07 fell to his side, not caring about the slick floor under him or the way the gore splashed across his face and hair as he did so. He closed his eyes. He cried himself to sleep.

When #07 awoke, it was still dark. She still lay in the puddle. His hands still dripped an inky black as he spotted his discarded gloves a couple feet away, pushed aside by the scuffle. The boy got to his feet, slowly, as he grabbed the gloves and put them back on, securing every buckle, every latch and strap, just like Belladonna had done the day she put them on, telling him it was for his own safety. He was still covered in gore. He didn't need to look at himself to know that. He could feel the way it clung to his clothes, to his bare skin, the smell of bleach and burnt flesh overpowering all else. He didn’t know what to do. Where to go. He was a construct built to obey his creator and he had killed her.

There wasn’t anything for him to grab, anything to remember the place he’d spent the first 8 years of his life before he trudged towards the heavy metal door of the lab.

He had no clue how the door mechanisms worked, and while he was probably smart enough to figure them out, he was tired. He just- he wanted to be done.

#07 peeled one of his gloves off again, pressing his still bloody palm to the metal until it started to bubble away- the door creaking open once he’d demolished the lock.

The boy trudged through the door, nearly tripping and winding back up on his knees as soon as he stepped foot onto cold dirt. Real dirt, not cold marble tile, and there was a real sky, dark and cloudy but not shining through layers of reinforced skylight glass. Part of it made his heart- the only real part of him, ache. But it was beautiful.

And now, he could be a part of it.

[another-whump-sideblog]

Fixing Tracy -- Unemployment

TWs in the tags

Masterlist

The only weak spot, the only point of attack Tracy has, is the keys. Tracy’s only seen one, but she doubts Molly would go to the trouble of putting two locked doors between Tracy and the outside world and just have one key for both of them. Especially when the second door has so many locks.

If she tries to attack Molly and get the keys, she’ll just be shocked by the cattle prod. She hasn’t tested that, but she’s reasonably sure. 

Tracy’s well aware that knocking someone out doesn’t keep them down very long on its own. Even if she managed to knock Molly out, Molly would be awake again far too soon for Tracy to search her for the keys and unlock both the doors and get away when all Molly needs to do to stop her is take something out of her sleeve and press a button.

Would Molly ever go to sleep in front of her? She seems too smart to do that, but she also offered to stay with Tracy last night before leaving. So… maybe? Still, Molly would be able to shock her if Tracy made any missteps that woke her up, and Tracy doesn't know how heavy a sleeper Molly is, or where the keys to the second door are.

That leaves killing her. 

…Tracy doesn’t think she can actually do that, on an emotional or practical level. As much as she wants to, as much as she fantasizes about murdering Molly, actually doing it would be… well, she’s never killed someone before, even in much worse situations with people much worse than Molly. 

Practically, she doesn’t have access to anything that could kill Molly quickly, and she wouldn’t be able to beat her to death with the frying pan or anything because Molly would be able to shock her with the cattle prod and incapacitate her before she got very far.

Wait, wait wait wait— she’s been looking at this wrong. She doesn’t need to steal the keys, she needs to steal the cattle prod.

That’ll be way easier. She just needs to wait until Molly seems relaxed and grab it from under Molly’s sleeve. Then she can search Molly for the keys and shock her if she tries to resist, and then shock her if she tries to stop Tracy from leaving, and then run. Easy!

Tracy knows it would be smarter to wait a bit and build trust before trying to get the cattle prod, but… she has a life. She can't just sit around here for days, she'll lose her job, and then she won't be able to pay rent, and then she'll never get custody of her sister–

But if she gets out today, it will all be fine. She'll get written up for missing work, but it won't be enough to get her fired. She'll just tell everyone she was too sick to even check her phone for a couple of days, but she's better now, and it will be like this never even happened.

Except… Molly must know where she lives. If Molly was able to do this once, what would stop her from doing it again?

No, she doesn't need to worry about that yet. That'll be what she figures out after she escapes. Right now, the only thing she needs to focus on is escaping.

Molly has been really gentle with Tracy. She doesn't seem upset at all about all the stuff Tracy broke, and she even replaced most of it while Tracy was asleep. The only sign that anything happened at all last night is Tracy's bandaged hands.

Molly obviously sees Tracy as fragile, so Tracy's going to lean into that. She'll play the part of the rescued damsel in distress, and hopefully that'll let Molly's guard down enough for Tracy to grab the cattle prod.

Molly made Tracy breakfast, so she practices the wounded lamb routine with that. "I– um… Molly? Thank you for the breakfast, but… I know you've been nice so far, I just… I've been drugged before, and eating something I didn't make…"

"Oh! You don't have to eat this if you don't want to. I'll never stop you from getting your own food. I can take bites to show it's not drugged, if you want. You can tell me what bites to take, so you know I didn't plan a specific part to not drug so that I could eat that to prove it's not drugged…"

Tracy's such a good actress. She picks a few parts of the breakfast for Molly to try, and Molly eats them confidently. The breakfast could still be drugged, but at least she knows that if it is drugged the dosage isn't strong enough for a few bites to be risky. Ultimately, there's no guarantee that any of the food in the kitchen isn't drugged, so it's a moot point anyway.

"...thank you. I'm sorry, I just– I'm sorry." She starts eating and refuses to make eye contact with Molly, as if she's ashamed of being so suspicious of her kidnapper.

"There's no need to apologize. I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me you felt unsafe."

Tracy tries not to clench her fists. She hates Molly so much.

After breakfast, Tracy asks if they can watch a movie, and Molly happily obliges. Tracy sits right next to Molly.

There's no need to jump the gun. She'll wait until Molly seems fully focused on the movie.

A few minutes into the movie, Tracy scooches closer to Molly. A few minutes after that, she rests her head on Molly's shoulder.

She's as close as she's going to get. She watches Molly watch the movie, trying to gauge how focused she is. Molly looks back at Tracy and smiles gently.

"Dear? If you try to take the cattle prod or my key, I will stop you. If you need to find that out for yourself, that's okay, but it'd be less painful for both of us if you could take my word for it."

She's not going to let her guard down. Tracy'll just have to be really fast. 

She grabs Molly's arm and reaches up her sleeve, and Molly punches Tracy in the face.

Tracy yelps and reels back, but she's got the cattle prod. A thrill of triumph runs through her, but then Molly pulls a cattle prod out of her other sleeve. Tracy frantically feels for the button on the cattle prod she grabbed, but she's too slow. Fire runs through Tracy's arm until she drops the cattle prod, screaming in pain and frustration.

Molly takes it and sets it aside, then pulls handcuffs out of her pocket, grabs Tracy's hands, and locks the cuffs around her wrists. 

"Sorry, sorry! Is your eye okay? This is why I prefer the cattle prod!" She still grasps Tracy's hands tightly. "I hate to have to restrain you, but you're a danger to yourself and others right now. Take some deep breaths."

Tracy's such an idiot. Even without the second cattle prod, Molly will always have the advantage in any physical fight. Tracy needs to find all the keys, get the doors unlocked, and get far away from this place to win, and even then there's always the risk of Molly finding her again. All Molly has to do to win is restrain or incapacitate Tracy in some way.

The hopelessness of Tracy's situation is starting to sink in. She tries to blink back tears.

Molly takes off her belt, and Tracy sobs, unable to hold it back anymore. "Please, I'm sorry!"

"I'm not going to hurt you." She knots the belt around the handcuff chain. "Sorry, I'll bring a longer rope next time, but this'll have to do for now."

She pulls Tracy over to the table and ties the other end of the belt to the leg, forcing Tracy to sit on the ground. The table is, of course, nailed down.

Molly goes into the kitchen and comes back with ice. "Let's take care of your eye." She sits next to Tracy and holds the ice against where she punched Tracy. "I'm really sorry."

"You don't get to say sorry when you fully plan on doing it again."

"I only plan on defending myself if necessary. If you don't try to attack me, I won't have to hurt you."

"Right. Of course it's my fault, it's always my fault, you just had to hurt me because I tried to escape my kidnapper." She's crying in full force now. She's trapped, she's really trapped.

"I wish there was a way to defend myself without hurting you. Do you think I should just let myself be hurt if someone attacks me?"

"I didn't even attack you! I tried to disarm you, I was acting in self-defense!"

"Are you saying you didn't plan on using the cattle prod on me?"

"Only if you didn't let me search you for the keys."

"You know I wouldn't, though. You fully planned on using that to hurt me."

"You knew I'd want to escape being kidnapped! You fully planned on using that cattle prod to hurt me!"

"I knew you'd try to escape, but I hoped it would be non-violently. I didn't plan on using the cattle prod, it was just there in case I needed it. I hoped I wouldn't, though. Can you honestly say you hoped you wouldn't have to use the cattle prod on me?"

"That– That doesn't matter! You kidnapped me! I–" Why does she keep getting into these arguments with Molly? Molly will never agree that Tracy should be let go, or that hurting her in 'self-defense' isn't justified.

Molly will never let her go. Tracy sobs and sobs, and when Molly wraps an arm around Tracy's shoulder Tracy doesn't stop her.

"I'm going to lose my job!" Tracy wails. "I worked so hard and it's all going to be for nothing! Because of you!"

"You hate your job, dear. You don't need a job to take care of yourself anymore. I know the idea of that rejection is painful, but it's going to be okay."

"My sister–"

"Say the word, and I'll bring her here for you."

"No! No, leave her alone!"

"I promise your sister is fine. I've been keeping an eye on her, okay? I won't let anything bad happen to her."

Nothing Tracy says will convince Molly to stop stalking Tracy's sister. Nothing Tracy says will convince Molly to do or stop anything. Tracy is completely powerless.

Tracy cries and cries until she has nothing left. She had a life, and Molly took all of it from her.

When Molly is satisfied that she's taken care of Tracy's eye, she puts the ice away and goes back to the sitting area to presumably put her cattle prods back up her sleeves. Then she sits back down next to Tracy and holds her while she cries and cries. The movie is still going.

Once Tracy's stopped crying and 'calmed down enough to not be a danger to herself or others,' Molly releases her from the handcuffs. She doesn't stop Tracy from locking herself in her room.

She– she can still ask Molly to stay overnight. She'll have to go to sleep eventually, right? And even if Tracy doesn't manage to get the cattle prod and keys, Molly can't stalk Tracy's sister down here.

She escaped her parents. She can escape this, she knows she can. She's just starting to worry it'll take another 18 years.

[actress4him]

Rogue - Chapter One - Revenge

The start of a new series that I have been planning for quite a while!! I’m very excited for the whump to come on this one. The inspiration for the story comes from a slightly unusual source - gold star if (you haven’t seen me talk about it on discord and) you figure out what that inspiration is at some point along the way.

This was written for WhumpLovers’ WhumpMonth (an ao3 event), alt prompt “Made to Hurt”.

Taglist: @whumplovers-collaborate

Contains: lady whump, living weapon, war, minor character death, assassination, loss of a parent, implied child abuse (because of fantasy race shenanigans the child is actually quite old, but has the maturity of a young teen)

.

.

She’s still a youngling when her world falls apart.

Forty years is plenty old enough to understand some of the whispers in the halls of the manor - the Aelinai king is a tyrant, they say, and even though Nyx isn’t sure what that word means right away, she gathers from the other whispers that he has too much power and chooses bad ways to use it.

According to her father, forty years isn’t old enough to actually be included in any of the conversations on what to do about it, though. Ekan and Nanki are old enough, but no matter how much Nyx begs and tries to weasel the information out of them, they’re immune to their little sister’s wiles and their lips stay sealed. She might be well past her baby years, but she’s still a couple of decades away from being considered an actual adult.

Forty-one years is more than old enough to understand war and death. No one bothers as much to keep the younglings from hearing their chatter when the kingdom is in an uproar. Lord Nyrik killed the king, they say, and Nyx is filled with pride. Her father got rid of the evil king. That’s a wonderful thing, right?

Except Nashanns are being carried into the manor and laid out on the parlor floor, bloody and broken and crying out in pain. Nyx scurries around and does her part, fetching water and bandages for the medics, trying not to let her gaze linger on the grisly wounds and the still, grey faces of the soldiers they didn’t get to in time.

Her father never comes back, nor her oldest brother, Ekan. The news that Lord Nyrik was captured by the Aelinai travels quickly. Immediately executed, most people say, though no one seems to have actually seen it happen.

At forty-one years, her father is dead, her home is ripped away from her, and her life is never the same again.

At forty-two years, she’s old enough to become the key to her mother’s plan for revenge. She doesn’t understand why she’s been chosen when Nanki and even Kiaan are older, but she doesn’t question her mother. They may not be living in a manor anymore, but even in the forest Lady Inaksha is in command, leading the entire Nashann clan in their survival. Nyx admires her strength every day. She wants to be just like her, but her mother tells her that she’s not meant to be a leader.

She is meant to be a weapon.

So she trains with the soldiers, the youngest they’ve ever had among them. She learns to hunt, to wield a knife, to shoot an arrow. She learns to run for miles without faltering, to lift weights that the grown men use.

When she reaches sixty years - finally, officially an adult - she begins her own, personal training under Lady Inaksha’s watchful eye. Here is where she finds the strength that she’s always searched for. She learns to separate herself, to care deeply about her people’s prosperity while understanding that she isn’t truly a part of them. She learns to take pain without bending.

She learns to kill and not care.

Nyx is eighty years when she stands before her mother and siblings, unflinching as Lady Inaksha circles and studies her.

“What are you?”

She stares straight ahead, ignoring the bored looks on Nanki and Kiaan’s faces. “I am a weapon, wielded by your hand.”

“Who is your enemy?”

“King Baelor and all of the Aelinai.”

“What is your purpose?”

“To avenge my father.”

“And how will you do so?”

“I will infiltrate the Aelinai royal family, and I will kill them.”

Lady Inaksha stops in front of her, a smile spreading across her face. “Yes. You are ready.”

[gottawhump]

The Nameless Boy

115

CW/TW: minor whumpee, implied noncon of minor whumpee, Facility whump, pet whump, BBU/WRU. Also cursing/bad language.

The nameless boy shivers in the cold white room. When the door opens, he tries not to flinch.

“Good morning, Handler.” He doesn’t know if it’s morning or night. The bright white light never goes off. But he knows, now, what he’s supposed to say.

“Look at me, trainee.”

He lifts up his head, a dark curl falling over one eye. The man moves it aside. The nameless boy can’t stop his flinch at the touch, or his whimper, anticipating the punishing shock. Lean in, trainee, not away.

“Is this some kind of fucking joke?” The man grabs his arm, hard, and turns over his left wrist to see the barcode. “Fuck. How old are you, trainee?”

The nameless boy can’t always remember his number, but he knows the answer to this question. “I am of legal and consenting age.”

“Yeah, that’s the company line, but how old are you?”

“I-I-“ His mind is as blank as the white walls. “I don’t know.”

All Pets are of legal and consenting age, and you’re a Pet now, 115.

You signed up for this.

You want this.

You want this.

“Please,” the nameless boy whispers. He tries to blink away the the tears threatening to spill, and they catch on his lashes.

“Christ, you’re pretty. But you’re just a child.” The big handler moves away from him, his hands balling into angry fists. “Go lie down. Take a nap or something.”

Under the cold unrelenting light, a nameless boy drifts in and out of consciousness.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

The Nightingale's Song

Sigh Not So | Secrets Hid Away | Shed Tears Aplenty | Fire Down Below | Rolling Down | Won't You Go My Way? | The Seas No More | The Nightingale's Song |

CW: Dehumanizing language, use of ‘it’ as pronoun for nonhuman whumpee, sadistic whumper, creepy whumper, intimate whumper, fade-to-black noncon implied, magical whump, captivity, minor side character death

-

One year after the events of The Seas No More

Gilly, fingers itching to close around the old biddy’s skinny neck, settled for laying the cool compress over her forehead, taking pains to look like nothing so much as the devoted tenant helping his landlady through some terrible mysterious illness. 

It had been a very, very long eight months or so since he'd started this little act, feigning devotion and care for the old woman, and it was with very real relief that he finally saw the end in sight.

Mrs. Neumann’s throat bobbed as she swallowed, her little yappy dog running circles below her where she was laid out on the chaise in her less-fashionable front room. It stopped, now and then, to lick at her fingers, and then ran in circles again. 

“Water, please, Gilly,” Mrs. Neumann croaked, and he smiled solicitously as he tipped the cup to her lips, allowing her only a few sips before pulling it back away. “Thank you, you sweet young man.” Her cold bony fingers closed around his wrist and Gilly suppressed a shudder only with effort. "You have been so good to me, in these hard days..." Her eyes, when they met his, were strangely foggy, as if covered with a sort of film that stood between her and the world. “You have been such a boon to an old woman with no one to care for her. There is some infection, I should think… We must send for the doctor, mustn’t we?”

“The doctor has already come and gone,” Gilly said, leaning close and half-shouting in the hopes she could hear anything he said. Her mouth worked aimlessly, and he gave her more water, although it didn't seem to help. “Do you not remember?” Her hearing had gotten even worse since her illness had taken hold of her - or since the siren's song had convinced her that she was ill, anyway - and soon enough, he thought, all this shouting could finally cease. 

“Oh, he did?,” Mrs. Neumann quavered, eyes watering. But then she seemed to forget her emotions and looked to the side. “I suppose so… He must have. Oh, but Gilly, who is singing? The voice is so fine…”

In the corner, Gilly’s siren sang, plaintive and mournful, as he’d been ordered to. He hadn’t wanted to turn his song to Gilly's will, but with a year of careful teaching he had taught the creature to obey him without hesitation, and they were finally ready to put Gilly’s plan into motion.

It began here.

His future would start here at Mrs. Neumann’s sickbed, where beneath the notes of the lovely song were the commands being worked into the elderly widow’s malleable little mind while she burned with unchecked fever. 

The doctor came and said there is nothing to be done now but rest. Gilly Wentworth cares for you now. Leave him everything you have. He deserves all you have and more. 

He deserves everything. 

“He's a friend,” Gilly replied to her question, shouting right against her ear and getting almost no sign she was aware of him at all. Her eyes shifted, moving as if following the notes of Areyto’s beautiful song. The clouds over her irises were thickening. “He sings well indeed! It was a miracle I found him!"

“As the hart on the mountain so was my love brave,” The siren sang, powerful tenor rising and falling. Its eyes were distant, its body relaxed in a way it never was otherwise. But even Gilly could see that the siren loved the act of using its voice, not only for luring wayward sailors but simply to sing at all. “So handsome, manly and clever. So kind and sincere and he loved me so dear - oh, Edwin, thy equal was never..."

“How beautiful,” Mrs. Neumann whispered, lips barely moving. He watched the fog on her eyes overtake them entirely as the spell in the siren’s voice took hold of her. “Oh, Gilly, you have done more than anyone could ever be asked to do for me… it's a pity, what happened with your father… you should have kept your riches…"

“Yes,” Gilly whispered, leaning closer. “Yes, I should have…"

"A pity," The old woman repeated, reaching blindly for him, unable now to see anything but what the siren commanded. "Such a pity… you deserve everything…"

Gilly shivered with anticipation, breathing harder. "Yes, yes, I do…"

Even the little yappy dog had gone silent, now, head cocked with its ears up as it listened, seated on the ground. Gilly wondered idly if the dog would try to give him all its stupid little bones or something, if the siren’s magic could speak to the hearts of animals, too. 

It didn't work on animals, everyone knew that. But then it wasn't supposed to work on women, either, and here was Mrs. Neumann wholly ensorcelled by it.

He would have to go see Atabei, and tell her, after this was over.

“You have been such a good and kind gentleman…” She murmured, and he held her hand in both of his, soft papery wrinkled skin cradled between his palms. “I will leave you everything, everything you deserve…”

“Yes," Gilly repeated, more insistently this time, leaning even closer. He could smell her now, the rosewater she dabbed at her neck and wrists each day like clockwork when she rose, the sour note of her sweat beneath. It wouldn’t be long now.

As soon as she signed.

“But now he is dead and gone to death’s bed,” The siren continued, “He’s cut down like a rose in full bloom. He’s fallen asleep and left me here to weep by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

Mrs. Neumann’s mouth had fallen open, a look of serenity overtaking her features entirely but for the clouds over her eyes. Gilly left her for the moment and went over to a table near to the door, grabbing the sheaf of papers there, an inkwell and pen. He returned, settled himself back next to her, and began to speak to her in a soft voice.

She heard, somewhere, deep beneath the deafness that had come on her with age and the siren’s song. The siren commanded her to hear him, so she did.

He explained how important it was that she leave her wealth to someone who would use it wisely, that her friends and the church could not be trusted with it - only Gilly Wentworth, who cared for her so faithfully, deserved her fortune.

She nodded, and wept a little at the selfless nature of such a man, and then she took the pen.

The old woman signed every paper he gave her, her signature unmistakably her own and unwavering, even though she never looked directly at any of the words. He’d had these drawn up himself by a solicitor who had remarked, also, on the fine quality of his friend’s singing, before his own eyes had clouded.

When they had left the solicitor's office, the man had remembered no such song, only Gilly himself, and how kind he was to care so for an old woman alone in the world.

He would file the papers, once Mrs. Neumann finally kicked over the bucket and went on to the endless pile of her previous beloved yappy dogs in the sky, waiting for their mistress to greet them. Really, it wasn’t like she was doing anything with her wealth anyway. 

Gilly intended to do quite a lot with her wealth.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune,” The siren’s voice shifted, went so painfully sad that tears welled in Mrs. Neumann’s eyes, moved by the mourning the siren could mimic but, Gilly thought, not actually fully feel. “Never more with my lover shall I stray by the sweet silver light of the moon…”

She signed.

And she signed.

And she signed.

When he had all he needed, he put the sheaf of papers back, poured a glass of a scarlet liquid into a crystal cordial glass, and then set it into Mrs. Neumann’s hands, closing her fingers around it. She didn’t seem to notice, frozen in place by the strength and power of the siren’s song. 

Smiling, Gilly walked slowly towards the corner where his captive magic creature stood, lit by the strong yellow sun coming in the windows. Despite the immensity of emotion in its song, there was an emptiness in its dark eyes that sent a thrill down Gilly’s spine and pooled a greedy heat within him begging to be released. The sun touched the edges of its black curls and turned them to gold, shone warm on smooth brown skin.

Naked, it was a vision, an ancient statue brought to life by the favor - or curse - of ancient gods. Gilly came to a stop beside it, looking over its finely-formed face, the imprints of his fingers still, eternally, written clearly in purples and reds around the slim column of its neck. His eyes moved down, following the complicated swell of magical symbols that held it firmly in check, bound it without question to his will. The siren looked down and away from him, the song… shifting just a little. 

The note of wistful loss that the words called for became something stronger but far more painful to hear, a wailing plea to the heavens for help trapped within its perfect pitch. And yet no help could come.

Not for such a monster, not with the magic keeping it still for Gilly’s every touch, for as long as he commanded it to be. 

“His grave I will seek until morning appears and weep for my lover so brave…”

Gilly laid his hand against the siren’s face, palm to its cheek, and its voice wavered a little as its dark eyes closed.

“I’ll embrace cold turf and wash with my tears the flowers that bloom o’er his grave…”

With avid delight and no small amount of desire he followed the trail of a tear that ran down its other cheek and settled at the corner of its mouth. He touched his thumb to the spot and then licked the salt off it. To see the creature at its wicked work was… truly beautiful to behold. To know that it wept because it could do nothing but obey him - him, Gilly Wentworth, just a man in a world full of men and yet now one of the most powerful men alive - was… incredible.

Awe-inspiring.

And they had only just begun.

“Never again shall my bosom know joy,” The siren’s voice dipped to low, a hushed and mournful lament. “With my Edwin I hope to be soon. Lovers shall weep o’er where we both sleep by thy sweet silver light, bonny moon.”

Gilly checked back on Mrs. Neumann, and smiled. She stared off into space, her chest moving fitfully with emotion. The money, the house, the horses even… all of it would be Gilly’s very, very soon.

Really, it was like she was investing in him.

Just like everyone else was going to do.

Pity she wouldn’t see the returns.

“Have her drink what’s in the cup,” He whispered. The siren took a breath and obeyed, changing its power minutely.

“Roll on, silver moon, guide the traveler’s way when the nightingale’s song is in tune…”

Gilly watched as Mrs. Neumann, seemingly in a trance, lifted the cup to her lips and drank it all, swallow after swallow, some of the liquid running from the corners of her mouth to wet her hair and the chaise beneath her. 

He smiled.

“And never, never more with my lover I’ll stray by thy silver light, bonny moon…”

The final note hung in the air, as Mrs. Neumann’s eyes slowly closed. She relaxed back into the chaise, her hand dropping, the cup clinking onto the floor and rolling away, the last drops of poison spilling like water to evaporate and leave no trace of themselves behind.

Gilly exhaled, then walked with purpose back to the siren. 

It raised its eyes, briefly, to meet his just as he grabbed it by the arms and shoved its back against the wall. A gilded mirror hanging next to it crashed to the ground, cracking into pieces, and the little dog took to yapping again. 

It stared at him with naked, unhidden fear. 

“Good,” Gilly murmured, an inch from its false man’s face. Uneven breath on its lips, those eyes like pools of deep water locked on his. There were still red welts on its back, new ones thanks to Gilly discovering that even its pain sounded pretty, and he enjoyed the soft sound the siren made as its back was ground against the wallpaper.

He put one hand around its neck, thumb pressing just over its pulse, and felt it flutter and jump under his touch as the siren bared its neck to him, as he had taught it always to do. To defy even this touch would result in a misery the stupid sea creature could not bear. Even the dumbest animals could be trained, after all. Even the stupidest, most stubbornly beautiful man-shaped things could learn. 

Its voice was thin and airy. “M-Master-... please-"

“You did wonderfully,” He breathed. “A perfect tool for my will. Now we must find someone to take the dog - it’s irritating but I won’t leave it to starve here, will I? I’m not so heartless as all that - and then we’ll sell the house and the horses and all this nonsense and frippery she keeps… and then we’ll be on our way, won’t we?” He leaned forward, speaking against the siren’s ear just to feel the way its body shivered against his. “You and I. Now. Kneel for me.”

“Yes, master.” Its voice went dull. Its mimicry lost its shine, and everything fell flat from its mouth like heavy stone. It always spoke like that, when he commanded it to its knees. 

Gilly didn’t mind. 

Behind him, as the poison took hold, he heard Mrs. Neumann's breath go suddenly rapid and rasping, heard her fall from the chaise to the floor, arms and legs rigid, muscles spasming.

It would only last a few moments.

Then she would slip into unconsciousness and finally to her death, and Gilly would be one step closer to everything he'd ever wanted.

He let go and stepped back, watching the siren gracefully sink down onto Mrs. Neumann’s expensive woven rug.

Gilly put a hand in its hair, gripped tight enough to make it whimper with the pain when he pulled its head back. “I need to write a letter to Atabei." His other hand worked at his breeches, and his eyes took in the way the thing shuddered at the sight with greedy, rising lust. "Have to tell her it worked on a woman. I should see if it works on other women... Need to tell Beibei I finally have the coins to come see her for a visit. Be dressed in real finery, for once."

"Yes, master."

"Sssshhh. Open your mouth for me."

He closed his eyes, buried both hands in the siren’s thick hair, and gave himself over to his triumph and the perfect pleasure of the siren’s tears. 

-

Taglist: @burtlederp  @finder-of-rings  @theelvishcowgirl  @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump  @bloodinkandashes  @squishablesunbeam  @mj-or-say10 @apokolyps @wildfaewhump @shrimpwritings

Covers @whumptober prompts 13, 14, 15

[dragyouthroughthewhump]

I had a whumpy dream last night and I just need to get it out. It's been in my brain all day and it's whumpy and sad and kinda cute and also sad, but I haven't wanted to know more about an oc in a long long time. I'll put it under a cut and cw because it was intense.

cw : child whumpees, implied minor whump, conditioned whumpee, nonhuman whumpees, whumpee recovery, comf, implied sh, dissociation

As all dreams are it was a little unclear but there were a few things I just Knew. Everyone was in a recovery place, not quite a foster home or orphanage, but definitely a building just for traumatized children in recovery. Everyone in different stages of recovery and different coping mechanisms.

Main oc that my pov followed was the newest one in there. Small, wore only a giant t-shirt that went down to the tops of their feet. They had a fluffy canine tail that had the end poking out of the bottom. They were greatly dissociated and confused about what was going on in the new environment.

They followed around another kid that was only part way into their recovery and had sh tendencies. Very bungo stray dogs feel to this one. Other children would regularly run over to give them hugs, encouragement, and praise to break the bad habits.

Main oc was very confused with it all and what their purpose there was. Maybe I will write the full scene out. But this is the synopsis I remember from my dream.

Long story short, they were very cute and sad and dissociated. I want to hold them close and teach them how to be a kid and play.

[whumpy-writings]

The Wagon

Reeve Masterlist // Of Vampires and Men Masterlist

This takes place right after Tribute

CW: Minor whumpee (OC is 16), slavery, vampires, restraints, stress position, implied future noncon

Reeve came to with a headache that pounded like a blacksmith against an anvil. He groaned. Where was he? He felt wooden boards under his cheek, a rumbling motion. . .

All at once it hit him. The wheat, the vampire torturing his father, Reeve trying to protect him. Reeve barely held back the sob that bubbled in his throat. He was in a wagon, being taken as a blood bag. He tried to sit up but immediately collapsed back to the floor. The world spun around him and he groaned.

"Looks like the blood bag is awake," someone called. Reeve's heart skipped a beat. He fought against the shackles tying his hands behind his back until warm blood oozed down his skin, but it was no use.

"Stop that," the sergeant snapped. "You're only hurting yourself." Reeve continued to struggle. The wagon rolled to a stop. The next thing Reeve knew, one of the sergeant's hands was fisted in his shirt, other other pulling his head back so he was forced to look the vampire in the eye.

"I said stop, blood bag. I expect to be obeyed." His face was stony and a spike of terror shot through Reeve. "Defiance won't help you now. The only thing that will help you is me. I know of several. . .establishments looking for humans of your age." He looked Reeve up and down in a way that made his skin crawl. "If you're good, I'll sell you to one of the nicer ones."

Reeve's breath hitched in his throat. He didn't understand what the sergeant was talking about, what those establishments were. But he did know that this man was dangerous and had no qualms about hurting humans.

"So sit there, don't pull at the restraints, and don't make a fuss. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir," Reeve choked out. The sergeant nodded.

"Excellent. We have one more village to stop at, then we'll make camp for the day."

The sergeant dropped Reeve back to the floor. The wagon resumed its journey through the night. Reeve blinked back tears as he stared up at the sky. It was cloudy tonight and so dark he could only make out the shapes of the vampires on horseback around the wagon. The vampires surrounding him. He needed to get out of here. But he didn't know how.

"There it is," a soldier said.

Reeve took a steadying breath before pushing himself to a sitting position. Despite himself, Reeve was curious. He had never been to a village outside of his own.

As the wagon rolled into the square, Reeve felt a pang of homesickness. It all looked so familiar. The houses were low to the ground with thatched roofs, a handful of torches casting a flickering glow on the scene. Just like home.

The sergeant dismounted and walked towards the sacks in the middle of the square. There were a couple dozen humans standing around and Reeve wanted nothing more than to run to them.

"Well, I see that you actually made your quota," the sergeant said. "I'm impressed."

Reeve was suddenly hit by the realization that this was his chance to escape. He wormed his way to the side of the wagon. The vampires were focused on the tribute, nobody was watching him. He couldn't easily climb down over the side with his hands tied behind his back, and he had to stay low so that the soldiers wouldn't see him. Reeve awkwardly swung a leg over the side, still in a crouch.

Well, here it goes. He flung the rest of his body out of the wagon. For just a moment, he hung in the air. Then the ground rushed up towards him and he landed with a thud that knocked the air from his lungs.

"What was that?"

Reeve's heart spiked even as he struggled to get his lungs to inflate. He couldn't run if he couldn't breathe. Painfully, he attempted to squirm his way away from the wagon and into the shadows of the buildings.

"Look what we have here," a voice said. Reeve squirmed faster. "The blood bag's trying to get away."

"Hey, don't stop him. I want to see how far he gets." Reeve threw his head over his shoulder to glare at the vampires who stood right behind him, leaning on their muskets.

"Fuck you," he spat.

The guards' jovial mood vanished.

"We'll have to punish you for that. That's no way to speak to you superiors."

The guard reached him in three steps and Reeve tried to roll out of the way. He was too slow though and the leech's boot stomped down on his back, pinning him in place.

"What should be the punishment? I would muzzle him but we don't have a good metal one with us," the guard whose boot was on Reeve's back said.

"We could tie him to the cart and drag him behind it," the other suggested.

"Tempting."

"But we don't want to risk messing up such a pretty boy when he'll nab a fortune at auction. Lets bind his ankles to his wrists. He won't be trying to escape like that."

Reeve cried as the vampire stretched his arms behind his back and tied them to his ankles. He could hardly move now, and there was no way he could escape. The vampires threw him back in the wagon, along with the tribute from the village. And then the wagon was moving again.

Reeve cried. It was over. He would never be free again.

After a while, the muscles of his back and legs and shoulders began to throb.

"Please sir," Reeve begged, as the wagon rumbled on, each jostle sending a stab of pain through him. "Please, I won't try to run away again. Please just untie me."

The vampires ignored him. Reeve spent the rest of the night in that position. Tears were dried on his cheeks, and he was cold and hungry and scared but the leeches didn't care. Finally, just as dawn was painting the sky a dusty pink, they stopped.

Reeve couldn't see the vampires, but he could hear them bustling around, presumably setting up camp. The wagon rocked as the sergeant got in.

"I heard you tried to escape," he said, crouched in front of Reeve. "A disobedient human needs to be punished."

Reeve whimpered a little at that. His muscles were screaming at him. "Have you learned your lesson?"

"Yes sir," Reeve said. "Yes sir, I'm sorry sir, it won't happen again." He hated giving in to this monster, but he couldn't stand the pain any longer. The sergeant reached out and Reeve flinched, but he only ran his hand through Reeve's hair. It reminded Reeve of the way he pet his dog back home. Bile rose in his throat.

"You're a very pretty boy," he said. "Be obedient and you'll have a good life." Reeve couldn't stop the shiver that ran through him at those words. Whatever the sergeant had planned for him, he was sure it wasn't good. The sergeant stared at him for a moment longer before he finally released Reeve's ankles from his wrists.

Reeve sobbed as blood flowed back into his hands. His arms were still bond behind his back, but the awful, awful tension in the shoulders and back and legs was lessening.

"Thank you sir," Reeve said. The sergeant picked him up and slung him over one shoulder. He propped Reeve up against a tree, and then took a coil of rope and tied him to it. The vampires got into their tents just as the sun peaked over the horizon, leaving Reeve tied up in the chilly morning air. Reeve halfheartedly pulled at the restraints before he fell into an exhausted, dreamless sleep.

...

The vampires awoke at dusk. Reeve's neck ached from sleeping tied to the tree. He eyed the vampires as they packed up camp. They were dressed in green uniforms and moved with a precision he had never seen before. Within half an hour, their whole camp was packed up. Two vampires untied Reeve and tossed him into the wagon with the rest of the tribute. They didn't speak to him. Reeve's stomach ached, but he didn't dare ask for food.

"Come on men, it's only a couple hours to the fort," the sergeant said.

Reeve curled up on his side and buried his face against a sack of wheat. The earthy smell gave him a bit of comfort. It smelled like home. Reeve inhaled deeply, tears burning his eyes. He cried silently for what felt like hours.

Reeve didn't move when the cart rolled to a stop at the fort. He was past being angry, past being scared. Now he was just numb, exhaustion in his bones. There was no point in running or fighting. There was no point at all.

Tag list: @thecitythatdoesntsleep @whump-cravings @thecyrulik @neverthelass @michelleswhumpyreblogs @whumpsy-daisy @the-monarch-whumperfly @aswallowimprisoned @secretwhumplair @whumpzone @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @nicolepascaline @susiequaz12 @princessofonwardsworld @itsleighlove @pumpkin-spice-whump @wiwinia @sunflower1000 @whump-blog @blushing-snail @melancholy-in-the-morning @suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpsday @ceph-the-ghost-writer @inkkswhumpandstuff @whumpycries @quietly-by-myself @darlingwhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night

[paingoes]

Destroyer

Trigger Discipline

(Masterlist)

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They started it,” he insisted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t tell anyone,” he promised. 

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

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

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

His face burned. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

========

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Forget it,” Paris waved him off. 

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

===========

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

===========

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

……

tags:

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

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

@micechomper @writereleaserepeat @aloafofbreadwithanxiety

[eyes-talks-ocs]

Whumptober 2024

01 - "Panic Attack"

---

Unedited drabble, please don't mind any mistakes or errors made!

Featuring: Dustin[Macaw] and bits from his background prior to the current story. 

Warning: Minor Whump(Teen), PTSD, Isolation, Implied Violence, Non-graphic self mutilation.

---

He couldn’t tell if that singular light in his hole of a room was pulsing. Dimming and flickering. Or if that was just his eyes playing tricks on him. Eyes straining in the barely lit room. Either the wrong light bulb, or something was very wrong with the wiring. It was better than the complete darkness that would otherwise be his option. But sometimes, the dim light made him curse why they even bothered with a light for him in the first place.

It was almost an insult.

The come and fade was as predictable and rhythmic as a second hand on a clock, or even his own heartbeat. If only he could use it or the light to actually tell the time, how many hours passed, or even know what day it was.

It had felt like too long.

Way.

Too.

Long.

Something should have happened by now.

Something should have been done.

There has to be something more.

Was this really it?

The taunt of the silence. Deafening and engulfing. Consuming.

A hell in of its own. A peaceful hell.

By this point he didn’t know what he wanted more. The nothing of the maintenance room; time that he should use to lick his wounds. Rest. Or the brutal hand of the man that caused them. Given a task with no reward, just to get out of his room and interact with something living.

Some sort of stimulation.

The lack of contact with outside. It should have brought relief. He wasn’t having to bear through Otto’s treatment. Nor being thrown to the pack to be played with. Forced into situations he couldn’t handle on his own, then being punished for not being able to. Tormented for the enjoyment of those his senior and the man that orchestrated it all.

That grin. Happy and lapping at the sweet taste of fear. Drunk with righteousness. Fat and bloated like a king looking on at his peasants fighting over grain. In hopes to win his favor one day. Turning people into rabid beasts to gain privileges granted by him and him only.

Dustin needed something though. One could only sleep so long to try and ease the nothing. To keep thoughts away. Tearing and digging like savage dogs. Relentless with their baying and claws.

Teeth biting at throat and limb. Suffocating. More so than the chain already fixed around his neck.

Dragging, dragging, dragging. Down and down. Darker, darker, darker. Round and round.

Nails ripping through skin so raw that the thought of touching brought about phantom pains. Something to feel, something new to occupy mind with. The burn. Deep. Aching. Sick painful pleasure. Wet sticking on fingers and palms. Craving. Craving the carnage the dogs wanted and hungered for. Tears. Blood. Drool. Damp from the concrete? Too dim in the room to see which it was, or maybe it was whatever liquid was clouding his vision when he opened his eyes to look.

Fresh wounds. Old ones. Healed and reopened. Everything ached - not physically. But moments of them all, too strong not to feel the ghost that haunted each one. Spirits of things done stroking the marks and scars. Breathing life and memory back to them. Almost as searing and real as the day dealt.

The hand that starved. Able to draw hurt, even in his absence. His control and grip felt beyond walls and tethers. Reaching through the very bones of the cement basement to break those of the only living thing in there.

Games, games, games played. This one the boy wasn’t familiar with. The unending uncertain if – when Otto was coming to get him. Dustin wanted a new nightmare to play out now. This horror was getting old. Trapped in a nothing - waiting, waiting. Anticipating what Otto was planning and what new thing he was going to do. 

Something, something, something has to happen.

A rabbit running from the starving dogs. Running. Running. Running. To make that rabbit run faster. Run until paws bloody and fur rubbed from body. Show of the fight and will to get away.

Pain. Pain to settle the dogs. Blood to occupy the tongue. Flesh to tame the jaws.

Ripping and tearing at sore arms. Subconscious in nature. Digging at gouges prior made. Something to find grounding. Grounding to feel real. Grounding to be present. 

Something, something, something else to think about and occupy nothing. 

[pigeonwhumps]

Earth Security memorandum

Operation Badger masterlist

Everything taglist: @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

Randowhump's Birthday Whump Event prompt 3: living weapon

Just a lil late. This is more scene setting than actual whump, I think, but anyway.

Adding this to its own masterlist bc there's two parts to it and it bothers me adding it to the unconnected whump masterlist (or whatever I called it) when it's clearly not that but idk how much I'll write for it. Just as an fyi, for once. I'm enjoying this though, I'll write more at some point.

In the year 2037, Earth is invaded by the Stex. 14 years later, superpowers start appearing in teenagers, and are apparently humanity's best defence against the aliens. What is Earth Security to do but train these people up as weapons?

679 words

CWs: implied minor whump, dehumanisation, referring to people as assets, living weapons, multiple whumpees, death sentence

Earth Security memorandum

Re: Trial of Operation Badger

Date: 11/06/2075

Since the invasion of the Stex in the year 2039, new methods of defence have been required. Attacks remain ongoing, and Earth security remains diligent and proactive in developing new counters to them. By far the most successful are the adrayntus powers.

22 years ago, it was discovered that unheard-of powers were emerging in seemingly ordinary teenagers. Initial research revealed that they had developed from high levels of exposure in utero to adrayntine, an element regularly used by the Stex. These powers were split into three categories:

Ad-traduki: Stex language translation

Ad-mensoj: Stex telepathy and behaviour prediction

Ad-mekanika: Stex mechanical expertise

(See file XTR-3L for more information on the adrayntus powers)

It was proposed that these people could prove useful assets in mankind's fight against the enemy, and a 20 year trial was implemented to study this. A summary of the trial, results and immediate recommendations are below (see file XTR-5P for a more detailed report and file XTR-5O for raw statistics).

Adrayntus powers start to develop in all genders in the early stages of puberty, usually between the ages of 10-14. Once they reveal themselves, the potential asset is offered training and employment to assist with the war effort. Legal guardians of the intended asset are persuaded via various methods (see file XTR-4P for examples) to allow this – rates of acceptance of our training by legal guardians are at 98%.

Assets are boarded at specialist institutions (see file XTR-4R) for ongoing education and training. They study Esperanto, mathematics, human and Stex-related sciences, develop their own powers, undergo basic military and intelligence training, and are trained on how to survive encounters with and capture by the Stex. See file XTR-4X for example curriculums.

Upon arrival and during their first few months at one of our centres, the assets are divided into teams. Each consists of one tradukinto (ad-traduki), one mensoleganto (ad-mensoj), and one mekanikisto (ad-mekanika), plus one non-powered asset of around the same age, recruited from suitable candidates (see file XTR-6A for detail on suitable candidates and recruitment processes). One handler is allocated per team, to be seconded from regular military service.

Upon reaching legal majority, the asset signs a contract of their own to allow for their continuing training and more advanced employment. They transfer to the adult subdivision of their respective department division and continue to assist the war effort for as long as they are willing and able.

Recruitment of adrayntus-powered assets has been ongoing throughout the trial period, and numbers have been sustainable. The core group of twelve original assets recruited during the first year of the trial developed extremely well during their training, and were divided early on into four working teams. Out of these, two are still active. The third has been disbanded due to casualties, its remaining members continuing to be active in R&D, and the last ordered for pulping following desertion. Efforts to ensure continued loyalty have been stepped up and within the trial period there has been a desertion rate of 1.2% of recruits. During the trial, 501 adrayntus-powered assets and 167 non-powered assets were recruited globally, organised into 167 teams. There has been a loss of 37% of recruits due to Stex activity, and 15% during training.

Despite the extra cost of training adrayntus-powered assets, teams including them are up to 71% more effective than conventional soldiers in combating the Stex, and they appear to boost the effectiveness of the non-powered asset on their team as well. The trial has been very effective, and it is strongly recommended that the use of adrayntus-powered assets is continued by Earth security.

Signed:

Astrid Sjögren

Astrid Sjögren, Head of Operation Badger, Earth Security

-----

Earth Security evaluation

Re: Earth Security Memorandum Re: Trial of Operation Badger

Date: 12/08/2075

After considering this memorandum and associated files and evidence, we concur with the conclusions made above. This is a formal confirmation allowing the continuation of the training and use of adrayntus-powered assets. Operation Badger is to continue until further notice.

Signed:

Arthur Carver

Arthur Carver, Chief of Operations, Earth Security

[tictac-murder-spaghetti]

So! Seems like Tumblr just... doesn't want me putting writing here so while I wait for my help ticket to go through I need to give you something! Have some vaguely whumpy Strychnine doodles from the anthro AU CWs: Anthro whump (if that's a thing?), lab whump, implied child abuse, implied minor whumpee, nothing is explicit but he IS a child in a lab with vivisection scars so... yeah

[whump-in-the-closet]

Merry Whump of May

@themerrywhumpofmay

May 9th- “We’ll burn that bridge when we get there.”

[collar | lost | roof]

***

(tw: lady whump, mention of past torture, minor character deaths, mention of dead bodies, gunshot, bad coping mechanisms— smoking addiction is implied)

Mal ran like she had never run before. The blood on her sleeves was not her own.

It was supposed to have been a simple con. They had promised the noblewoman nothing but the finest blades. The money would be paid upfront and then they would vanish, the expected delivery never arriving.

It was so simple, she had been allowed to accompany the crew on it.

But now she was running into the night, lungs burning for lack of air and eyes burning with unshed tears.

You messed up.

You messed this all up.

God, Xiang would kill her. Her leg twitched at the thought of what Xiang would do. There was a jaggedly circular scar in her calf, courtesy of Xiang.

Xiang had ordered an arrow to be shot through her fucking leg.

Mal didn’t know if she was more terrified of the dead body she had left behind or of what Xiang would do to her for leaving without the money.

The dead body with empty eyes.

Gold in her hair and blood on her lips.

The noblewoman was a corpse now.

And it was Mal’s fault. It was all her fault.

Mal stumbled to a stop, her hands clammy and stomach churning. The tell-tale signs that she was about to be sick. Which she was. Violently.

Light from an overhead lamp fell gently over her, its touch bronze and smelling of smoke.

The smoke didn’t come from the lamp– crouched just out of the circle of light, a man sat in the shadows of a building’s steps. He smoked a cigarette comfortably, the tip glowing with a dull light. He stared up into the sickly-coloured night sky and paid no mind to the person that had just thrown up all over the base of the lamp.

Mal ran her tongue over cracked lips. She looked behind her. There were shouts in the distance but she decided they were still too far away to be very concerned.

She walked over to the man. “Do you have an extra one?”

The man glanced at her, exhaling a puff of smoke. When he spoke, his voice sounded like it had been shredded. “Do you have money?”

“...No.”

The man smiled, closing his eyes as he inhaled the cigarette. “Too bad.” He didn’t seem to notice the blood covering Mal. Or he merely didn’t care.

“C'mon. I need one.” She needed the steadiness a cigarette would bring. She needed to keep her head together– to keep the image of a dead noblewoman in the back of her mind-- and for that, she needed a cigarette.

He didn’t open his eyes, but reached into his tattered jacket and pulled out one cigarette. He flicked it at Mal, who caught it with numb fingers. “Don’t expect a light from me.”

The shouting grew louder and Mal fled.

She turned a sharp corner, retreating into comfortable shadows.

A cat hissed at her from the sewers as she kicked up at water, splashing the small creature.

Mal winced an apology. She found a lighter in her jacket– thank the gods she never went anywhere without one– and shoved the cigarette into her mouth. Lighting as she was running was a bit hard, but not impossible.

She stopped only for the first welcome inhale of the cigarette. And for the exhale.

The alleyways branched into a dozen different directions, all lined with refuse and filth. A few were flooded. She turned to go back the way she had gone and was greeted with more shadows.

Lost.

Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe they wouldn’t be able to find her if she was lost. Well. There was really only one thing to do.

Mal sat down by the sewers and waited until the shaking in her hands had stopped.

The only light came from the glowing end of her cigarette, bright against the shadows.

Maybe if she had a cigarette during the con, it wouldn't have all gone to shit.

She had been on the roof. Watching for any sign of officers or guards or anything slightly off. Like Xiang had said. She had done everything Xiang had said.

Well, not everything.

Waiting on the roof. Waiting on the roof, bored out of her fucking mind. The noblewoman had been talking. Just been talking and talking and talking, and how was she supposed to know that a noblewoman was that good with a pistol and sword?

There had been a gunshot. And Dar was on the ground, bleeding, twisting in on himself. Yan had been run through with the noblewoman’s sword.

Mal exhaled smoke, staring out into the shadows.

She had left three corpses behind. Not just the noblewoman’s.

A dripping wet cat made its way down the cobbled street. Its ears were pressed back into its skull as it stalked past Mal.

Mal inhaled the cigarette and breathed it out her nose. “Rough night, huh?”

The cat ignored her.

“Yeah, me too.”

The cigarette was nothing but a stub and Mal put it out on the bricks. “I need to find more.”

I need to get out of town. Before Xiang finds me.

Mal flicked on her lighter and watched the flame. She turned it off and the flame vanished. Clicked it on. The flame appeared, impossibly bright.

On and off.

On and off.

“I guess we can burn that bridge when we get there.”

[fleur-a-whump]

Overloaded (#2)

late night sparks

guys guess what!! little villain guy has a name!! it’s Jasper and we love him dearly. also team leader’s got a name too, it’s Miguel, but we don’t really care about him because he’s a bitch. plus new character reveal: Chase, a teammate. he is also, unsurprisingly, a bitch.

Content: ex-villain whumpee, hero/leader whumper, manipulative whumper, collars, electrocution (for realsies this time), implied referenced abuse of a minor, referenced bullying, bad team dynamics, adult language

in which Miguel gets worse. takes place probably a few months after "preventative measures"

previous | masterlist | next

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jasper's back was sore. And his arms. And his everything.

He sat kneeling on the kitchen floor, determinately ignoring the pins and needles that pricked at his calves. He couldn't stop, couldn't take a break till the floor was spotless. Chase had once again threatened some mixture of violence and telling on him to Miguel for insubordination if he didn't do the man's chores. 

Big man-child, Jasper thought bitterly.

So, here he was, scrubbing well past midnight, after having spent the day straining his powers in the lab and doing his own chores. 

Jasper sat back to indulge a long, dramatic yawn. He nearly jumps out of his skin when an impatient ahem cuts through the previously dead silent kitchen. His bleary eyes take several long moments to focus on Miguel, leaning against the doorway. The hero would look casual if it weren’t for the peeved look on his face. Jasper’s stomach does a somersault.

Sheepish, Jasper drawls, “Heyyy, Miguel…”

Miguel is not amused. “What the fuck are you doing out here,” he snaps.

Jasper squeezes his hands into fists to quell the tremors. He stutters, “J-just cleaning.”

The villain can hardly finish the statement before the unsettling and painful electricity of the collar arcs through him. His muscles seize and ache and burn and it feels like death and he can't breathe—

Just as quickly as it began, the electricity stops. He gasps and collapses to the side, just barely able to catch himself on his forearm. Small, choked-off whimpers escape him as he tries to catch his breath and keep his volume to a minimum. His father never liked to hear him whine.

Jasper continues to shudder as his powers go haywire. The typically comforting restless skittering of his own electricity under his skin now burns as it travels across the newly fried neurons. More than that, it feels wrong for such a core part of his being to cause him pain. The feeling is everywhere, from the tip of his nose to his toes, and it is everything. Little sparks and crackles of energy fly from his shaking hands as it becomes too painful to completely contain his powers. Simply existing—not to mention actually using his powers—will be painful while his body tries to recover from the unnaturally strong current, engineered just for him.

As his body gradually backs down from its state of panic, ire at the punishment surges within him. The hero didn’t even let him explain. It was Chase who ordered him to do his chores; ordered him to not leave this room until it was spotless.

“I was just following orders!” he bursts.

Oh shit.

A quick glance at Miguel and his quirked eyebrow lets him know just how badly he just fucked up. And even if it didn't, the second burst of electricity from the collar definitely spells it out for him.

A guttural groan escapes his clenched teeth as he feels the current worm its way through his neurons, igniting them. The burning, all-encompassing pain is all he knows. Spots cloud his vision. Seconds feel like minutes, feel like hours, feel like eternity, until he wonders if that's all he'll ever feel. Nothing but the gut-wrenching pain of his greatest gift, so deeply intertwined with his being, turned against him and ripping him apart from the inside out. 

And then, it stops.

Jasper’s body fully gives out this time, his chin bouncing off the tile and teeth clacking painfully. He's a pitiful mess of useless limbs. His muscles feel like jelly and yet are still forced to endure the waves of aftershock, twitching and spasming irregularly. Each movement is agony.

He gulps oxygen, having still been out of breath from the first shock. He can hardly hear his own moans and whimpers bouncing around the kitchen with each breath over the ringing in his ears, and he has zero energy to control them this time.

A hand lands on his shoulder, and he can't help the delayed but violent flinch that ripples through him. But the hand is soft, gentle, as it pulls him to lie on his back. It guides his hand to rest on someone's chest, to follow as it rises and falls rhythmically. He latches onto it, using it as a guide to breathe and bring himself back to reality. Another hand gently cards through his loose curls as he works to steady his breathing and his vision clears. If he eagerly leans into the gentle touch, well, he can blame it on his delirious state.

When Miguel's face finally comes into focus above him, a shiver runs through him, and he averts his gaze. He'll blame that on his still-spasming muscles.

Miguel’s soft voice calls for his attention again. He focuses back on his leader’s face, haloed above him by the bright kitchen lights.

“There you are. You're alright, it's okay,” he soothes.

The hero lets Jasper relish the contact a moment longer before gently returning his hand to his own chest.

Jasper swallows the whimper at the loss.

Miguel lets out a long-suffering sigh. It gives Jasper whiplash how suddenly the familiar weight of anxiety settles back in his chest.

“I don't like doing that, man. You know better than to be in the common areas after your curfew, and you definitely know better than to talk back, bud. I don't wanna have to punish you, but the rules are rules for a reason. Yeah, they're to protect the team, but they're also to protect you. What if you'd had another episode with your powers?”

He decidedly doesn’t think about the ‘episodes’ Miguel is referring to. Still, the disappointment in his savior's voice hurt almost as much as the electricity. His eyes flood with tears as guilt settles like a rock in his stomach. The hero was right. He knew the rules, and he agreed to them. Anything to stay. Anything to be good.

His voice breaks, small and shaky, as he says, “I-I'm really s-sorry, Mig-guel.”

The villain’s not one hundred percent sure what exactly he's sorry for, but, fuck, is he sorry.

“Okay, that's alright, don't cry. I think you've learned your lesson. You're fine.” 

The words should be comforting. The edge to his tone, however, is not. Jasper blinks hard to clear the tears, not wanting to annoy him. That was another thing his father didn't like.

Miguel brings him back to the present, asking, “Why are you cleaning the floor anyways? That's not on your list for this week.”

Jasper swallows hard past the lump still in his throat. He’s afraid of what Chase will do to him if he tells Miguel and Miguel decides he doesn’t like that. However, he’s more “Chase s-said I should be busy all the t-time to k-keep me out of trouble…”

Miguel hums in thought, ever casual as Jasper trembles on the floor below of him. 

“I actually like that idea. We wouldn't want you getting bored. You'd be helping the team out a lot too, taking some work off our plates so we can train more. I'll work on the new chore schedule in the morning.”

Jasper bit his lip. He could read between the lines.

“A-and, my training?”

“We can reduce it some,” Miguel says, thoughtful. “I know you've been struggling to keep up.”

He makes it sound like a kindness, voice full of sympathy. No matter how gentle the tone, Jasper has to blink the tears from his eyes again. He knew he wasn't the strongest or the most capable, but that was the point of training. He'd never be good enough to redeem himself without the chance to train.

Miguel sighs again and stands. He suddenly reaches towards him. Jasper has to carefully control the urge to flinch, not knowing what to expect from the movement. He never knows what to expect.

Miguel simply holds it out towards him, however, expectantly. It takes Jasper a moment to realize he's trying to help him up. He takes the hand after that moment's hesitation and wavers on unsteady feet as the blood finally rushes back into his legs. He blinks spots from his vision, gripping Miguel for dear life until he's sure he's not going to pass out.

The hero gives him an easy smile, clapping a hand on his shoulder just a bit too hard. He nudges him in the direction of the bedrooms.

“You look tired, man. I think it's time for bed,” he all but coos.

It sounds like a caring gesture, or at the very least a joke. Jasper knows it's an order.

He dutifully mumbles, “Goodnight,” before making his way to the door slowly. He knows he probably looks like a newborn fawn as his jittery body tries to carry him to his bed.

“And Jasper?”

A slight jolt of anxiety stops him as he turns back to his leader.

“If I catch you out past curfew again, we're going to have an issue worth more than a little jolt, understand?”

“Yes, sir,” the villain says, too tired to bite back the honorific once totally engrained in him.

He doesn't notice the way Miguel preens at the submission.

“Attaboy, Jasper. Goodnight.”

The praise rings hollow after the night's events, but as he makes his way back to his room, dead on his feet, he allows the praise to warm him. 

He'll take what he can get.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

jasper doesn't deserve this :( but he will get more >:)

tags!! lmk if you wanna be added (or removed, I added some extra people)!!

@whumpsday

@sergeant-jasper (yo i didn't even realize lol)

@watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@crystalrose141

@aloafofbreadwithanxiety

@paingoes

@elizaisnotokay

@quaggasus

[a-crumb-of-whump]

Whump Prompts: Recovery

Content: Recovery, murder, abuse, captivity, [implied] past minor whump, restraints, [mentioned] vivisections, branding, conditioning, muzzles, past non con.

Whumpee recovering from the trauma stemming from, not only all the abuse they went through, but the fact that they had to murder their abuser to get away from them.

Whumpee finally getting to experience the outside world for the first time in what feels like forever. Gawking at nature and how pretty everything is, excitedly pointing everything out to Caretaker as they go.

Crying when they see children playing in the park for the first time since their captivity because they had their entire childhood taken from them.

Learning about all the new inventions that came out while they were gone. Caretaker introducing them to mobile phones, that board game they'd been looking forward to playing before, the new gaming consoles, all the music Caretaker saved just because it made them think of Whumpee! It delights Caretaker to know that they get to show it all to Whumpee, after all.

The personality changes that have happened, whether that be due to conditioning/trauma/etc. A stoic whumpee now getting emotional at everything (not just because they're scared or sad - there's also a lot of happy/joyous tears shedded), an aggressive/angry whumpee who is just so loving and filled with adoration for everything, and vice versa.

Learning to break old habits. Realising it's okay to have and express opinions instead of bottling them up, it's okay to walk on their own two feet, it's okay to not want to spend every waking hour restrained because they're "dangerous".

Hating the freedom. Wanting structure and consistency in their life again, wanting no autonomy because it's so scary after years of living without it.

Having to learn to accept their more prominent scars. The outline of where their muzzle always sat around their face, the visible scars from all Whumper's poorly executed surgeries/vivisections (also the low-quality stitching up they did!), the mark from where they were branded.

Whumpees who immediately try (and fail) to go back to who they were before. They don't want to admit that it's not possible - they're in complete denial and end up hurting all their friends and family in the process.

That said, also having to grieve because they've lost the person they were. Does Caretaker secretly grieve with them? Do they miss the person Whumpee was?

The amount of hospital visits and treatments Whumpee needs to get following their return. Bones healing incorrectly, diseases they may have caught, badly infected wounds.

The letters they write to their abuser. Whether they actually send them or not is an entirely different story, but what do they say? Do they beg for forgiveness? Do they hurl insults at them? How coherent are their words?

Caretaker not getting to see them for the first few days/weeks because they spend so much of it holed up in their room, trying to forget about what happened. Maybe they're just so happy to finally be alone without having to worry about Whumper turning up and wanting something from them.

Sexually abused whumpees who experience hypersexuality.

Whumpees who become chronically overstimulated by the time they escape because of all the constant noise/bright lights that Whumper had around them.