#trans caretaker

[greatandquestionablecontent]

Whumptober Day 3 - Set Up For Failure

Lexan's POV

Major character death TW

It was amazing how calm I was, or it would have been if I’d actually done anything. Instead I just stood there and watched it all, feeling nothing and doing nothing. It was like watching a documentary, but the only thing the narrator had to say in between the audio was, “He was already dead.”

Sparkplug and Livia took turns doing CPR, their teamwork smooth and perfect. They matched each other’s pace like gears fitting together, one did rescue breaths while the other pumped Aubrey’s nonresponsive chest. North brought an AED Sparkplug cut his shirt and binder away, muttering, "Sorry, bud," as she did.

“Clear!”

He was already dead.

“Clear!”

He was already dead.

The ambulance didn’t arrive for another forty minutes. I brought everyone water and heard my voice insist they drink some. North lit a cigarette. Sparkplug started crying, and I brought her a tissue when it was Livia’s turn on compressions, and we didn’t mention it, and after a bit she stopped crying, and the whole time CPR kept going. I felt that beat ticking in my brain. Ha ha ha ha stayin’ alive.

He was already dead.

[pigeonwhumps]

Christmas

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @fuckcapitalismasshole @painful-pooch @i-eat-worlds @a-funeral-romance @rainydaywhump

In medical training, Aaron tries to protect Joseph in what's possibly the worst way. Joseph is not happy.

Joseph belongs to @i-eat-worlds. Mention of the Pride Knights playing cards by @/prideknights.

2.9k

CWs: burns, power blocking, brief mention of past transphobia, fake medical stuff, emeto, past minor whump

It's Christmas Eve when Aaron finally finds the cuffs.

He's cleaning out an old storage cupboard in the HAL training centre, because someone needs to do it and also because he has his suspicions, and lo and behold there they are. The cuffs they need.

Their powers are getting stronger the more they use them, and they can't, they won't, hurt Joseph. They need to use their healing powers. But it's the Christmas holidays and he doesn't need his electrokinesis anyway.

He finishes the cupboard hurriedly and puts the cuffs in a pocket. He needs to find a bathroom, and there's one just down the corridor, which he barricades himself inside.

They pull out the cuffs with trembling hands and sit down on the toilet, trying to steady themself. They need to do this. It's the only way to stop them hurting Joseph.

But that doesn't mean it's going to be pleasant. It's not just the cuffs themselves, it's the memories, the staff with cold eyes boring into him, implacable as he asked them not to do this, not to make him so cold and burning and empty and hurting.

They seem to be moving in slow motion. The first one isn't too bad on its own. It makes them shiver, but it's okay. They can handle it easily, they're used to that feeling.

And then they snap the second one shut around their other wrist.

They feel empty all of a sudden. Something's gone, something integral, something that's been a part of them for so long they don't really know how to be without it. It's been years since they left school, after all.

The good thing about an oversized Christmas jumper is that it hides the cuffs when they pull the sleeves down, and they do so, hoping Joseph doesn't get suspicious. He shouldn't.

He almost falls over as he stands up. Woah. Did his balance really used to go like that when he wore the cuffs before? His stomach churns.

Back they go, back to the flat they share with Joseph. The world seems duller and more overwhelming at the same time, now, and the emptiness is turning into an aching burn.

He enters the largish studio flat, where Joseph's already sorting out his own bed. He turns around and smiles when he sees who it is.

"Thought you weren't coming. I've made you hot chocolate. It's still warm and everything."

"Thank you." Aaron's not sure he's up to drinking it right now but he takes the mug anyway, dropping onto the bed and warming his suddenly-cold hands on it.

Joseph frowns. "Are you okay?"

"Just a little tired. Cleaning that cupboard was really boring," Aaron lies.

Well. It's not quite a lie. The cupboard was boring. But most of the problem is the cuffs sapping his energy.

"Happy Christmas Eve. Did you want to play those games?"

"Yes, but not if you're not feeling great." Joseph's brow is crinkled in concern, and it occurs to Aaron that maybe he doesn't entirely believe them.

"I want to. Might make me feel better anyway."

"Knew it." Joseph pulls a colourful box off the shelf and holds it up. "Snakes and Ladders to warm up?"

"Sure, why not."

_

Aaron falls asleep as Joseph is preparing their third game of Cards Against Humanity. Just conks out right on the floor.

His dreams are confusing and strange, nightmarish in a way that makes him jerk awake, heart pounding, never wanting to sleep again.

Wait. Didn't he fall asleep on the floor? That's the last thing he remembers. What's he doing tucked up in bed?

Oh. Oh fuck. Did Joseph see? Did he–

No. No. They're still wearing their jumper. That makes it very unlikely. They hope, anyway.

They turn, looking over at Joseph, and a wave of nausea washes over them. They throw themself out of bed and dash to the bathroom, leaning over the sink to splash cold water over their face.

Oh god. Oh god. They feel cold, and hot, and hollow, and burning, burning, burning, nauseous but they can't throw up.

They press their forehead against the cold white ceramic of the sink. Their wrists. Their wrists. Surely a small break would be okay? They don't know what time it is but it's got to be early, Joseph isn't awake. Just five minutes.

Luckily the cuffs aren't locked, because his hands are shaking and he'd never unlock them without help.

He shoves them in his pocket.

His insides warm, filling with that intrisic part of him that was previously blocked, and... and the nausea's unlocked too.

He bends over the sink, retching, vomiting up what little's in his stomach until he's dry-retching. It feels like an eternity until he's able to stop.

"I didn't realise you were this ill," says a quiet voice behind them. They spin around and wobble, falling into the person's arms.

Pale skin... short brown hair... strong arms...

"Joseph?"

"Yeah, it's me. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Mmm. I'll fetch you some clean clothes. Do you want to clean yourself up a bit?"

Now Joseph mentions it, he notices the clammy stickiness everywhere. He nods.

"I'll be right back."

Aaron doesn't think he has the strength to stand in the shower. He wets a flannel with blissfully cold water and presses it to his forehead.

Oh. Oh, that's so much better. He wipes the rest of his body carefully, trying to ignore the pain in his wrists as he touches them. It's... nice, to cool down like this.

There's a knock at the door, and Aaron wraps a towel around himself before opening it. Joseph's left a pair of pyjamas outside, soft and short sleeved, with a fleece-lined jumper and underwear. Aaron picks them up, shuts the door again and puts them on.

That's better. They feel more like a person again now.

Whoever put them on their bed last night (because they're lucid and awake enough now to realise it must've been a person, probably Joseph) was thoughtful enough to put their hair in a silk wrap. So it's probably not too bad. They put their glasses on and blink a few times as everything becomes clearer.

Joseph is waiting to one side of the bathroom, unnoticed earlier, and gives Aaron a small smile.

"Feeling any better?"

Aaron nods. His head swims. Best not to do that for a while then.

"How did you find me?"

Joseph shrugs. "You'd vanished. You were ill last night, and the door was unlocked, the sounds of vomiting inside. It wasn't hard to deduce. Like you'd be up and about yet anyway, unless it was an emergency. Merry Christmas, I guess."

"Merry Christmas."

Joseph hands Aaron a tablet and a glass of squash. "Something to settle your stomach, and squash to take away the taste."

"Thanks."

"It's no problem, honestly." Aaron slumps back on his bed, noticing vaguely that Joseph seems to have changed the sheets and why is he so thoughtful anyway? It's warm in here, and they absently roll up their sleeves. "You're my friend, and ill. I'd be a poor medic if I didn't help. I have a present if you're up to opening it, let me just put this on your forehead, and– are those fresh burns on your wrists?"

Joseph says the last part with such force that Aaron flinches, rolling down his jumper hurriedly as if by doing that he can make Joseph forget the evidence of his lack of stamina. He shakes his head. Joseph raises an eyebrow. He looks away, ashamed.

"Dammit, Aaron. What the hell did you do with the cuffs?"

"Trouser pocket," he murmurs, biting his lip. Joseph picks them up and digs around until he finds them, then throws them across the room in disgust.

"Where did you even get them?"

"Old storage cupboard."

Joseph nods, looking unhappy. "Makes sense. But they should've got rid of them all years ago, the effects are well-known." He fetches the first aid kit, spreading it out on the bed. "Give me your wrist."

Aaron holds one out, and Joseph starts wrapping a clean bandage around it. After a moment, he says quietly, "Why?"

"My powers have been getting stronger. And the stronger they are, the more likely they are to get out of control, and I don't want to hurt you. These are the only things that make it better, and I– I don't care if it hurts, if it makes me feel ill, I don't care, as long as you're safe."

"They are not the only thing that works."

"But in school–"

"In school you were an untrained kid, and the staff slapped cuffs on you because they didn't care and didn't want to bother with referring you for training or anything else that might've actually helped," says Joseph tightly. "You do not need to severely injure yourself to control your powers. Other wrist."

Aaron holds it out. "What else is there?"

"Training. You've already had some. They're like a muscle, and now you're using your powers they'll be easier to control anyway. Please, Aaron. I don't want you getting permanent damage on my behalf, from something you don't even need. The cuffs have probably already made your control worse, from the excessive childhood use."

"What– how do you know–"

"Pat," Joseph says, simply but sadly. "Also, in the last chapter of our textbook it talks about the dangers. Must be a recent addition."

Aaron swallows. "Can you... will you read it to me?" They don't think they can do that themself right now.

"Sure."

Aaron slumps back as Joseph fetches his textbook. The burns hurt. The bandages aren't tight but even so.

He still thinks the cuffs would've been safer.

"Okay. Here we go. Ready?" Aaron nods. "Right. Power-restricting cuffs are a traditional way of blocking a patient's powers if they reach a point where they're dangerous to themself or others, however recent research has changed academic views on that. Most doctors believe that they should no longer be used in any circumstances due to the effects. In the short-term, these can include burns, nausea, fever, fatigue, seizures, overwhelm, and a feeling of emptiness and dullness. Long-term usage can cause these same effects to be exaggerated into chronic illnesses or disabilities even when the cuffs are removed, as well as mental illnesses such as depression, and making the patient's powers less predictable and harder to control.

"The effects of the cuffs varies based on the root of the patient's powers. For example... hang on... ah, here. For example, humourous-based powers, most commonly exhibited in healing form, are more likely to cause fevers and confusion, whereas... nosebleeds and severe burns are more likely to be caused by energy-based powers. For all patients, the higher the strength of their powers, the worse the effects of the cuffs."

"Wait."

Aaron pushes himself up and rubs his eyes. Joseph frowns.

"Yeah?"

"Stop. Stop. I can barely understand a word."

"Confusion's still getting to you then. Shall we do presents and Christmas pizza, and you can try again later if you like? Or another day, if you promise not to try and use the cuffs."

"Promise."

Aaron reaches under the bed to pull out their presents and almost throws up again. Joseph hauls them back upright and shoves one of those cardboard hat-like things under their mouth.

"'m okay. But thanks. Sorry for ruining Christmas."

"You haven't, I promise." Aaron makes a sceptical noise, and Joseph finishes ordering their planned pizza order (it's a lot) before chucking his phone down and coming over, two presents in hand. "I promise. And I always mean my promises." He brushes against Aaron's wrist as he sits down and they wince. His face turns a little harder. "Could you write me a list of everyone who made you think the cuffs were the best and only option? For academic purposes."

Aaron coughs out a laugh. "There's a lot of them. Anyway, it's okay, we settled in the court case. That's how I manage to afford half the things I do, and how I got in here – I didn't pass by nearly enough but they saw that, I think. It's fine. It's over now. You don't have to do whatever you were planning, they had consequences anyway." And they still don't think they were wrong to use the cuffs, but that's an argument for another day.

"It might be over, but it's not okay. It should never have happened in the first place. You were just a child."

Aaron swallows. He needed the cuffs, but it's true, to an extent. They were a child who no-one ever explained anything to. And there was discrimination going on, they know it, or they wouldn't have ended up sharing with Sophia (not that they disliked that specific effect exactly, but she is a girl and the dorms were meant to be single sex).

He still needs the cuffs, though.

"Presents?"

"Sure. Two each, perfect. We'll alternate."

Aaron passes a present over before Joseph can object. "Merry Christmas."

It's a fairly thin rectangle with a small square on top, and Joseph peels the tape off curiously.

Once he sees what it is, he looks up at Aaron, grinning, eyes bright and shining. "How did you know?"

"I saw you looking at the Kickstarter. You looked sort of sad that you couldn't afford them, and I still have settlement money left, so I thought why not?"

"And you– you got me a framed print of the trans card. Thank you."

"Well. I mean. Queer playing cards are nicer to play with than ordinary ones, right?"

"Right." He wipes his eyes. "You're making me feel outdone."

"I'm sure you're not." They take the large, light, lumpy package and tear off the paper.

It's a very large, very fluffy, deep blue blanket. Aaron wraps it tightly around himself, hugging it. It's so soft.

"I take it you like it then?"

Aaron nods, then remembers why he wasn't doing that as their head swims. "Thank you. I... you'll need to pick yours up."

"Okay." He frowns a little at Aaron and opens the parcel carefully. "It's... Aaron, oh my god." His laughter is a little choked. "This is... I didn't know these even existed."

"Is it okay? I was worried it might be a bit insensitive, but you were a bit insecure and I thought– maybe..."

"It's perfect. You're perfect. At buying presents, I mean. I... Aaron, I love it."

A weight lifts from Aaron's chest. They were very worried Joseph would find a toy testosterone hormone bad taste, because just because Aaron's trans and would like it doesn't mean Joseph's the same, but it turns out the worry was for nothing.

"You're way better at buying presents than I am, but here you go."

Inside the paper is a mug that changes when the temperature changes. According to the outside of the box, a TARDIS appears in the starry sky pattern when it's hot. And it's glow-in-the-dark too.

He opens the box, more careful than with the wrapping paper.

Joseph appears to have carefully unsealed the box, placed a marshmallow-filled hot chocolate bomb inside the mug, and resealed it. It's impressive. He smiles.

"Thank you. I'm going to try it out."

"Yeah, but you're going to let me make it. I'll get you a chair and you can watch the hot chocolate bomb melt."

Aaron nods, letting Joseph help him over to the countertop. They very rarely actually sit here, so a chair has to be fetched (and they rarely sit in those, either).

"Why is it so much worse today?" murmurs Aaron, as Joseph heats the milk. "It wasn't so bad when I was a kid."

Joseph's knuckles go white on the handle of the mug. "You hadn't used your powers so much then, I think. They've grown as you've used them, and so has the severity of the cuffs' side effects. At least you're not bad enough to have seizures. Right?"

"Right."

"I'm going to give them to a friend to destroy later. Please don't go looking for a new pair and hurt yourself further."

Aaron's not sure how to answer, watching the hot chocolate bomb bubble and melt instead. The mini marshmallows look very tasty. He's not going to have whipped cream today, he doesn't think.

"Aaron. Promise me."

"I promise."

Joseph nods firmly. "You'd better stick to that."

Afterwards, they eat most of the Christmas pizza order sprawled out on cushions and duvets on the floor, and play a few card games with Joseph's new cards (the present wasn't entirely selfless). Then Joseph boots up his laptop and they both climb onto his bed, Aaron wrapping their new blanket around Joseph too.

"Since you're hurt, you get first choice."

"The Muppet's Christmas Carol?" asks Aaron hopefully. He's in the mood for a light-hearted musical. Which is odd when the original isn't at all.

"Sure," smiles Joseph, loading it. Aaron leans on his shoulder to watch.

They make it as far as the Marley song, both of them singing along, before their eyes start to droop. They try to open them again but they just can't.

The last thing they hear before drifting off is Joseph's low chuckle.

[meowburgerz]

bailey is very photogenic..

[punkeropercyjackson]

Rip Katara Aipaluk and Percy Jackson,you would've loved aquarium nails

[lumpywhump]

transphobic caretaker and a trans whumpee

what is the level of caretaker's transphobia? Are they simply uncomfortable with it. They think it's wrong but if other people feel like it's right then they guess it's okay for them??????

or it's disgusting. How can someone think that. Whumpee is clearly more sick than they thought. Whumper must have done this to whumpee right??? So caretaker starts changing them. Making whumpee dress in clothes associated with their birth gender, deadnaming them, misgendering them on purpose. But it's all for whumpee's health isn't it? Being trans is just some illness that whumper spread to whumpee. Whumpee is just so confused with all the trauma of what whumper did to them. And whumpee can say anything about it. Caretaker is the only person to show whumpee kindness in years. If they don't like something about whumpee then of course it is their right to change it! Even if whumpee suffers for it. Even if whumpee feels like they've just traded whumper with another whumper...

[whereserpentswalk]

Gender segregated bathrooms can also fuck over disabled people with caretakers, btw. Aside from the obvious "people are hostile to person in the 'wrong' bathroom":

Caretaker needs to use the bathroom? They will have to leave their client alone in an unsafe place where the client can end up being separated from their caretaker, especially if the client tends to wander off or have tics that make people call security on them.

Client needs help to use the bathroom? People will demand medical information to decide if the client "really needs" their caretaker's help. Even if the client can use the bathroom by themself, there is still the possibility of an emergency or something unexpected happening and their caretaker not being there to help.

Not every place has a gender-neutral disabled bathroom. I have been to several places where the disabled stalls are inside gendered bathrooms, so the problem remains.

.

[alittlemxchievous]

One of my favorite things to do is scam bait all the fake sugar daddies that message me. @bigdadablog was my most recent victim. I would happily accept a real sugar mommy or daddy or caretaker, but I will always waste the time of scammers.

[larrythefloridaman]

WOAH, HE'S BIGENDER? I DIDN'T KNOW THAT!

[whumble-beeee]

A New Enemy Has Entered The Arena

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 6

Content: disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, tied up/handcuffs, (brief) dissociation, noncon partial undressing, noncon touch, attempted noncon

* * * * * * * *

Except from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters Dr. Vaughn Verhulst

["Make them fear the wrath of god, then remind them the only god they should fear is you."]

* * * * * * * *

“So, this is the capture, huh?” The new voice drawled. Despite the exhaustion and the agony lacing throughout every part of his body, Stan's managed a look up at the new situation. Directly into a pair of steel blue eyes that made his breath stutter. “Not much to look at, huh?”

Stan scooted backward, but Deeby seemed to beat him to the same idea, stepping in front of the man and completely blocking him from view.

“There's no way you're the one doing the pickup. What are you doing here?”

The new man tried to side-step Deeby. “Don't worry, I'm not trying to interrupt your smooch-fest, just wanna make sure you aren't breaking our new toy–”

Deeby stepped in front of the man again, the man barely stopping short of crashing directly into him, just long enough for Stan to gather his scattered bearings and realize there was a new person here and all the distinct possibilities of what that meant for him.

And suddenly he felt lightheaded again.

“Dude…”

“What.” Deeby insisted slowly. “Are you doing here?”

This new guy… honestly, not much to look at himself, from what Stan saw. He couldn't have been too much older than Stan, fluffy light brown hair, an accent he couldn't quite place, but… probably European? He also wasn't wearing any sort of mask or anything to hide his face, which was only vaguely concerning, Stan decided to believe. Not to mention, this new guy had been wearing a knit sweater vest? It looked soft. Stan almost had to remind himself that the guy must be a threat, just like Deeby, or why would he even be here?

He just looked so corporate.

“I told you, checking on the capture, getting some intel. Making sure you didn't crap up the very simple plan, or kill him. It’s a real concern with you, I'm sure you understand.”

The man tried to side-step Deeby once again, and once again the mercenary blocked him. Stan started to scoot back away from the two, his ankle chain softly clanking as it dragged across the floor. Whatever was going on between them, he wanted no part of it.

“He's secure. And alive. Not fatally wounded, and will continue to stay that way.” Deeby stated. “You can leave now.”

Sweater-vest ventured an exaggerated glance over Deeby's shoulder, just barely giving Stan another view of his steel-colored eyes. Something about them made his heart skip a beat.

“You sure about that, big man? Kid doesn't seem to be doing so hot.

“Yup.” Deeby didn't even entertain a glance back. “Buh-bye now.”

Stan could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied the groan that Sweater-vest let out. “Well excuse me for not trusting you as far as I can throw you. Look, I'm not just here to mess with you, I'm here on Lana's orders. She wants you to call her.”

Stan stopped scooting dead, an icy coldness surging through his chest, a sudden darkness swirling around his head. Lana. That sounded like a real name. Why was this man using real names? Deeby didn't use a real name, he was very dead set on that! Why was this new man using real names?! Real names were bad why was he using real names–?!

Deeby also stiffened at the name. He hand clenched for just a fraction of a second. Then he shook his head and brought his hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Why didn't she just call me instead of sending your sorry ass to deliver the message?” Deeby finally seemed to settle on.

Sweater-vest's eyes flicked over Deeby, up and down, before an unnerving grin spread across his face. “I know something you don't know~” he sang slowly, like some sort of horror movie villain.

“You planning on telling me? Or you just gonna stand there like a skin-walker.” Deeby look just about ready to blow.

“Soon as I verify the little super lives up to our wildest hopes and dreams.”

“Y’know, technically we’re supposed to be on the same side.”

The man sidestepped Deeby one last time, and this time, the mercenary just let him pass by. Stan shrank back as the piercing gaze of Sweater-vest appraised him, looking him up and down as he slowly walked closer.

“A bit worse for wear, no?” Sweater-vest noted, almost to himself.

“Yeah, little shit tried to escape. Got pretty far too, he's stronger than I thought. Got me right–” Then he noticed Stan had backed up halfway across the room instead of stayingin place on the floor right behind him. And sighed. “Kinda a wuss though…”

“Die.” Stan growled, scowling at the mercenary even as he clutched his knees to his chest.

“Oooooh” Sweater-vest cooed, and Stan nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized how close the man had gotten to him. “Feisty little guy, huh?”

Stan kicked out at him and skittered back, only to realize he was almost out of room to skitter. So he reluctantly stood his ground. Well, sat his ground. “Get away from me!”

“He's mostly talk,” Deeby called again. “Mostly…”

Stan barely even registered what Deeby said. His vision completely tunneled on Sweater-vest as he slowly advanced on Stan, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Dang, Dick Biscuits, you really got a handle of him, don’t you?” Sweater-vest's eyes never once left Stan's. “Leashed and collared, like a little puppy dog… “

Stans cheeks turned a bright red. He glared at the man as hard as he could, jaw clenched so hard it could have broken, because honestly, how dare he?!

Deeby sighed, like he'd rather be anywhere but where he was now. Stan could relate.

“Yeah… It's necessary.”

“Oh, I agree wholeheartedly.”

The man crouched directly in front of the trembling Stan. “Hi,” he said softly, disarmingly, giving Stan just the slightest tilt of the head. “My name's Vaughn, its–”

“Christ man, would you cut it out with the names!” Deeby yelled, causing the both of the smaller men to jump as he marched over. Stan reflexively curled up into a little ball, gut swirling with a new and terrifying form of dread and suddenly very aware of his restraints once more, while Sweater-vest–... Vaughn… sprung up to face down Deeby.

As much as Stan was absolutely terrified of Deeby, he had to admit he agreed with the bounty hunter on this one. The way Sweater-vest threw out names like that felt… Dangerous. On a visceral level. He hugged his legs closer to his chest.

“Why?” Sweater-vest taunted. “It's not like he's gonna live to tell anyone.”

“Nothing's ever 100% with these things,” he growled. “Unless you want to get fifty to life here as well. You'd be doing me a huge favor, honestly, and bring Lana down with you while you’re at it. But leave me out of it.”

Sweater-vest hummed, considering. Glanced Deeby up and down. Then scoffed. “Don't you have an important phone call to get to, Deeby? I’d hate to have to tell Lana that her least favorite ex disobeyed her direct orders and needs to be dealt with.”

The mercenary stared down Sweater-vest. The intensity of it almost entranced Stan, it seemed to go on for an eternity. Then, finally, Deeby let out a small grunt, and took a slow, deep breath.

“Stan!” he yelled. Stan nearly yelped. “If he tries anything, kill him, he deserves it. And you.” he turned his attention right back to Sweater-vest before Stan could stutter out some sort of question or affirmation. “Don't fuck with him.”

“Aw, so protective, falling in love already?”

“I'll be back in a few, don't try anything!” He yelled as he made his way toward the door. Then, only slightly under his breath, “Pinche pendejo.”

The smile on Sweater-vest's face immediately dropped and he whirled around.

“Krijg de tering, vuile teringleier!”

The door slammed shut, the crack of metal against metal deafening in the sudden silence. And they were alone. Together.

Stan stared at the floor and clenched his fists, trying to calm his racing nerves. Did his best to keep his breathing even. Be still, not show weakness while also not challenging the man he was now alone with. He never thought he would ever actually miss Deeby's presence. But here they were.

“Brute.” Sweater-vest seethed under his breath as he sauntered back over to Stan. “Should've just put him out of his misery years ago, swear to God.”

Then his demeanor completely shifted once more as he stood over Stan. More professional, more cold, more demanding.

“Anyway, stand up, let me get a look at you.”

“Are you ‘The Guy?’” Stan blurted out before he had time to even realize he was doing it. Anything to break the sudden unbearable tension.

Sweater-vest tilted his head with a raised eyebrow and a small laugh. “The Guy?”

“Yeah…” Wow, suddenly he wished he never said anything. “The uh, the guy. You know the guy…” Stan's voice wavered as the man scrunch his nose at him. As if Stan was speaking an entirely different language. “Like. Like the guy. The guy who, uh, who…”

He took a deep breath, and blurted out “The boss guy who had me kidnapped!”

A brief pause. The man stared at him.

“No,” he snorted. “No, I'm not ‘the guy’, as you so eloquently put it. And your ‘guy’ is actually a lady, the lovely Ms. Lana who I mentioned earlier. And I'm Dr. Vaughn Verhulst, you can call me Vaughn. Pleasure to meet you.”

Stan shrank into himself slightly. “Oh…”

Again with the names. They made his skin crawl, like tiny ants crawling up and down his arms. The full name this time too, Dr. Verhulst. And Lana. Where had he heard that name before? Lana...

Stan didn't have time to ponder the question, though, as the man surged forward and reached down toward Stan's vulnerable neck, and Stan screeched and jolted back trying to get away.

But the man was surprisingly fast for a guy who could be mistaken for an office drone.

“Alright now, stand up.”

Then suddenly Stan was choking as the two fingers looped under his collar and dragged him upward, squeezing Stan's windpipe fully shut with Stan gasping and clutching at the collar trying to free himself and allow his body the sweet air it so desperately begged for the whole short distance up. And when he was finally standing and the collar loosened just slightly, Stan coughed and wheezed and tried to double over on himself to lessen the pain, if only the man wasn't still holding him straight up by the collar. He finally managed to get his own fingers under the collar just enough to pull it away from flush against his throat, his body shifting from world-shaking coughs and gasps for air to shuddering wheezes and shivers, and only then did he realize that Vaughn’s other hand wasn't just sitting idly by. No, instead it settled on his arms and ribcage, pressing into the tender bruised flesh that marred his entire body.

He felt a sudden sharp pain at his side and twitched away from it, only for a steadying hand to fall on straight onto another bruise on his waist and press in, clutch at it, holding him in place and sending jolts throughout his entire body that made him dizzy. All the breath left his body. He froze.

“What– What're you–?... Stop, let go…” It felt almost taboo to break the sudden stillness. He tried to pull away, but the grip on his collar just tightened, knuckles pressing harder into his neck as Sweater-vest continued to press into his side.

“Shhhhhh, dropje. Just let me do my work.”

“Your work?...” The hand pressed into his broken rib, and Stan yelped out and shoved the offending hand away from the tender area.

“STOP! Stop touching me! Stop!” Stan cried. This was too much. What was even happening here?

Vaughn's dark gaze fixed on the place that had made Stan cry out, calculating, jaw set. Stan withdrew into himself sightly before he remembered himself, and stared defiantly right back. Then the gaze drifted slightly lower, softening with an almost mischievous smile and a low hum before he finally, finally, looked Stan square in the eyes.

“Take your shirt off.”

Stan's heart turned to ice.

“WHAT?! No! You’re insane!”

Stan managed to rip free of his grip and launch backwards, only for his back to slam directly into the wall. Damn it. He saw stars, and the world rocked around him.

He pressed into it regardless, held his cuffed hands up in front of his torso as some sort of measly defense. “Get– Get away from me! I'm not taking my shirt off! You're crazy, get away!”

He scowled, then reached into his pocket with a deep sigh. A glint of steel gleamed in the light as Vaughn pull out a pair of very sharp-looking scissors and waved them lazily at Stan's chest.

“You are.” Sweater-vest stated simply. “I'm a doctor, dropje, I have to take a look at your body, make sure that ass didn't leave any lasting damage. You worry too much.”

Sweater-vest suddenly went to reach around his arms and get at the top button of his shirt, and Stan slapped them away, earning himself a glare from the man as he stepped closer once more and boxed him in completely.

“Stan… Schatje…” he spoke lowly, voice sickeningly sweet. The scissors drifted so close to his throat. “I'm going to make this so simple for you, yeah? I'm cutting your shirt off now. If you make things difficult, then your shirt won't be the only thing cut, got it?”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and tried to become so small. Small enough that the threat wouldn't see him anymore and he could run away and never have to deal with it again. This was insane. This was insane, right? This guy was insane!

“No, no, no, no, no, don't, get away from me, get away from me.” He tried to inject as much hissing venom as possible into the words, but they still didn't come out much above a squeaking, shaky whisper.

Vaughn reached for his top button, and though Stan pressed into the wall as much as he could, arms up and ready to strike at any moment, this time his fingers weren't stopped from undoing the top button. Then continuing down from there. Then he gently grabbed Stan's wrists and moved them downward and continued unfastening, all the way down until the front of his shirt was completely open, the cool air giving Stan goosebumps.

“Oh.” Vaughn said, almost to himself, running his finger over the strap of Stan's chest binder. “I didn't realize you were transgender, Stan.”

The swirling mass of thoughts in Stan’s head finally meet the one overwhelming his gut and crashing down upon him, breaking the fragile spell keeping him paralyzed.

“DEEBY! HELP!!” Stan cried out, loud as he possibly could. As if Deeby would ever help him. As if he would save him. All Stan knew was that in that very moment, he would prefer the physically abusive mercenary a hundred times over this guy, the guy who looked at him like a lion at an antelope, the man who feigned kindness, whose smile seemed just a bit too perfect, who made weird cryptic comments and who threw names around as if it didn't matter whether or not Stan knew them. As if Stan would never live to escape. As if the horrors Stan would endure were cursed to echo the walls in which they occurred, never to be heard by another soul.

“Oh calm down, Stanny, he's not going to come save you.” Vaughn dismissed, quickly pulling down the sleeve of his shirt and cutting it open down the seam, the quick repetitive snip snip snip of the scissors filling the room completely. Stan's weak attempts to slap away the scissors or otherwise stop his disrobing were all but brushed off by the ‘doctor.’ A quick but very intentional blade to the neck was all he needed to freeze Stan up and allow him to continue.

Very soon, Vaughn had the shredded fabric that used to make up Stan's shirt sprawled across the floor at their feet. Stan didn't even feel the coolness of the room goosebumping his skin anymore, not with the burning red in his cheeks and the again wandering hands of Sweater-vest to keep him unbearably warm.

He could scarcely breathe. His brain started to feel farther and farther away from his body. His hair was standing on end, shivers running throughout his entire body making him twitch. And he wondered if he should even put in the effort to ground himself. Maybe it would be easier if he was far, far away for all of this anyway.

“It's not like I care, Stan. It doesn't matter to me. I'll even let you keep your chest binder thing on, if that’d make you more comfortable... Hey.”

He snapped a few times in front of Stan's eyes, and Stan despairingly snapped back to reality. So close too. Just for Sweater-vest to smile his weird creepy smile at him. There was no way to misconstrue the malicious gleam in his eyes, the one that made Stan's own eyes go wide and his breath halt entirely as he stared into them. His other hand was on Stan's back now. He was practically holding Stan in a facsimile of a hug. Pressing in his lower back. Lower. Just a bit too low for comfort.

“I'm serious, I can work with that,” he reassured, hand now dipping under Stan's waistband, and before Stan could react, he pulled the captive in close to him, pressing his pelvis securely into Stan's lower stomach while brushing to closed blades of the scissors along Stan's jawline and up his cheek. “It's not what I was expecting, but it doesn't change what I'm going to do to you.”

And that's when Stan pulled back and punched him square in the jaw.

* * * * * * * *

Next

Taglist: @flowersarefreetherapy | @pirefyrelight | @cakeinthevoid

[olligator]

Help Annie a trans autistic disabled woma

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[greatandquestionablecontent]

"Leave the lights on." | Whumptober Day 8: Sleep Deprivation

Lexan's POV

"Leave the lights on," I say absently to whoever I could hear locking up for the evening. It should go without saying, but lately Raegan's been on closing shift and she doesn't know everything yet.

"I was planning on leaving you in the pitch dark," comes Livia's voice. "Could be good for your sleep."

A little something relaxes in me at the sound of her voice, and I remind myself to loosen my shoulders, inhale fully, stop crouching at the computer like that guy from Death Note.

Everyone knows this office never gets pitch dark. Even "turning the lights off" is really only turning off about half of them. We're not stupid. We've got backup generators upon backup generators, and solar lights, and lights with no off switch at all.

I lean back and stretch, pushing my arms back and sucking in air deeper and deeper as my binder and muscles strain until I hear several cracks in rapid succession. Perfect. A few twists to one side and the other bring several more satisfying crunches. I'm more careful with my neck -- I'm too familiar with how that can make it worse, even though I know I shouldn't be doing it at all -- as I tilt an ear to each shoulder for a couple crunch-crackles. I pop my elbows, then my knuckles, wrists, and a couple other joints in my fingers, just the ones that need it, not all of them.

I'm in the process of cracking my hips, which involves some unseemly leg spreading and pelvic wiggling, when Livia spins me around in my desk chair. I meet her eyes as I tug at my knee, eliciting a snap that I've never heard anyone else's hip do, and we both chuckle at the faux-sensual nature of it.

"You could be in the dark at my place," Livia says.

"I don't want to be in the dark at all."

"Even better. I wasn't gonna unplug my lava lamps for you anyway."

It's true that her unit of the townhome she shares with Jetlag is hardly the best place to be in even what passes for darkness around here. It's part of what makes evening in her room feel so otherworldly, the purple fairy lights and shifting bubbles from the lava lamps shining onto the walls, not to mention that I probably get a contact high just from breathing in there. I'm more tempted than I'd like by the thought of stretching out on her fuzzy rug and dozing off to the background sounds of her getting ready for bed...

I shift my jaw forward and out, but to my disappointment it doesn't snap, crackle, or pop this time. "I can't. I have to finish this infrastructure review before demo tomorrow."

"Didn't you already do an infrastructure review?" Lexan plucks my bottle of Excedrin off the desk and gives it a shake. Go figure she would remember how full it was last time she shook that thing. "Babe, no wonder you're not sleeping. When was the last time you took these?"

"Now?" I reach for it, unsurprised when she holds it out of my reach. "You're not my nurse. Give it."

"I prescribe some rest and relaxation. And ease up on the NSAIDs, you're gonna burn a hole in your stomach."

She's so predictable. It's nice, though. And maybe a part of me appreciates that someone gets what I'm putting myself through to keep this up. North with his pack a day habit and pull yourself up by your bootstraps mindset sure doesn't want to hear me complaining, and half of our staff doesn't even know why our work matters so much, so they see me as a neurotic workaholic with a stick up my ass. Which isn't to say that I'm not, but it's also not to say I don't appreciate some sympathy on occasion.

My face must have done something, because she sets down the bottle and reaches over to tuck a stray chunk of dirty blonde hair behind my ear. I avoid her gaze and bend my ankles to and fro, getting a couple tiny clicks out of one but not the other. "It's gonna be fine, Lex," she says.

"We don't know that."

She doesn't argue this. "Come back to it in the morning," she suggests instead. "You can get up in time to watch the sunrise. You weren't planning on staying in here another nine hours on your own, were you?"

"No," I admit.

It's been a while since I've managed to watch the sunrise, favoring late nights over early mornings lately. There was a while where I'd get up early enough to go for a long walk in the lavender mornings, climb up on the old drilling rig and watch the sun stretch out over the desert.

And then scramble back down and hurry back to the office building before anyone saw. We're not supposed to fuck with the old rig at all, but sometimes it's the only way anything feels real after two weeks of four hours a night of sleep. I kind of miss that feeling, when caffeine and adrenaline powered through the haze just enough that everything seemed bright and bitterly beautiful, but also distant enough to not be overwhelming.

These days, it all feels overwhelming. It feels like every morning and every evening I'm squinting up at something too big to fully see, and maybe that's why I miss climbing up so high that everything looks small.

"Sunrise," I repeat.

And as soon as I've decided I'm going home with her, the exhaustion hits. The mere process of saving my work and shutting down the computer feels momentous, and I don't know how I thought I'd fit in another couple hours without collapsing on the desk.

[whumpy-kitkat]

Does your whumpee have mommy issues? Are they hiding from someone/something? Do they need a place to stay while they recover?

And, most importantly, do they happen to be stranded in the middle of nowhere?

If thats the case im glad to anounce you that Kat's home for whumpees is open and ready to take in it's first guest!

[nothingenoughao3]

Is there a dream fanfiction project you've always wanted to tackle but haven't had the chance to yet?

Actually, uh, yeah, I do! I even have an esoteric title!

The dream project is called "a wonder and a terror", in reference to Keanu Reeve's answer for how it feels to grow old. I want to go back and revisit most of the worlds I used to visit in fanfic. That would include Final Fantasy 7, Sorcerer Hunters, Revolutionary Girl Utena, Hellsing, Slayers, Gensoumaden Saiyuki, Gundam Wing, Cowboy Bebop, Evangelion, Trigun, Gargoyles, and Generation X--aaaaaaaaall stuff I once obsessed over.

The thing is, I was writing/reading fic for those works when I was a teenager. And most of these works also feature teenagers, or very young adults. In a lot of cases, these shows are literally about child soldiers, or extremely young/inexperienced adults being forced to take on The Good Of The World.

The theme I'd take on in all these fics will be threefold:

What happens to child soldiers when the war ends and they grow up?

What happens to folks who thought they'd die on the battlefield who live long enough to experience aging?

What happens to characters who became powerful/famous under one gender identity who try to transition?

In addition to flipping characters' genders or their cis status, I plan on doing a LOT related to characters having chronic disabilities, physical as well as mental. And there will be a lot of shipping, many of it for ships I never explicitly wrote for in the past. (Specifically, I'm very glad that Barret/Cloud's time has come 'round at last.)

Some fics are already released on my account. "Entering King" is where I introduce the idea of trans man!Sanzo, which ties into some of the stuff I wanted to do for the Gensoumaden Saiyuki fics. My Gen X work is going to take place in the same canon already established here. Not a lot has been completed yet, but I do hold out hope that I'll get there!

[punkeropercyjackson]

I wish when people compared Katara and Percy Jackson they would actually COMPARE them instead of just making water powers jokes😭They literally have so much in common.They're both blue-coded,troubled but good kids turned even better adults rep,autistic,love their mom's so bad and their dad's that couldn't be there for a long time,are super mean and snarky and bitter yet equally kind and silly and sweet,punk,have tgirl swag(Katara's specific type of girlhood vibes and Percy's egg subtext that borderlines on just text)and act maternal as trauma coping but there's a really interesting parallel in that Katara's was adultification and parentification while Percy's mom friend tendencies come from breaking the cycle of abuse.I can't help but feel the only reason they don't really get compared is Katara's a girl so you guys think it means she can't be like Percy because that's a disqualifier for your sexist asses so she has to be a random female character you don't care either but pretend to for brownie points💀'Son of Poseidon' is about The Southern Raiders actually and i'm making her a blue food feast as we speak

@desi-pluto

[motherlove]

Transfem Caregiver Kokoa Yoshizaki．

Like & Reblog if used．

No Kin ／ ID ／ Me tags．

[pigeonwhumps]

Hospital stay

Immortal Cannon Fodder masterlist

Taglist: @extrabitterbrain @wolfeyedwitch @whumpinggrounds @painful-pooch

Whumptember day 28: "I never should have let it come this far" | failed hero | hospital stay | begging for help

Set in the future, when Phoenix has been with Kai's team a while. After being kidnapped together and tortured for, Phoenix and Aaron have been rescued, Kai injured while doing so.

Joseph belongs to @i-eat-worlds, from their story Alex and Friends. Please go read it if you haven't yet!

1.5k

CWs: immortal whumpee, hero whump, caretaker turned whumpee, trans whumpee, mentions of superpower overuse, mentions of waterboarding and whipping, past torture, medical setting, coma, low self-esteem, self-degradation, wish to have committed self sacrifice, something that could potentially come across as a death wish but isn't, past self sacrifice, emeto, past temporary character death, past whump reveal (I guess? Idk how to label it)

Phoenix blinks back tears as they watch Aaron, still and silent in the medbay bed in front of them. He's lying on his stomach, trailing with monitors and IVs and all manner of medical equipment, swathed in bandages. They should've done better. They should be there instead of Aaron, but their stupid healing factor, their immortality that's been so useful in the past, means that he was the one who almost died.

It's not fair. He could've escaped if it wasn't for them. But they're stupid and they failed, and now people are worried about them, too.

"They're definitely out of the coma?" whispers Phoenix to the nurse currently taking Aaron's vitals.

"Yes. Just asleep now. They're safe, everyone is."

"It's my fault."

"No. No, it's not, kiddo."

"It *is*. They used me to control him, he could've, um, escaped. And to check they were right. If I'd died quicker then he would've been less hurt, I should've, um, I should've–"

"Don't you dare. Don't you dare talk about yourself like that."

Phoenix blinks, then bursts into tears. The nurse is so fierce.

"Why do you care? Aaron's yours, I got him hurt, you should–"

A hand falls onto their shoulder. "Do you think that after what we've seen of you over the past few years, how much you've helped, how much you've hurt, do you honestly think that we wouldn't care for you too?"

Phoenix cries. They watch Aaron's too-still body and they cry. Everyone else shouldn't care. But as they watch the nurse tend to Aaron, they can't bring themself to point it out again.

"You're sure they'll, um, they'll be okay?"

"Yes. He's recovering nicely. They should be awake in about six to twelve hours."

They're still too bandaged, too still, too too too, too little Aaron in there. Phoenix tries to comfort themself with the thought that he'll be awake soon, but it doesn't help much. What if he doesn't want to see them again? It's all their fault. They're a failure of a hero, a useless, stupid–

"Hey. Whatever you're thinking, that's enough. Joseph's sent you another cat meme if you want a distraction. Are you in pain?"

The answer is yes, everywhere still aches and hurts whenever they shift (and when they don't), but they can't say that. They know why the nurse is asking. But they're a waste of resources and they deserve this anyway.

"No, sir."

"Are you saying no because you really aren't in pain or because you don't want painkillers? I have standing orders from Aaron to remind you that, although you can of course refuse medication, it's perfectly fine to take painkillers or anything else and it's not a waste of resources."

"I'm, um, I'm okay without, sir," murmurs Phoenix, unsure whether they want the nurse to call them out on it or not. She sighs knowingly.

"Alright. Let me know if you need any. Do you want to see Joseph's cat meme?"

Phoenix nods. "Please. And, um, can I move over to Kai's bed? It's, um, it's his turn."

"Of course."

The nurse fetches Phoenix's phone and wheels them over to Kai's bed, then adjusts their saline IV.

"We'll start you off trying to drink again soon. No water for a while yet though."

Phoenix nods, feeling a burning shame. There's no physical reason they can't drink, they're fine. But mentally...

Mentally, they've spent too long without Kai or Aaron reassuring them on anything, and they didn't realise just how much they relied on that. They're useless on their own.

They clutch Mr Frosty to their chest, smiling weakly at Joseph's new message and making sure to reply. They barely see it, but they know now that he'll worry if they don't answer for too long.

It's their daily cat photo. They don't know what they ever did to deserve Joseph.

They slide their phone onto their lap and sink their chin down onto Mr Frosty's head, observing Kai. He's unconscious too, but a lot of that's because he overused his powers. The medics weren't worried about his unconsciousness so much as the stab wound.

Kai looks peaceful. Phoenix isn't sure if that's true.

They look between their two best friends and guilt wells up inside them. Guilt, and grief for something unknown, bubbling over like an old stone well, overflowing and unstoppable. They've both been hurt, everyone's been hurt, because of them.

"I wish I'd been tortured instead of Aaron," murmurs Phoenix, stroking Mr Frosty's fur. "He didn't deserve it. But it's partly so I wouldn't have to watch, so maybe that makes me selfish. What do you think, Mr Frosty?"

"Mr Frosty thinks you shouldn't be so hard on yourself," croaks a voice from the closest bed, and Phoenix looks up, heart in their throat, to see Kai squinting at them.

"Kai! You're awake! Oh." They press a small red button on the side of Kai's bed. "The nurse said to call if you woke."

"How long have I been out?" he asks weakly, as Phoenix helps him with a sippy cup of water.

"A few days? Not entirely sure," they reply quietly. "I was unconscious too for some of it."

Kai tries to sit up, a concerned look on his face, but he can't manage it. "Are you okay? I thought you'd be healing faster, what's wrong?"

"Dehydration, mostly. I'm fine." Kai's gaze flickers pointedly to the IV line in their arm and back, and they sigh. Can't Kai ever miss anything? "I'm... struggling to drink, after... well. It's simpler this way." Phoenix hesitates, and then reaches out a hand hopefully, laying it on top of Kai's uninjured one. Kai turns his own over and squeezes it gently.

Kai's hand is rough, and warm, and large, and it fills Phoenix with relief, to be able to hold it again.

"Where's Aaron? How are they holding up? I don't remember that well but I'm pretty sure they were in bad shape."

Phoenix's eyes dart to the next bed, and Kai struggles in another fruitless attempt to sit up.

"He... he, um, he took the last whipping for me. After everything else he took it, I don't know why, I'm, um, I'm immortal, I'd have been fine, but he– anyway, they're, um, they're out of the induced coma now. Asleep. They're healing. I've, um, been switching between you."

Phoenix is dreading the point where they have to find out exactly how bad things are, how much Aaron hates them now, but they know they deserve it.

"Okay. Phoenix? Firstly, being whipped and waterboarded counts as torture, yes, to you too. Stop being mean to yourself."

Phoenix frowns. "How do you, um, know about the waterboarding?"

Kai squeezes their hand. "They sent videos. To anyone who might care that they had you both. Our team, Joseph, Electrocus, Aisling and Gemma... and Aaron's parents and Alicia. Nobody's told you, huh?"

Phoenix shakes their head, but everything's muted, like they're underwater. They're drowning and they have no idea how to come up for air.

They understand why no-one would tell them. Everyone knowing... that's far too much for their mind to hold.

They gasp, trying to grasp onto something, anything, looking for a lifeline their mind can hold. Everyone knowing...

And they don't even know how much.

"My... my parents?"

"No idea. We haven't contacted them, they haven't contacted us. If they know they're not saying. But no-one can share either of your identities further."

Phoenix takes a deep breath, trying to steady themself. This means Aaron doesn't know either.

Of course he doesn't. Of course he wouldn't. He hasn't woken since the rescue.

"Stop, um, stop trying to reassure me when you were stabbed."

"Then stop claiming you weren't tortured."

"Wasn't bad torture."

They were experiments anyway. That doesn't count as torture.

There's footsteps from behind Phoenix and they cower down, throwing their arm above their head even though it'll do no good. He's going to hurt them, he's going to stretch their limits and kill them and hurt Aaron and–

"Easy. It's just me, I'm here to check on Kai, breathe."

Phoenix does so obediently, blood rushing past their ears still but seeing the medbay as if from miles away, someone in a white coat entering their field of vision.

"Hello Kai," the voice says warmly. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

"Tell Phoenix there's no such thing as "not bad" torture."

"There isn't. But Kai, I asked about *you*."

"Thirsty, tired, sore. Not dying." He coughs. "What happened?"

"Let me check your vitals and monitors." There's a pause. Phoenix puts their head between their knees, trying to remember how to breathe. "You remember the rescue? Well, you got Phoenix and Aaron, but you had a dagger thrown in your back on your way out. You're damned lucky you were in wolf form. The healers patched you up, but you had a way to go on your own."

"And the others?"

"Lian's been in and out of sleep, Morfydd's in a sensory deprivation chamber, and Santhiya's recovering in a power-blocking room. You all overused your powers drastically, but you'll be okay."

The floor is mostly white with splatters of colour, swirling swirling splatter, and Phoenix throws up on the medbay floor.