#young whumpee tw

[unforgivenn]

16th HOUR — #5: Marked for sale

Masterlist/ Previous

CW: dehumanization, captivity, non-con medical procedures, implied threats of sexual violence, physical restraint, psychological torment

The room was stark, bathed in harsh white light that bounced off the gleaming surfaces and sterile instruments. The antiseptic smell was overpowering, mingling with the faint, metallic tang of blood that Samuel had begun to associate with his new reality.

Two technicians, masked and gloved, awaited him with cold, clinical efficiency. They moved with practiced precision, their expressions hidden behind masks, their eyes detached and impersonal.

"Strip," one of them ordered, the command devoid of emotion. Samuel hesitated, a flush of humiliation rising in his cheeks.

"W-What..?"

The technician's eyes narrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. "Now."

When Samuel only returned a glare, the technician sighed. He flinched as his hands were seized and his clothes were roughly removed, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. He tried to shield himself with his arms, but the guards were relentless, their hands unyielding as they forced him to the table.

"STOP! LET GO!!" His lips were trembling, his mind going insane with the thoughts of what they were going to do to him. "D-Don't do it please..."

This was it. They were going to do the thing he had been fearing since the moment he got here. He was going to be raped. Or maybe even worse.

The men laughed only adding to Samuel's confusion and his tears. "Hey now. There's no fun in having a used toy y'know. Your owner could do those things you have going on in your dirty little mind later."

"N-No.. I wasn't- I.." Samuel's cheeks flushed in embarrassed and he only continued struggling wishing that would somehow fit the hole of what he was trying to say.

One of the guards were going to smack him on the face, before the other stopped him. Samuel flinched, kind of surprised there was someone with even a tad bit of humanity left in them.

That innocent thinking was gone soon enough though when the other spoke to the guard.

"We need him to be in his best condition. I don't think he'll be looking presentable with a damn bruise on his face." He said with a scowl, which Samuel could make out was half directed towards him. The guard only rolled his eyes before forcing him on the table.

Restraints snapped around his wrists and ankles, pinning him down. He struggled, panic surging through him, but the bonds were unyielding.

The other technician approached with a handheld scanner, its screen flickering to life as it passed over Samuel's body. "Subject 42, S class," he read aloud, his tone monotonous. "Begin prep for auction."

Auction. The word sent a chill down Samuel's spine, a reminder of the dehumanizing fate that awaited him. He would be paraded before the highest bidders, reduced to a mere commodity in a world that saw him as less than human.

He had wanted nothing more than to kick these bastard's faces and ask them what the actual fuck was wrong with them? But now he was the one being asked these questions.

As the technicians began their work, Samuel's mind drifted back to his life before the classification, when he was simply Samuel—a boy with dreams, friends, and a future. The memories felt like fragments of a distant past, slipping through his fingers like sand.

One of the technicians roughly grabbed his arm, inserting an intravenous line with ease. The cool rush of fluids coursing through his veins brought him back to the present, a stark reminder of his reality.

"Hold still," the technician muttered, adjusting the flow. Samuel winced at the sharp sting, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as he fought to suppress the rising panic. He was determined to retain some sense of control, even in the face of overwhelming fear.

The other technician approached with a tray of instruments, their metallic surfaces gleaming ominously under the fluorescent lights. Samuel's breath hitched as he recognized some of the tools—restraints, measuring devices, and branding irons.

"Prepare the restraints," one technician instructed, his voice cutting through Samuel's thoughts. They moved with efficient brutality, securing his limbs to the cold metal frame that dominated the center of the room. Samuel's skin prickled against the unyielding surface, the restraints biting into his flesh.

He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms as he fought to keep his breathing steady. The technicians worked in silence, their actions methodical and detached, their faces masks of indifference.

"Subject 42, ready for inspection," one of them announced, stepping back to assess their work. Samuel lay splayed on the table, his body exposed and vulnerable, a living testament to the cruelty of the system that had condemned him.

The door to the room opened with a hiss, and a figure entered—a man in a tailored suit, his presence exuding an air of authority. Samuel's pulse quickened as the man's gaze swept over him, appraising him with a calculated detachment.

"Excellent," the man said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. "He'll fetch a high price."

Samuel's stomach churned, bile rising in his throat. He was being evaluated like livestock, his worth determined by the whims of those who saw him as nothing more than property. The indignity of it all burned within him, a simmering rage that threatened to consume him.

The man approached, his fingers brushing over Samuel's branded skin, tracing the letters that marked him as property. Samuel fought the urge to recoil, his muscles tensing under the man's touch.

"Don't worry," the man said, his voice a mockery of reassurance. "You'll find a good home. Someone will take care of you."

Samuel's eyes blazed with defiance, a fire that refused to be extinguished. "I'm not a pet," he spat, the words laced with venom. "I'm a person."

The man chuckled, a low, condescending sound. "Not anymore," he replied, his tone dripping with arrogance. "You're whatever we say you are."

The technician injected something into Samuel's IV line, and a wave of dizziness washed over him. His vision blurred, the edges of the room growing hazy as the sedative took effect. He struggled to hold onto consciousness, to maintain his grip on reality, but it slipped through his grasp like water.

As the world faded to black, Samuel clung to a single, burning thought—a promise to himself and to the others who suffered alongside him. He would survive. He would endure. And one day, he would reclaim his humanity from those who sought to strip it away.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Samuel awoke in a dimly lit room, the sterile white replaced by a more subdued, yet equally oppressive, atmosphere. His head throbbed, the remnants of the sedative lingering in his system. He tried to move, but the restraints held him firmly in place.

He was no longer alone. The figures whispered among themselves sending shivers down Samuel's spine.

"Look at this one," one of them said, his voice dripping with curiosity. "Quite a specimen, isn't it?"

Another figure approached, leaning over Samuel with an appraising gaze. "Indeed. It'll be a popular choice."

He didn't know what was more scary. The fact that these people were calling him an 'it' or the fact these people were staring at him like they were ready to tear him apart.

Samuel's heart raced, panic rising in his chest. He was being inspected, evaluated like a piece of merchandise. The reality of his situation settled over him like a suffocating blanket, each breath a struggle against the crushing weight of despair.

The figures moved with unsettling precision, their hands tracing over his body, noting every detail. Samuel clenched his jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

"Prepare him for display," one of them ordered, stepping back. "The auction is about to begin."

Samuel's stomach churned at the words. Display. Auction. He was about to be paraded before a crowd of potential buyers, his fate determined by the highest bidder. The thought made him sick, a wave of nausea washing over him.

They worked quickly, removing the restraints and lifting him onto his feet. Samuel's legs wobbled, weakened by the drugs and the strain of his ordeal. He stumbled, but a firm hand caught him, steadying him with a rough grip.

"Stand up straight," the figure commanded, their tone harsh and unforgiving. "You need to make a good impression."

"And if I don't?" The words slipped past his lips before he could realize. The man only leaned in close to his ear, and Samuel couldn't suppress the flinch that went through him.

"Well then, we have some other measures to make you listen as well. Surely you wouldn't like your head to be dipped underwater continuously until you become obedient, would you?" What scared Samuel more was the smile maintained on the man's face while he spoke.

Samuel gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand tall despite the trembling in his limbs. Just how sadistic were each one of these bastards?

They dressed him in simple, clean clothes and moisturized his skin making it glow. The fabric felt foreign against his skin and the moisturizer only itched him. They groomed him meticulously, every detail attended to with an almost obsessive precision.

His hands were tied behind his back, and his ankles were snapped with cuffs tight enough so that he could walk but wont be able to run.

"It's ready," one of them said, stepping back to admire their handiwork.

"I'm not an 'it'"

"Shush. Now listen. You will keep your head down throughout the auction. You will only speak when spoken to. You will not struggle or fight. You will not be defiant. And you will behave. If we get any trouble because of you, I swear to gods I will make you regret it."

What the lady said basically went through one ear and out the other. Before he could question anymore, he was pushed to a large wooden door.

What was up with these people and their obsession with pushing?

The door opened, and Samuel was led down a corridor lined with ornate decorations that seemed out of place in such a grim setting.

They reached a set of heavy curtains, the barrier between Samuel and his uncertain future. He could hear the murmur of voices beyond, the eager anticipation of those who awaited the auction.

His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the blood rush to his ears. He was on the bound of a panic attack. After going through so much, now he was scared?

The man beside him gave a final, appraising look before nodding. "Do as you're told, and you might just survive."

Samuel swallowed hard, his mouth dry with fear. The curtains began to part, revealing the crowd beyond. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his breathing steady steeling himself for what lay ahead.

As the curtains fully opened, the auctioneer's voice boomed through the room, welcoming the eager bidders. Samuel stepped forward, the weight of a thousand eyes upon him, each one assessing, judging, determining his worth.

One day, he would reclaim his freedom from the chains that bound him. For now, he would play their game, but he would never forget who he truly was.

The auction had begun, and Samuel's fate hung in the balance, but his spirit remained unbroken, a beacon of resilience in the face of overwhelming darkness as bids began storming in.

Next

Reblogs are appreciated

PS- Guys, I'm actually really busy nowadays, and my writing asks have been storming in. Especially for BTBH. Asks are still open, and I will be answering those asks, but I can't confirm that it'll be soon.

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[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw age gap, implied kidnapping, implied torture, intimate whumper, power dynamic 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

They glanced at the doorway, a cigarette between their full, pink lips. They raised an eyebrow and smirked at Whumper, blowing out a cloud of smoke before replying, “What makes you think I have a bedtime?” 

Whumper smiled and leaned against the wall next to them. Leaving enough distance between them to be casual. “I don’t mind,�� they said, not answering the question. “I mean, we do all ages shows for a reason. I think it’s great for kids to see live music.” 

Big, innocent eyes narrowed into a glare. “I’m eighteen, actually. But thanks for your concern.” 

Oh, this one was going to be fun. “Sorry, you just look young is all. Didn't mean to insult you—maybe we could start over? I’m Whumper.” 

“I know, I came to see your band.” Another drag on their cigarette. “I’m Whumpee.” 

Whumpee. The name suited them perfectly. Whumper could imagine saying it tauntingly as they did horrible things to Whumpee. Or whispering it as they comforted them afterwards. Whumper didn’t expect to be so lucky tonight. “Well, Whumpee,” they said, testing it out. “I haven’t seen you at any shows before, but you seem cool. There’s an after party at my place if you wanna come.” 

The kid looked hesitant. “I don’t know, I have class in the morning.” It wasn’t a no. 

They watched Whumpee stub out the cigarette on the wall behind them and flick it over the porch railing into the grass. They imagined lighting one of their own just to put it out on Whumpee’s skin. They would probably scream so beautifully as it burned into their wrist or their neck. Delicate, unmarked skin. Oh, Whumper was going to have so much fun breaking them. “Your call,” they said with a shrug before closing the space between them. “But I'd really like it if you were there.” 

Whumpee looked up at them, visibly nervous but making no move to back away. “Yeah?” they breathed, seeming to catch the unspoken implication in Whumper’s statement. 

The other people milling around outside paid them no attention as Whumper placed one of their hands on the kid’s cheek, cold from the winter air. Their nose was red, too—how cute. “Yeah—come party with the rockstars. I promise you’ll have a good time, honey.” 

What Whumper didn’t mention was that once Whumpee made it to their house, they wouldn’t be leaving. Not for a very long time, at least. 

“Okay. I'll come,” Whumpee agreed without much convincing. God, they were easy.  

Whumper smiled, tucking Whumpee’s hair behind their ear. Fingers ghosted down their neck, picturing a collar around it. Imagining how that sweet, young face would look covered in tears. “Awesome. Let me pack up my equipment and then we’ll get going.” 

[the-sidekick-club]

Enemy of my Enemy is my Kid!

Part 1 : Part 2 : Part 3 : Part 4 : Epilogue

@heroes-villains-side-blog★​​@tratieisdabest★@just-a-space-rabbit​​  

TW:Choking, Physical abuse, Toxic relationship, Emotional manipulation, Emotional abuse

❘〣❘〣❘★ Enemy of my enemy: Epilogue ★❘〣❘〣❘

“Did you get it?” was the first thing Kim heard as they entered the dark office. 

‘Shit, he's already angry…’ they thought as they noticed Vulcan’s tall silhouette waiting for them by the window. Kim did not answer as they closed the door behind them, bracing themself for the meeting ahead. 

It was a cold office, and everything just felt… sharp. All the items felt calculated down to the inch of their placement and nothing was allowed to be without purpose. 

There were several objects of notoriety, mostly stolen art or older relics, some of which Kim themself had stolen in Vulcan’s name. But there were other relics of importance too; some inspiration for Vulcan, who was always drawn to the power that ancient empires once had. It took someone with real skill or power to steal things of this caliber. 

The whole room was a mix of cold metal and royal purple, a shade chosen after spending far too many hours comparing fabrics and paint samples. Normally, it would have been a stark contrast to Kim’s green and earthly colored clothing, but not today; Vulcan had demanded they wear their suit for this mission, making them almost match the room, and Vulcan himself.

Kim silently walked up to the long desk in the middle of the office, before placing the secured case on it and finally answering, “I was able to get the E.G.G., but—” 

“But what?” Vulcan interrupted coldly, yet calmly. 

As he began moving closer, his two-tailed cape began to flick dangerously behind him. Kim knew, just by the way he was controlling his cape, that they were treading into dangerous territory. But there was no going back, so they held their ground. 

“But I was unsuccessful in gaining the notebook and all the needed blueprints—”

Before Kim could finish their sentence, Vulcan's cape had moved faster than Kim could react. It wrapped itself tightly around them and pinned them hard to the wall. 

“Dragonfly hid most of the blueprints!” Kim began to yell out in panic. “He would only show one or two pages at a time!” 

Vulcan did not loosen his grip. “Kim! I gave you ONE task! How could you fail me like that!”

“I’m sorry!” Kim said desperately. 

“Sorry?” His voice was fairly calm, but filled with more rage than Kim had ever seen before. “Kim, without those notes and blueprints YOU have set us back years!” 

“He was suspecting us. All of us!” Kim answered in a panting voice as Vulcan’s grip kept tightening, “I never got more than one chance to look at—'' everything was starting to go black as Kim continued “I… g.. ot… so-s… me pi… c… tu… rs.'' They gasped as Vulcan finally let them go, and they fell to the floor with a thud.

“Pictures? Pictures of what?”

Kim was still gasping for air, as Vulcan kneeled down in front of them, their eyes still filled with danger. “Of Andaka's notebook…” they answered him, “where he talked about the theory of the E.G.G.’s activation process.”

“Show me,” he said, calmer than before, but Kim knew as they took out their phone that his anger might come back. Vulcan snatched the phone out of Kim’s hand and began looking through the borderline blurry photos. 

Although it seemed the photos had been taken in a hurry, there was no doubt about it: these were photos of Andaka’s notebook. 

Kim continued talking as Vulcan transferred the photos over to his computer, and began looking into them further. “I tried to search for the notebook after getting the E.G.G., but it was all destroyed when I got back to it, and then the agency was closing in on me—I had to leave!” The sorry tone was still within their voice, but it seemed no longer necessary. 

“Enough…” Vulcan said calmly and Kim immediately stopped talking, not that they wanted to talk more, as they still felt the phantom pain from the tight grip. Their eyes wandered to the floor, and they hoped that they would get the order to leave soon. 

However, looking up in response to the sound of the blinds coming down, which left the room almost totally dark, their hope for escape dwindled, as the images were projected onto the holo screen. Clearly, Vulcan wanted to study every photo closer first, so Kim had to wait. 

The pages were filled with scribbles and notes, seeming to have built up over the years. From what they could tell, it seemed Andaka kept returning to a few specific pages more than the others. 

Two of the pages seemed to be showcasing the activation process, which seemed to have been the task taking the most of Andaka's time to figure out. 

The other two were even harder to decipher, being more blurry than the rest. But Vulcan could make out that the two pages were detailing the E.G.G. in use. “Looks like old Andaka cracked the code,” he said, his voice laced in something akin to awe, “so he figured out the theory on how to separate Aura, and how to lower the E.G.G.’s power levels. But he was unable to stabilize it at a safe extraction level... ” 

The last of the pages had a sketch of what seemed to be the power-repressing gem Desolite, there were scribbles around it, one in an older black, and another in red; clearly this was important if the professor had decided to come back to it. Unfortunately, or fortunately, Vulcan was unable to read the blurry photograph. “Now, why did Andaka write about Desolite?” he asked himself, before turning to Kim for an answer. 

“That was what I was trying to find out,” Kim said in a weak voice, “but then Dragonfly almost caught me and I never got a chance to take a second look…”

“Well, then…at least these pictures are more than enough!” Vulcan said, his demeanor a sharp contrast to the Vulcan who had berated Kim just minutes earlier. “With this, we can start everything. I knew you were the right person for this mission, good job, kid.” He walked over and lifted Kim up into his arms. “I’ll take you down to the med bay. After that, you can take the rest of the day off—you deserve it.” He spoke in a kind and soft voice. “Then, tomorrow, you're going to tell me all about the things you did not get photos of."    

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Part 4 : Master List

Master List : Character list

[moremysteriesthantragedies]

12. 17. 20. and 19. For book one Quince? Yes, I know , its painful, but the people need to do. Thank you very much, lovely.

12. What is your least favourite punishment?

"Well, I don't think anything can beat Jetta's whippings. Yet, being forced to pray afterward, only to have no one answer, somehow hurts even more."

17. Do you ever feel unwanted? By whom?

"Does anyone really want me? In general, I mean. I know my old friends don't, but, that was my own fault really...And then there's Bradi. We relate because neither of us is wanted, but, that doesn't necessarily mean he wants me, especially not how I want him to, anyway."

20. When was your first punishment? How bad was it compared to what’s happened since?

"I was sixteen, I think, when my dad gave me my first cigarette burn. But, he'd punished me long before that, despite my mother's efforts. And she really did try, so please, don't blame her. I know I don't."

19. Are you ever able to have a moment to yourself?

"In this company? Never truly. Beth is always around, waiting to bother me about my lack of desire or tell me something inane about one of his partners. Sigh. He never does shut up, does he?"

Thanks for the ask! 🖤

Ask Game

[cakeinthevoid]

Blinks

Whumptober No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”

Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.” (2, 3)

Content: Unreliable narrator, isolation, manipulation, young MC, pretending to look unwell and then actually maybe being unwell lmao, mental shenanigans, lab whump

This is a scene that could exist in the very beginning of Lora's confinement—after Dr Abberron takes her off the street and into his super secret super cool research lab. Lora is human (at this point in time...) More of a prompt fill than heavy lore, but I think it does actually set the stage decently.

Lora missed the moon. The sun too, of course, but there was something about a clear night sky of stars and a glowing moon that calmed her soul. 

She needed calm right now. She refused to go crazy. 

“I’m not crazy.”

Talking out loud didn’t make her crazy.

“I’m not crazy.”

Otherwise it was just too quiet. 

She looked up at the camera in the corner of her cell. She only had to tilt her head back an inch; she was sitting against the far wall, and the camera was in the corner above the solid glass cell door. Its red light blinked lazily and she wondered if it caught audio.

“Can you hear me?”

She hadn’t been here long enough to know. She had only seen Abberron a handful of times since the night she was a complete idiot. 

Rule one of being a street kid: don’t trust kind strangers. Too bad she was desperate.

“I hate you.”

The red light kept blinking. 

—

When Lora woke up to a pile of assorted food bars and water bottles, she began to entertain the notion that Abberron was testing her. Or trying to break her. 

She could fake the latter—she had experience, after all—but the former? That was harder without knowing what he was testing. She had a few guesses though. 

See, contrary to all recent evidence, Lora wasn’t stupid. Wasn’t completely stupid, anyway.

So she made a plan. She would ration approximately, in case she was completely wrong and Abberron was just leaving for a few days and didn’t want her to die in the meantime. Then she would wait a day or two before snapping. It had to be realistic. 

She was going to get out of here. She glared at the camera. The red light blinked on. Then she settled back and entertained herself by seeing how high she could toss her pillow and catch it. It was actually a little fun. 

—

She was reciting knowledge from her science class when she suddenly noticed there was no red light. Her words trailed off. 

“Hello?” She tried. Silence.

Just part of the test, she tried to reassure herself. She still had some food and water left. 

Pulling her eyes away from the camera took more effort than usual. 

—

Lora realized she didn’t actually have a sense of time anymore. The lights in the ceiling never turned off. They only flickered every now and then. 

Distantly, she thought about counting the amount of flickers. It was something to do. 

—

The red light came back on when she woke up. It blinked as slowly as ever. 

She tried talking to it for a bit. Nothing happened.

—

Two sleeps after she was down to her last food bar, she considered the possibility that Abberron was dead. 

At least a week must’ve passed already? She had heard of the effects of long term isolation before. She researched it after her first few stints in the closet. Rarely were people able to say exactly how long they were alone. 

At least this room had light. Her descent into madness would be sure and quick if the lights went out. 

They won’t, they won’t—

“They won’t, they won’t, they won’t,” she muttered aloud, rocking herself. 

Snap out of it, said a voice inside. Why did it sound funny? 

She laughed. Maybe she wouldn’t need to fake insanity anymore—

No, she straightened, face sobering. The plan, remember the plan. She looked up. The light was still blinking. If she looked at it long enough, she could imagine a one-eyed ghost blinking at her. 

Sometimes she thought the room would get colder out of nowhere when she did that, but ghosts aren’t real, so it had to be Abberron testing her. 

Sometimes the walls looked different too, if she looked at them hard enough. She swore she saw constellations on them. 

The stars, oh she missed the stars. She looked up at the sun and wished it would set already. 

“Poof.” It didn’t work. 

It was hot, and now she was thirsty. Not a single cloud for rain, but she was sure she had water—

Water bottle. She had a water bottle because there was no other source of drinkable water. She didn’t trust the water pipe or toilet in the corner. Because she wasn’t home, she wasn’t even outside. 

Her head hurt. It’s been too long. Moments of lucidity were becoming far too few and far between. She needed to do this while she was in control. 

She trembled—she wished she was faking that, but she could use it to her advantage. 

She grabbed the unopened food bar within arms reach and brandished it, staring at nothing. 

“Stop it,” she said firmly. There was nothing there, but in the corner of her eye the red light was blinking.

“Stop it,” she said louder. 

Her hand shook with the force she was gripping the bar.

“Go away!” She threw the bar—it hit the glass paneling and fell to the floor. 

“Stop it!” She shrieked, backing away and pressing herself to the far wall. 

“Stop it—make it stop!” She looked up at the camera sharply, hoping that Abberron was watching. 

“Please—make it stop!” She pleaded with the camera. Then she looked back down and jumped in a calculated flinch, as if whatever she saw was closer.

“Get back! Make it stop, please make it stop—“ her eyes darted between the space in front of her and the camera. Her heart was genuinely racing to her surprise. 

She begged and pleaded with the camera, to no avail. So she pushed herself to the corner and curled up there, pulling at her greasy curls. 

“It’s not real, it’s not real,” she chanted to herself. She faked some winces in time with her pulls. The easiest part was the staring. She had gotten very good at staring at nothing for long periods of time. 

She didn’t know how long she kept up the charade. She knew at one point, it stopped being a charade, because she was shaken back into her body—Abberron had his hands on her shoulders. She could feel the rumble of his baritone but no words. 

She flinched back violently, swatting him away and knocking her skull against the grey concrete walls. 

“There you are,” she heard once the ringing in her ears faded. “Can’t leave you alone even for a few days, it seems.”

Her eyes widened. There was no way that was a few days. It felt like weeks, if not months.

“No matter,” he sighed, “At least we can get started today now that preparations are done. Come now, don’t make that face. Can you honestly tell me you would rather be on the streets?”

Yes, Lora thought, but couldn’t form the word. 

At least she was never truly alone out there. Here, she realized a part of her desperately needed Abberrons presence, lest she go mad in isolation. 

Abberron stood up, holding out a hand. “Let’s go. We have a busy day ahead of us.”

Lora didn’t take the hand, but stood up on her own accord. She would persevere. And she would get out whole. 

[oliversrarebooks]

chemical imbalance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I see."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why are you fighting so hard? they asked.

The answer was always the same.

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

Incoherent nonsense. The poor, confused thing.

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

"About a quarter star turn."

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

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

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

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

"And how do you normally soothe it?"

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

"You say it was easily controlled before?"

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

"How close is its consciousness to the surface?"

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

"Has it ever become fully awake?"

5X2 hesitated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course, doctor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Truly? What is it?"

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

"And that is?"

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

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

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

"Is there a cure?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I need to wake up!" 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finally.

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

Fun... pretty...

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

Feels... hazy...

And isn't that good?

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

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

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

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

"That sounds perfect."

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

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

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

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

"It worked," said 5X2 in awe.

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

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

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

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

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

Masterlist

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

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

[chaotic-orphan]

Delirious Villain x Hero Caretaker (5)

Read part one here // Continued from here

Heed the TW (and mind yourselves please <3):

TW: emotional abuse, physical abuse, mental abuse, vomiting, forced vomiting, violence, elements of psychosis, psychosis episode-like symptoms, vulnerable whumpee, intimate whumper, older brother whumper, young sibling whumpee, gaslighting, manipulation, sick whump, sickness whump, illness whump, reuniting with whumper, PTSD, facing whumper who gave PTSD, bad family relationships,

~*~*~*~*~*~

Villain eyed Superhero wearily. Despite all their training, all their progress, Superhero had a height and weight advantage over Villain. His broad shoulders stood proud, supporting his stupid head, with his smirk that made Villain’s stomach crawl. They needed to get out of here, to get help.

They wouldn’t make it to the door in the condition they were in, so that was out of the question. His eyes flicked to the couch where he was asleep not a few minutes ago, which felt like a lifetime now. He couldn’t see his phone. He needed to call Hero, but maybe it was tangled in the blankets?

“I can see the cogs turning, Vil,” Superhero said with a happy sigh. “If you’re hoping that your precious Hero comes to save you in time, don’t. They’re too busy saving someone worth saving.”

“Shut up!” Villain growled, pushing at Superhero’s chest with their free hand. “Get off of me!”

Superhero chuckled, tsking and shaking his head at Villain’s outburst. Villain’s heart didn’t forget to beat after that, the guilt at his Brother’s disappointment didn’t still affect him. It didn’t.

“Where are your manners, Vil? Jeez, does Hero just let you run wild? That must be so annoying for them.”

“Hero loves me.”

Superhero leaned in, dark eyes glittering with malice. “Oh yeah? Then why aren’t they here looking after you?”

Villain’s face scrunched up. “Because you sent them away!”

“Or are they just so tired with you that they had to get out of the house for a while. It seems like the latter to me. God, I remember how annoying you were. Nobody, not even Hero has enough patience to handle you.”

“Hero loves me,” Villain said again, this time a little quieter.

“No. They don’t. They probably just feel sorry for you and how pathetic you are. Like a wounded baby bird whose wings are too weak to make it fly.”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore! You don’t have to interact with me on a daily basis! Please let me go. Please, Brother, please.”

Superhero pressed a finger to his lips. “Shush. No begging yet, Vil. It’s unbecoming.”

Without warning, Superhero yanked Villain off the wall and was about to throw him to the floor when the pair froze. Villain’s ringtone played mutely from the bedroom. Villain’s eyes widened.

Hero.

Superhero recovered quicker than Villain, a cruel grin on his face as he started dragging Villain towards the bedroom. He got a hand on the back of Villain’s neck and shoved him down so Villain had to walk awkwardly bent over. Superhero opened the door to the bedroom and saw the phone lighting up on the bed.

He threw Villain to the ground beside the bed, laughing as Villain stumbled before he hit the floor with a groan, grabbing Villain’s phone off the bed.

“Aww, Vil. It’s Hero. Probably calling you to tell you that they’re leaving you.”

“Shut up,” Villain hissed, rubbing their hip that took the brunt of the impact.

Superhero turned Villain’s phone to Villain so they could see the picture of Hero laughing, ice-cream in hand, a dollop of mint chocolate chip on the tip of their nose.

“Cute,” Superhero said with a scoff, then put his finger in his mouth and mimed vomiting. Superhero waited for Hero to hang up before scrolling through Villain’s phone. Superhero raised their brows, glancing at Villain over the phone. “You seriously don’t have a passcode or something?”

“Don’t need it.”

Superhero scoffed, turning his attention back to the phone. Villain moved to get to their feet when Superhero’s stare snapped to them. “Don’t move or I’ll kill Hero.”

That froze Villain in their movements, their heart hitching at Superhero’s easy threat. Superhero didn’t seem too bothered by it and soon his face split into a wide smile.

“Aww, look Vil. Hero text: Superhero,” Superhero paused, grinning down at Villain pointing to himself. “That’s me.” Then went back to reading. “Superhero said that he was short staffed, and sent me to West-point so I will be home later than usual. Sorry for leaving you again, there’s soup in the freezer if you feel up to it. I love you. xx.”

Villain tightened their hands into fists by their sides, clenching their jaw against every word that Superhero read. Hero was going to be home later than normal? West-point, that was at least an hour by metro from here and who knows when they’d get home… especially because—

Villain raised their gaze to Superhero who was grinning above them. “You weren’t short-staffed, were you?”

“Of course not,” Superhero said with a smirk. “I just had to get Hero away from you for a while. Hell, even Other Hero and Sidekick should’ve gone to central hospital but I asked for them to be transferred to West-point so we could have some long overdue family time.”

Superhero tapped on Villain’s phone a little longer and grinned after locking the screen, pocketing the phone in his back-pocket. “Just in case you get any ideas.”

Villain glared at him from the ground, a sudden overwhelming helplessness returning to him that he hadn’t felt since he was a kid. Since he moved out of his family home. Now it came back with a viciousness that threatened to drown him and left him clawing against it just to keep his head above the water and his breathing even.

“Now,” Superhero said, inspecting Villain with his piercing gaze. “What to do with you.”

“Just leave,” Villain tried. “Please. I don’t— I’m not apart of your life anymore. You don’t— you don’t have to do this.”

“Vil, Vil, Vil,” Superhero sighed walking towards Villain. “Family doesn’t quit on each other. They never give up on you. I know I don’t have to try and fix you, the truth is I never did. I just wanted what was best for you.”

“Yeah right! You just wanted what was best for you! Can’t have your little brother embarrass you in public!”

Superhero, to Villain’s surprise, softened at that. Villain didn’t trust it for a second.

“You’re right,” Superhero said with a breath. “I was so worried about what kind of shame or embarrassment you would bring on me. I didn’t want people associating failure with us.”

Superhero crouched in front of Villain, tilting his head to the side. A strange smile on his lips, that Villain couldn’t quite discern. It looked whimsical and yet sad, wait— was that a genuine smile? No. It couldn’t be.

“It’s because I saw our potential, Villain,” Superhero said with a scoff. “Y’know, it’s stupid, but when I worked so hard to be Superhero, to become the best and bring prestige to our family name… well, I pushed you hard too because I always imagined that it would be something that we’d do together. Something we’d achieve together. The best brother Superhero duo in history.”

Villain’s heart cracked a little, a swarm of guilt spilling out like a leak in a dam, constricting his chest. Villain longed to reach out, to close the distance between them to apologise for not being able to live up to Superhero’s expectations.

To tell him that Villain tried. He really fucking tried, but Superhero was always stronger, faster, better than he was and he couldn’t be the same.

He didn’t though. He tightened his hands into fists and stared at Superhero who looked six feet deep in fond memories and regrets.

“I’m sorry, Vil.”

It felt as if time stopped. As if the Earth stopped turning, and the world stood frozen. The moment right before a car crash, or something inevitable happening; the cusp that hides between moments like a trapdoor spider, waiting until you lowered your guard before attacking and killing you.

Villain’s voice was a whisper: “what?”

Superhero swallowed, forcing himself to meet Villain’s gaze. “I’m sorry, Villain.”

There was no joke or humour in Superhero’s face as he said that, again. Apologised? Again! But— but— Villain’s brain was fried from their flu because this must be another trick? Another hallucination. Superhero being sorry for something? Feeling remorse?

“I’m sorry about what happened on the outside, how people perceived us, what you said and did outside the house that I didn’t even think about how it all must’ve effected you. I’m sorry that I wasted all that time trying to correct your behaviour outside the house when really,” Superhero’s hand shot out like a viper to grab Villain by the throat, slamming him back against the wall. “Really I should’ve focused more on your manners and knowing your fucking place.”

Superhero stood, bringing Villain with him and threw him across the room. Villain tried to catch themselves before their face hit the wall by throwing their hands out, but they landed awkwardly on their wrist and the pain ricocheted down their arm. Villain hissed, retracting their arm but they didn’t have time to react before a hand was in their hair and bashing their skull against the wall.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Villain went dumb from the impact, their brain struggling to comprehend what was happening, but the pain. They felt the pain spread like wildfire through their skull.

The hand in their hair tightened and Villain cried out as they were dragged across the bedroom, back towards the kitchen. They tried to gain purchase on the ground with their knees, but Superhero was moving too fast for them to keep up.

Superhero paused two feet from the doorway. Villain didn’t know why, they just slumped to the ground like a dog in shade during a heatwave. They just needed to catch their breath. Or pass out. Either was a good option.

Superhero didn’t seem to think so. He lifted his hand suddenly, dragging Villain’s head up to look Villain in the eye. Villain hissed, hands clawing at the strong grip on his hair. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat, slamming his head back into the wall.

Villain groaned at the impact, moving his hands to try and dislodge Superhero’s hand from his throat. “God. You really are pathetic, aren’t you? Did I not teach you anything?”

Superhero stepped back, dropping all contact from Villain who struggled not to slump down the wall to the floor.

Superhero took two steps back, running a hand down his face, pinning Villain to the wall with a harsh glare. Villain’s entire body was trembling at them, struggling to keep themselves up in case they needed to bolt. But Superhero’s eyes caught every tremor, every flinch or wince.

“You’re still fucking ruining everything. It’s all you ever do, isn’t it?”

“Fuck off.”

“You really don’t know, do you? You make people weak, Villain.” Villain froze at the emotion colouring Superhero’s voice. “You make people weak, because they feel like they need to look after you, or take care of you. For fuck’s sake, you can barely stand by your-fucking-self! You needed Hero to take days off of work to mind you while you were sick, like some fucking child! Do you know how embarrassing that is!”

“My life doesn’t concern you anymore,” Villain spat, tears pinpricking their eyes.

Superhero scoffed. “Doesn’t concern me?”

Superhero studied Villain’s face, the wince after Superhero spoke. Then recognition flashed on his face, putting two and two together.

“You didn’t tell Hero that we’re related,” Superhero said, tilting his head to the side, a smile gracing his lips at Villain’s silence. “Oh that is… that is hilarious. The person you love the most? You’re keeping secrets from them?”

“We are not related,” Villain said, their voice coming out stronger than they felt in that moment. “You are nothing to me. I left you and Mom, and Dad. I left. I made a life for myself, a life where I’m loved by somebody. Why can’t you be happy for me?”

“What, you think Hero actually loves you?”

Villain flinched at the words. “Oh you do, don’t you?” Superhero cooed, walking towards Villain again and grabbing their face in his hands. “Oh. You poor fucking idiot. You have no idea how much Hero hates you, do you?”

Villain’s eyes glistened with tears. Superhero slammed Villain’s head back into the wall.

“Do you?”

“Just leave… leave me alone,” Villain begged, tears finally spilling over his eyes. “Please.”

Villain’s hand reached up and curled his fingers around Superhero’s wrist, weakly tugging at it.

“I can make them love you again,” Superhero whispered. “I know how. I can make you worth something in their eyes, isn’t that what you want?”

Villain sniffled, nodding. Superhero cooed, brushing the sweaty hair back from Villain’s face. “I know. I know you’re scared, but big bro’s here now, hmmm? Come on.”

Superhero pulled Villain away from the wall gently, taking Villain’s wrist in his hand. “Come on.”

“Where are we—” Villain asked, their voice hitching, wiping away their tears with the sleeve of their shirt. “Where’re we going?”

Villain’s mind only registered they were walking towards the bathroom when Superhero opened the door. Then they started pulling against Superhero’s hold.

“No! No, no, no, no, no!” Villain cried, going limp and yanking backwards. Superhero dropped Villain, cursing at them for the sudden weight. Villain took the opportunity to roll onto their stomach, pushing themselves to their hands and knees and rushing forwards. They threw themselves to their feet, stumbling slightly, almost rolling on their ankles but they were standing. They bolted for the door to the bedroom, slamming their shoulder into the doorframe as they propelled themselves out and towards the front door.

A hand caught the back of their shirt and Villain cried out. They were yanked backwards, their head slamming off the doorframe to the bedroom. Villain fell like a sack of bricks and Superhero let them.

Villain blinked up bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the world swimming in a whirlwind of colour. Two Superhero’s appeared above Villain, shaking their heads, as if they were disappointed parents looking down on an unruly child.

“Look at what you did,” Superhero said, the words coming in and out of focus like pulses. He leaned down, crouched above Villain. Then a hand passed over his face and Villain’s head whipped to the side. They whimpered. “Ah. There you are,” Superhero said, only one of him now. “Still with me, Vil.”

Another slap and Villain whimpered, weakly pushing their hand against Superhero’s. Superhero easily batted it away, opting to instead pinch Villain’s cheeks between their thumb and forefinger and dig their fingers in until Villain’s mouth formed an O and they cried out.

“Listen runt, I didn’t want to hurt you! Don’t you see? I’m trying to help you. You’ve clearly let yourself go since the last time I saw you, and nobody, not even Saint Hero will love you if you’re fat and disgusting. You want to be worth Hero’s love, don’t you?”

Tears welled behind Villain’s eyes and they tried to turn their head away, not wanting to face Superhero and the truth in his words. Superhero didn’t even let Villain flinch in any direction before his grip tightened.

“Don’t you want to be someone worthy of love?” Superhero asked, his voice imperceptibly soft. Villain let out a pathetic yes, their voice muffled by Superhero’s hold on their face. Superhero’s features smoothed out and he nodded sympathetically. “I know. Come on, let’s get you up. I’m just trying to help you be worthy of Hero.”

Superhero helped Villain to sit up, openly crying now. Superhero nodded his head compassionately. “I know. I know. Shh. It’s okay. Big bro’s here now. He’s going to make everything better. Ssh. Don’t worry. Come on, runt.”

Superhero helped the wailing Villain to their feet, guiding them towards the bathroom again. Villain, resigned, followed along because they didn’t want to get hit again. They didn’t want to try and fight back and get beaten again. They didn’t want to be ugly for Hero, they wanted to be worthy of them. Hero was brilliant, perfect, why would they settle for anything less than that? God, Superhero was right.

Superhero gently pushes Villain to their knees, and tells them to: “open up.”

Villain felt the familiar fear creep back up their spine, making their hair stand on end. They shook their head, making to stand up but Superhero kept a hand on Villain’s shoulder, keeping them in place.

“Come on. You said you wanted to be worthy of Hero, right?”

Villain deflated. A part of them wanted to be perfect, to listen to Superhero and just give in, save themselves the pain. The other part was screaming at them, telling them they were worth more than this. That they hated this, and that Hero loved them no matter what. Strangely the voice telling them to fight sounded an awful lot like Hero’s.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to do anything. I’ll do it all, remember?” Superhero coaxed, his fingers tracing Villain’s jaw and resting at their bottom lip. “Come on, Villain.”

Villain didn’t protest, but they didn’t fight Superhero either, so when his fingers pushed past Villain’s lips, Villain didn’t move. Only when they went far, hitting Villain’s gag reflex did Villain start fighting him.

They shot up from their knees on instinct, but Superhero’s hold kept them down, his other hand going to the back or Villain’s hair and pulling it, yanking their head back so he could shove his fingers down further.

Villain whined, shaking their head. They didn’t want this, they didn’t want this! Villain felt bile climbing his throat and he jerked forward, but Superhero didn’t move his fingers and they hit the back of Villain’s tongue. Villain felt the warmth climbing his throat, gripping the toilet seat and ready to vomit.

Superhero pulled his fingers out at the last second, and Villain heaved. It was only bile that came out, green-hued see through slime, because Villain hadn’t eaten in days.

Superhero clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Hmm. That won’t do. We’ll go again.”

Before Villain could protest, Superhero’s fingers were in his mouth again, unmerciful as they shot to the back of Villain’s throat. Villain grabbed Superhero’s wrist, pulling his fingers out. “Don’t fight me, Vil. We agreed.”

Superhero’s fingers hit Villain’s throat again, and they felt the muscles in their neck contracting as another wave of nausea hit them. Panicking and wanting Superhero to just let them go, Villain clamped their jaw around Superhero’s hand.

Superhero yelped, then roared and yanked their hand out of Villain’s jaw. “I’m—” Villain gasped, but Superhero cut them off with a punch to the face. Villain’s head veered down, hitting off the edge of the ceramic toilet bowl with a dull thump.

A hand in their hair and their head was wrenched back. Superhero’s fist flashed in the corner of their eye, and struck the same place in their jaw, keeping them straight.

“I thought we agreed that I—” punch. “Know” punch. “Better.” A sharp slap deafened Villain as Superhero released them again, their head snapping to the side. “I don’t want to hurt you, but you force me to, Vil. I hate to see you like this, but as your older brother I’ll do what I have to do, to make you a better person.”

A sharp kick to the stomach, once, twice, three times and Villain lurched forward, crying out and swallowing hard to keep the rush of liquid crawling like a tidal wave up their throat. Superhero grabbed Villain by the throat. Leaning his face in closer to them.

“Come on, Vil,” Superhero said sweetly. “You want to look your best for Hero, don't you? You want to deserve them, right?”

“Pl—please,” Villain stammered, choking on Superhero’s tight grip. “Just lemme— go.”

“Stop fighting me, runt, I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Superhero pinched Villain’s jaw between his thumb and index finger, his nails digging into their cheeks, drawing blood, and forcing their mouth open. His fingers found the back of Villain’s throat, pressing down on Villain’s gag reflex.

Villain felt the muscles in his throat tighten, the bile burning acidic up their throat and they lunged forward, Superhero withdrew his hand from Villain’s mouth, but kept pinching their cheeks so Villain couldn’t swallow. Only when he was satisfied that Villain was about to hurl did he let go, grinning down as Villain spewed into the toilet.

A lot more than last time, their stomach ached as they vomited. A momentary pause and then another bout reared its head and tears streamed down their face, sobbing as they let the feeling run its course out of them.

Superhero patted Villain’s hair like a dog. “Good, see. You did so good.”

“What are you doing?”

Villain froze at the voice. Superhero’s hand stopped rubbing Villain’s hair, but he didn’t remove it from Villain’s head. Hero rushed in, going to Villain’s side and get grabbing their face in their hands, thumbing away the tears.

“Villain, shhh. Shhh, it’s okay.” Hero cooed. Villain sobbed against Hero’s hands, the gentle touches. They weren’t worthy of this kindness. They didn’t deserve Hero’s caring love. This was pity. They pitied Villain, that’s why they looked so caring in that moment. Not out of love. Why was Villain so weak to melt at the kindness, they should be worthy of them! Hero shouldn’t have to see Villain like this. “I’m here now. It’s okay.”

Hero glanced back at Superhero, eyes narrowed into a glare. “What are you doing here?!”

“I knew you would be away for a while today, Hero. And I knew you would be worried sick about your ill partner so I thought I would come and look after them for you.”

Hero’s eyes found Villain’s, searching, scanning for any sign that Superhero was lying. Villain was skittish and heaving, not meeting Hero’s eyes. There was something wrong, was it just vomiting? Being sick? No, this was different. Villain was incoherent and violent last time, now they were just… subdued and lifeless and terrified.

“You stepped over the line, Superhero,” Hero said firmly, eyes burning down at their lover. “Please wait in the living room while I help them to bed.”

Superhero’s eyes met Villain’s over Hero’s shoulder, a sadistic smile on his lips. He brought a finger to his lips and pointed down at Hero. Then drew a line across his throat and mimicked Hero being killed.

“Of course, Hero,” Superhero said easily, while Villain’s trembles intensified. Hero waited until Superhero had walked out the door before looking back at Villain.

“Vil, oh my god, I’m so sorry. Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I should have never left you.”

They’re just saying that because you’re weak, Villain thought.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t ask Superhero to come. I didn’t know they would do something as crazy as this!”

They’re tired of you. They don’t love you, if they did they would have never left. You’re exhausting, you wear people out.

“Come on, Vil. Talk to me.” Hero said, leaning forward and pressing their forehead against Villain’s. Villain could feel Hero’s warm breath fanning against their face. They weren’t even worthy of this. “Shhh. Vil, it’s okay. I’m here now and I’m not leaving.”

When Hero wrapped their arms around Villain, Villain couldn’t hold it together anymore and they broke down into sobs that wracked their entire body. Their fingers turned to claws in Hero’s shirt, bunching it and holding on and not wanting to let go.

They were weak, they were so weak that they made the people they loved weak for them. It bled through from Villain into them, and now they were breaking Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve Hero’s heart. They didn’t deserve any of this comfort and warmth and love.

Hero held them tightly and kissed their hair and cheek and anything their lips could reach, whispering reassurances and telling them that they loved them.

When Villain’s sobs had calmed down to mere whimpers and sniffles, Hero moved them, putting one hand under their legs and the other under their shoulders and lifted them like they were a baby. Villain curled into Hero’s embrace, a deep red blush filling their face with warmth.

Hero shouldn’t have to do this, to be the strong one. Villain was the strong one! God what happened to them?! Why couldn’t they just be perfect for Hero?

Hero put them into bed, lying beside them under the covers. They tilted Villain’s head down to lie on top of Hero’s chest, hearing their heartbeat. They were a tangle of limbs.

“What about,” Villain sniffed, “Superhero?”

Hero’s eyes darkened. “Let him wait. You’re my priority, Villain. You always will be. Never forget that.”

Villain sniffed, fresh tears streaming down their cheeks. “I love you Hero.” They said even though it broke their heart to say that. Weak! So weak!

“I love you more than you’ll ever know,” Hero whispered into Villain’s hair, kissing the top of their head.

*~*~*~*~*

[3-2-whump]

Tear-Filled Noncon (Mutual!)

it's a working title, I'm bad with titles

Continuation of this idea

Art here

TW/CW: because this is a continuation of the previous noncon idea, a lot of the same warnings will apply. Rape/Noncon, intimate whumper, obsessed whumper, domestic violence (including brief head trauma), some degradation, inner thoughts that go a bit dark. If I missed anything, pls let me know!

He turned the key slowly in the lock, opened the door as quietly as he could, and closed it equally as carefully behind him. Whumpee’s eyes swept over the living room. The apartment was quiet and dark, dimly illuminated only by the city lights in the window. More importantly, the door to the master bedroom was closed, with no light peeking out from underneath. Whumpee sighed in relief; he’d gotten away with it.

The next breath caught in his throat as he was body-slammed into the door. A large hand pinned both wrists above his head when he tried to defend himself from the unseen force. The other hand yanked his head back by his hair, eliciting a surprised yelp of pain. “Where were you?” a warm breath hissed in his ear.

Whumpee squirmed under his master’s punishing grasp. “I-I can explain-”

“Like hell you can!” The hand in Whumpee’s hair drove his head forward and smashed it against the door. Sharp pain unfurled in the back of his skull as stars danced across his blurry vision. “Your curfew is midnight at latest, and it’s nearly two in the morning,” Whumper's angry voice thundered past the incessant throbbing in his head. The hand on his wrists tightened into a bruising grip. “So tell me-” Whumpee cried out in pain as the hand in his hair pulled harder. “Where were you?”

“You’re hurting me!” Whumpee gasped.

“Well you’re hurting me!” Whumper let go of him at once, only to throw him to the floor of the entrance. Whumpee landed hard on his side. He reflexively tried to curl into a ball to protect himself, but within moments the man had flipped him onto his back to better climb on top of him. A loud ripping sound punctuated Whumpee’s whimpers in the darkness as his shirt was torn clean in two. “Coming home late at night, with no regard to my rules, and smelling like a cheap motel –wait…” Whumper’s eyes zeroed in on a necklace of hickeys that rested on the young man’s collarbone. He slapped him, once, then twice, then again. “Who gave you those hickeys?” Slap! “Who were you sleeping with?!” Slap! “Well, answer me, whore!”

Whumpee shook his head, the tears streaming down his face as he continued to beg for mercy. “Clearly you’ve forgotten who you belong to,” Whumper huffed. “No problem, this just means I’ve got to remind you!” He brusquely unbuttoned Whumpee’s pants and pulled them and his boxers down the young man’s trembling thighs. Whumpee’s pleas of “no, no, stop, please, stop” went entirely ignored as he was flipped onto his stomach. His begging took on a frantic pitch as his body started visibly shaking. He’d never been taken from behind before, and this new position made him panic.

“You don’t deserve to be fucked like a person, so you’ll take it like the wanton little bitch you are!”

“No, no, stop, please! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please, no, I’m sorry!”

“Shut up!” Whumpee wailed as his hips were wrenched up from the floor and Whumper entered him without any prep or lube. The man was not gentle, far from it. Quick, desperate thrusts punctured him deeper than he was used to. It was the roughest he had ever been with him, unquestionably, feeling less like having sex and more like being torn in half. Stubbornly enough, Whumpee’s body reacted to these more intense sensations all the same, especially when the man on top of him continuously slammed into that sweet spot inside of him.

“Look at you,” Whumper commented derisively, a hint of bitterness in his gravelly voice. “Hard as a rock already, you slutty thing! You’d be happy with just anyone’s cock inside your ass, wouldn’t you?” Whumpee’s cheeks colored in shame as a shaky moan interrupted his pleas. “But you shouldn’t be; you’re mine!”

He felt a thin, warm fluid trickle past the cock pummeling his hole. The man above him crushed him further into the carpeted floor. “I own this ass, and it is mine to fuck,” he screamed, “you got it?! No one else’s, just mine!”

He didn’t have to see behind him to know he was bleeding. At least it makes Master’s thrusts a little less painful, he thought. That feeling of morbid relief alone made him cry even harder. What the fuck is wrong with me?

“Why am I not enough for you?!” Whumper’s voice wavered with emotion. His angry thrusts turned sloppier as he continued. “Damn it, and damn you! I gave you everything you could ask for; I gave you everything you could have needed! I fed you, clothed you, made you into the man you are today, so why?! What are they giving you that I’m not?!” The man’s voice caught on the last question. Whumpee felt small wet drops of liquid fall onto the nape of his neck. Tears? He realized with horror that Whumper was crying as he was raping him.

“M-Master, I-I’m sorry, please-”

“I said, shut up!” He pulled Whumpee back by the hips until he was flush with the older man’s pubic bone, burying himself to the hilt and spilling deep inside him. They stayed in that position for an uncomfortably long time. Suppressed sniffling sounds filled the entryway, and Whumpee knew they weren’t all coming from him. Whumper eventually pulled out, leaving his hole gaping and obscenely oozing cum. He settled on the floor next to Whumpee and repositioned them both onto their sides. “I love you, boy,” he murmured as he pulled him closer to spoon him. “I don’t enjoy hurting you, boy.” The tension gradually left Whumpee’s body as he accepted the forced cuddles. The man planted a kiss on the back of his ear, right above the barcode tattoo that marked him indelibly as property. The kiss was wet and tinged with sadness. “So why do you make me hurt you?”

-

Because what we do –no, what you do to me- is not supposed to feel good. How could it feel good? I didn’t want it, I don’t want it, and I will never want it, so why does my body betray me every time? What if it’s because you’re right? What if this really was my true purpose? To be nothing more than a pair of holes to fill and a body to break under yours? What if I am all those names you call me because I think this feels good?

And, what if I act out, do all the things I know will test your patience and make you rough and uncaring so that it finally hurts? So that it finally doesn’t feel good, and I don’t have to ask if my body and my mind are on the same page about me being violated? What if that’s why I make you hurt me? Would you stop? Would you hurt me more? Would it even matter?

-

That is everything Whumpee wanted to say. Instead, through a throat ripped raw from screaming, he rasped, “I don’t know.”

[bltzgore]

Tw: language, broken bone (whumper's), mention of past trauma, young whumpee (could be under 18, idk reader's choice), swearing, yeah just a lot of swearing. Caretaker is very protective and very mad.

Caretaker put their hands gently on whumpee's shoulders, guiding him to their left, "could you just stand here for me, baby?" Whumpee followed their guidance without hesitation, confused but mostly still shaken by the fact that whumper was here. How had he found them?! What would he do now that he had?

What whumpee hadn't noticed was that caretaker had carefully moved them out from between whumper and themselves. Once whumpee was clear caretaker reared back and floored whumper with a single blow to the jaw. Something in there cracked, and whumper was on his ass attempting to gather himself and figure out what had just happened.

Caretaker snarled, "I don't care who the fuck you are! I know what you fucking did to this child and you should feel lucky to be alive right now. Cause the only reason I'm not ripping the bones out of your body one at a time and FEEDING THEM TO YOU is because there is a child present. Now, here's what's going to happen, you're going to pick your sorry ass up off my floor and you're going to drag it out the door and out of my house, and you're going to fucking keep it there or next time I will not be showing any restraint."

As whumper shakily got to his feet, he glared at whumpee, who's trembling only got worse. He was frozen under that monster's gaze. He couldn't even manage to get his lungs moving. That's when caretaker stepped between them again and shoved their face stright up to whumper's.

"Don't fucking look at him, look at me! You're dealing with me! Not him." Once they were certain whumper was focused on them again they continued, "Now I gave you the good option, the other one is you stupidly refuse to leave and I beat your ass right here and now then dump your bitch carcass on the side of a road somewhere. So what's it fucking gonna be?"

Whumper seethed like he wanted to say something, but wisely didn't. Instead, he stumbled towards the door, glaring once at whumpee as he stood in the frame, "This isn't over."

Caretaker, however, shoved him out the rest of the way, flipping him off before they slammed the door in his face. "Yes, it is."

[forwhump]

a/n; this one’s pretty fucked up :-; more rape & more murder but it’s a story about a sex slave & a weapon so that’s just kinda what you get ¯\_(���)_/¯ my bad !

tw/cw: rape, noncon, mutilation, dismemberment, decapitation, murder, grievous bodily harm, misgendering, transphobia, psychological torture, urine, gore, bodily fluids

living weapon whumpee, multiple whumpers, revenge, military

There has not been a time, since his creation, that Silas has been above ground.

Everything that’s been done to him, everything that he’s done, it’s happened hundreds of feet below the ground in the concrete labyrinth of the district. Every surgery, every slaughter, every field test.

Even the fuckin’ field tests. The field tests are training exercises, combat training, but they don’t trust Silas above ground to participate in them. They’re probably right not to. They’re smarter, sometimes, than Silas will ever give them credit for.

Within the labyrinth there are these arenas, these massive, open spaces made up to look like a world Silas has never seen. There’s a number of them, made to look like different practical terrain; forests and deserts and small villages and mountains and cities. It would be impossible for Silas to fathom if he ever had the time or the means to sit and try and fathom it. He’d almost think he left the district were it not for the concrete sky, hundreds of feet above his head.

He didn’t always mind the field tests. It was a chance to stretch his legs. The enemy was always played by military recruits, young and green. Silas isn’t sure if they know what they’re getting into when they enter the arena, if they are briefed on exactly what Silas is, but none of them ever walk out again. Their grieving families will bury a flag and a handful of teeth on Silas’ most generous day.

Barbarity is encouraged. Bloodshed is lauded. It’s always a slaughter, but it’s expected of him. It’s always been a good way to blow off some steam, even if he never walks away unscathed. He gets to use his hands.

But the rules had changed since they’d taken Wren from him.

The rules have been the same for every field test so far — kill or be killed. The recruits get weapons and machinery and supplies and dogs; Silas doesn’t even get a shirt. He gets a pair of prison grey joggers and his own two hands. Kill or be killed.

They didn’t tell him they’d added civilians.

He doesn’t realize that anything’s wrong for an entire three days. He soldiers through the rainforest arena and kills recruits with tooth and talon. When the lights get shut down for the third night, nighttime in the wilderness, Silas has become that thing the field tests always stoke to life in him; Silas isn’t human anymore. It slides under his skin, that feral, rabid thing, and it rips limbs from screaming bodies, it peels skin back with his teeth. When the lights get shut down for the third night, Silas’ hair is glued to his back and his throat with the thick layer of blood that crusts his skin. None of it is his own. Not a single recruit had gotten a single shot in yet. It was going exceptionally well. Silas should have been suspicious.

He should’ve fuckin’ known. He should’ve done better. He should’ve been faster. When he finally sees Wren again, his Wren, bathed in the flickering firelight of the enemy camp, all the human parts of him are reignited with a screaming rage and a sort of guilt that makes Silas feel heavy. He should’ve known something was wrong. He should’ve been here three days ago.

The surviving soldiers are set up around the fire, cocky and comfortable. Wren’s in the dirt at their feet.

Fuck, Silas had missed him. Silas had missed him in a big, impossible way, and he can’t even be happy to see him because Silas wishes more than anything that Wren was not here. Wren would be safer almost anywhere but here.

He’s dressed like a child and his hair is down, grimy and matted, pooling in the dirt around him. He’s face down, limp, and Silas has to blink red mist from his vision. Before he’s close enough to stop it, one of the soldiers stands, pulls his belt, and pisses in Wren’s hair.

Wren doesn’t move or moan or otherwise react in any way. He’s still limp — he’s so still, actually, almost unnaturally still, and Silas is — he can’t be too late, Wren can’t be —

Another soldier stands, some blond puke, and he turns Wren onto his side with his foot before he boots him in the stomach.

Weakly, Wren groans. Weakly, softly, but he groans. He isn’t dead.

Silas is gonna cause a fuckin’ bloodbath.

“Stop passing out on us,” the blond groans. “You got a long night ahead of you, girl.”

Wren doesn’t make another sound and the recruit kicks him again, so hard he’s forced onto his back. He groans softly.

A soldier with a shock of red hair spits in the dirt next to him as he stands. “I know how to wake her up.” His grin glints in the firelight and the blond laughs. He spits again as he takes a handful of Wren’s hair, coiling it around his fist, hauling him across the dirt and a safe distance away from the bonfire. He whistles back over his shoulder at the other recruits, watching him with varying degrees of obvious humour. “C’mere. Hold her open for me. Hold her down when she starts fighting and I’ll let you have a turn when I’m done.”

No.

How can this keep happening? How can this be somebody’s life?

There’s something casual, something genuinely amused in the way the recruits laugh between themselves as they splay their hands over Wren’s skin, as they hold his limp body into the dirt and he whimpers. The redhead tugs his belt free before he kneels between Wren’s legs, shoving the frilly hem of his little dress up and around his ribcage. He settles over him, his knuckles white against the purpling bruise of Wren’s skin. His answering groan is loud and low and satisfied.

Silas can hear when Wren regains consciousness because of how horribly and primally he screams.

All of the recruits laugh, but it’s the blond that coos, pleased, “there she is.”

When Silas breaks the tree line it’s his shadow that gives him away. One of the soldiers, holding one of Wren’s thighs, looks up, distracted, and the double take he does would be comical if Silas weren’t out for blood. He jumps to his feet, fumbles for his gun, green and unprepared. He cries, “what the fuck is that?”

Silas grins, but it isn’t nice.

The rest of the recruits look up in militant unison but react quickly with varying degrees of unrestrained horror. Almost every one of them scrambles to their feet and for their weapons. Except, of course, the redheaded puke knelt between Wren’s thighs. He stills, a picture of cruelty.

Silas cracks his knuckles.

Wren’s head lolls against the dirt and he finds Silas through the idiot cavalry. This’ll be easy; the recruits are always just as evil as the soldiers — a requirement of them, apparently — but they aren’t nearly as dangerous. They aren’t trained, polished, quick in the way the soldiers are, they aren’t used to Silas the same. This will be embarrassing for them.

Wren looks up at Silas with huge, wet eyes and the way the relief crests across his face would probably make Silas cry if he were capable of it.

“What the hell is that thing?” The recruits are shouting. “Who are you? Back up! Back the fuck up!”

Silas barely hears them. To Wren, he says, “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Wren tips his head back as he sobs.

The redhead looks down at him quickly as he hisses, “what the fuck is that?”

He folds an arm over his face and his chest hitches as he cries into the grime.

The recruit tries to grab him, to pry his arm from his face, hisses something else like “look at me when I’m talking to you. What the fuck is going on?”, but Silas is across the camp in a second and he takes his ginger head in both hands. The recruit flails, pulls away from Wren, and as soon as he does Silas turns, trying to shield his Wren from the splatter with his bulk. He crushes the redhead’s skull between his hands.

The noise it makes is like a crack of lightning.

The sort of silence that’s close behind unrecoverable trauma settles over the camp and Silas grins so widely something clicks in his jaw. He’s merciful — the recruits won’t have to live with this for long.

“What are you?” The blond asks, and his voice is thin.

Silas cracks his neck. “Does it matter?”

A different recruit swallows so thickly that Silas can hear it. But he’s trying to be brave, so he says, “back up, freak.”

Silas does not, in fact, back up. The blond is standing close and he doesn’t react quick enough when Silas grabs him by the collar — he panics, flailing as Silas lifts him clean off the ground. It kind of wakes up the recruits, who lift guns and take aim, but what’s the worst they can do to him? Really?

It’s one of the worst things about these men, about this place. It’s one of the reasons Silas hates them so viscerally it’s become interwoven into his DNA. Silas, in a way, gets off easy — Silas just gets shot, and he can take a fuckin’ bullet. It’s the least he can do. Wren isn’t so lucky. They aren’t afraid of Wren. He’s small and he can’t fight back the way Silas can. What’s the worst thing they can do to a fuckin’ machine? They’ll shut him down, and he’ll begin again. Wren is vulnerable.

He pries a handgun from the blond’s flailing grip hands and forces the barrel down the back of his throat. He grabs at Silas’ wrist, frantic, and Silas grins at him as he pulls the trigger.

He bursts into blood and viscera and the other recruits explode into shouting and panic. “Get back!” The brave one shouts, and he makes the grievous mistake of getting too close. Not within reaching distance, but still too close. “Get the fuck back!”

“What are you gonna do?” Silas asks, raising his eyebrows. “Shoot me?” The recruit lifts his gun, a threat, and Silas grins at him. “Tell you what. Let me do you one better,” and he points the gun down, firing a round into his own foot. It crackles with a pain that the simmering rage quickly dissolves.

The soldier gapes, hesitating, and he only hesitates for half a moment but it’s a full moment too long. Silas raises the gun again. “Now it’s your turn,” he says, and unloads three rounds between his eyes.

He drops to the dirt and another recruit steps over him quickly, into Silas’ personal space.

Silas doesn’t take kindly to that.

He takes him by the jaw and wrenches his mouth open. As he tries to scream around Silas’ hands, Silas hooks his fingers behind each row of his teeth and rips his face in half through the middle. His throat is still working as Silas pushes his body out of the way with the side of his foot.

“What the fuck?” A recruit cries, standing too close, splattered with blood that isn’t his own. Silas reaches out to him with his free hand and tears out his windpipe with bloody fingers. As he chokes, Silas breaks his nose back into his brain with the base of his gun. His eyes are rolled back into his head when he dies.

There are four surviving recruits, and they try to scatter. Silas lets them try, because he enjoys the panic, but he doesn’t let them get very far. Eight rounds, one for each knee. There are cries of pain and noises of impact and Silas laughs loudly.

He weaves his way across the camp slowly, tauntingly, and he kills them one at a time. He crushes both hands and the throat of the first recruit; he removes both hands and the throat from the second. The third is decapitated, and not quickly or cleanly; Silas removes his head with force, and the way his skin splits is like wet paper.

The last recruit had pissed in Wren’s hair.

Silas approaches him with the unhurried stalk of a predator. The recruit trembles, trying to scramble away from Silas, but he’d been shot in both knees and he’d fallen hard, the bones of his calf poking out from his flesh in opposite directions.

“That’s gotta hurt,” Silas says.

“Please,” he’s begging, and his voice is trembling, “please, please, don’t — don’t —“

Silas brings his foot down on his fractured leg as hard as he can. Puts all of his brawn and bulk into it.

The recruit tips his head back against the dirt and screams at the concrete sky.

Silas lets him scream. Who gives a fuck? He crouches next to him and takes his left arm by the elbow. The soldier screams again, tries to pull out of his grip, and Silas rips his arm out from the socket of his shoulder.

He shrieks at a pitch that Silas finds kind of irritating and he reaches across the recruit to grab his other arm and pull him over onto his stomach, face down in the dirt. He breaks his right arm off at the elbow.

He screams again and he’s screaming still when Silas stands to toe him back onto his back. As the recruit screams, Silas shoves down the waistband of his joggers, pulls out his dick, and pisses in his mouth. It’s only fair.

He flails with what’s left of his right arm and chokes in panic. It makes Silas grin. When he snaps his waistband back into place the recruit stares up at him with a look that Silas has come to recognize as resigned hatred. It never gets old. Weak and wet, he drawls, “they told us we didn’t have to worry about her dog.”

Silas raises his eyebrows. “They lied.”

The recruit chokes out a sound that would probably be a laugh if all the blood in his body weren’t seeping into the earth beneath him. “C’mon, man,” he tries. “Don’t — don’t. Please. Come on.”

Silas lifts the gun.

The recruit inhales quickly. “Please. Come on. Please.”

“Eat shit,” Silas tells him sincerely, and he empties the gun into his face.

[unforgivenn]

Drew @morning-star-whump's boi Alex!! Please go check out his story Smile for the Camera. Its absolutely *chefs kiss*.

Ignore my shitass handwriting and the hands

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

No Place Feels Like Home

a version of this from whumpee's perspective, with ocs cuz i'm planning on turning this into a series <3

cw age gap, intimate whumper, power dynamic

The freezing air outside was a stark contrast to the inside of the house. The heat of so many bodies pressed together in the basement had left Thomas sweaty and flushed in his wool sweater, but now, standing on the porch, he wished he’d worn more layers. Winters in Jersey were unforgiving. He took another drag from his cigarette in hopes of keeping warm—it didn’t quite do the trick, but the burning in his chest was a distraction, at least. 

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

Thomas looked up in surprise at the guy walking toward him, leather jacket over a Refused shirt. Dark hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, and he was wearing the kind of smirk that Thomas knew would get him into trouble if he wasn’t careful. He'd always been a sucker for bad boys. 

He held the other man’s gaze, raising the cigarette to his lips again. Thomas blew out a cloud of smoke before replying, “What makes you think I have a bedtime?” Surely, he didn’t look that young. 

The guy leaned one shoulder against the wall next to him, leaving just enough distance to be casual. “I don’t mind,” he said, not answering the question. “I mean, we do all ages shows for a reason. I think it’s great for kids to see live music.”

What a jerk—this guy had to be fucking with him. Thomas gave him as scathing a glare as he could manage. “I’m eighteen, actually. But thanks for your concern.” 

“Sorry, you just look young is all.” He was still smiling teasingly. “Didn’t mean to offend you—maybe we could start over? I’m Mateo Ruiz. But everyone calls me Matty.” 

“I know, I came to see your band,” Thomas said, taking another drag on his cigarette. 

He shivered when Mateo looked him up and down. “Yeah? Didn’t realize you were a fan.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Mateo hummed, eyes shining with amusement. “Just don’t look like you’re in the scene. Where’s your sweater from, pretty boy—The Gap?” 

It was, actually, which made Thomas fume even more. “My friend Liz put me onto you guys. She’s really into hardcore stuff, she played me your CD.”

“You’re gonna love it, I promise,” she’d insisted, grinning as they sat cross-legged on her bed. “These guys are gonna be big someday.” 

Thomas rolled his eyes. “That’s what you said about The Unholy Pizza Parlor Apocalypse. And they’ve already broken up.” 

Liz smacked him on the arm. “Okay, but I mean it this time. The melodic hardcore stuff is totally taking off. Aaaaannd the guys are wicked cute.” 

“You’re sick,” Thomas said when she wiggled her eyebrows at him. 

“Oh shit, Liz?” Mateo’s eyes lit up with recognition. “Like, Liz that does the Soundboard zine?” 

Thomas nodded, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall behind him before flicking it over the porch railing. “Yeah, she's here somewhere. Probably chatting up your bandmate—she has a thing for bassists.” 

Mateo nodded, pushing off the wall and closing the distance between them. “And how ‘bout you?” he teased, looking down at Thomas with big, dark eyes he could get lost in. “You look like the type who’d be into singers.” 

“I don’t know...singers are too cocky,” he shot back. “And they’re not as good with their fingers.”

Mateo laughed at that, flashing him a devilish smirk. “You’re funny, kid... Never told me your name, by the way.” 

“Thomas.” The chill that ran down his spine had more to do with the hungry way Mateo was looking at him than the February air. His heart pounded in his ears. 

“Thomas,” Mateo repeated, the name dripping from his tongue like honey. “Suits you.” 

His hands fidgeted with the bottom of his sweater, and he wondered if he should light another cigarette to keep them busy. 

Mateo reached out and brushed Thomas’s hair behind his ear, not paying any mind to the people milling around outside. “Well, I’ll tell you a secret, Tommy,” he said, lowering his voice. “I kind of have a thing for preppy boys who shop at The Gap.” 

“It’s just Thomas,” he whispered, throat dry. 

“Listen.” Fingers trailed down his jaw, and then Mateo’s hand was cupping his cheek. “I haven’t seen you at any shows before, but you seem cool. There’s an afterparty at my place if you wanna come.” 

Thomas hesitated. “I don’t know...I have class in the morning.” 

“Your call. But I'd really like it if you were there.” 

Mateo’s eyes drifted down to his lips for a moment, making the unspoken implication in his statement clear. Despite Thomas’s nervousness, he made no move to back away. “Yeah?” he breathed. 

“Yeah—come party with the rockstars.” He leaned in, breath hot against Thomas’s ear when he spoke. “I promise you’ll have a good time, honey.” 

“Okay. I’ll come,” Thomas agreed. He felt a sick thrill run through him as he wondered if Mateo was as passionate in...other ways...as he was when he performed. 

The singer grinned, fingers ghosting down Thomas’s neck. “Awesome. Let me pack up my equipment and then we’ll get going.”

taglist: @morning-star-whump  

[deckofaces]

can I get a shy teenage whumpee with a high fever discovered by caretaker

with a side of hospital trip for heightened fever

lots of extra hurt and comfort please!!

wow this ask is old 😅 but I was inspired to finally finish this so I hope you enjoy!

Feverish Mornings

tw: Fever, teenage whumpee

“Caretaker.”

“Caretaker…”

Caretaker felt hands on their shoulder gently shaking them awake partnered with a soft voice calling their name. 

They slowly opened their eyes. Next to their bed illuminated by the opened bedroom door by an otherwise dark room stood their sibling. They didn’t expect anyone else to be there, no one else lived with the pair, but it still was a surprise that they woke them up. That alone was enough to make them worry. 

“Whumpee?” They asked, sitting up in bed. They reached over and turned on the lamp, emitting a soft orange glow onto the siblings. In the process, they took notice of the digital clock that read a bit past four in the morning. Caretaker looked back at their sibling. “What’s going on?”

Caretaker watched as Whumpee looked down towards the floor, their light brown curly hair partially falling in their face. “I’m sorry..” they mumbled quietly. “I know I’m not little anymore and you aren’t mom and dad-“ they started to pick at their nails “-but I’m not feeling good..”

A sad look fell on Caretaker’s face. It may be true that Whumpee isn’t a small child, but they are still 15. They’re still young. And Caretaker may not be their parents, they passed away a few years ago, but since they’re an adult, it still made them their guardian. They were then years older than their younger sibling. Even ignoring that fact though, they still cared about them.

“That’s okay.. I’m not them, but I will always take care of you. What isn’t feeling right?” Even without them answering yet, Whumpee looked incredibly flushed. They also swayed a bit on their feet.. worrying them more. “Sit down next to me.”

They nodded and sat down on the bed next to Caretaker before speaking. Their head fell to rest on their sibling’s shoulder. Whumpee felt so warm.. “My head really hurts,” they murmured to their sibling. “And I feel so hot but yet I keep shivering and I can’t fall back asleep..”

Caretaker took the back of their hand and felt Whumpee’s cheek before moving to feel their forehead. They assumed a fever but it really felt like they were burning up..

“Did you feel like this when you went to bed? Or only when you woke up?” They asked.

“I mean, I don’t know,” Whumpee answered. “I felt a little sick before I fell asleep, but I just thought it was a cold and I would have to wait it out. It didn’t feel this bad, I’m sorry.”

“Hey don’t apologize, it’s alright,” Caretaker said, rubbing their back. “I think you have a fever, I’ll be right back.”

They heard a quiet “okay” before they stood from their bed and headed to the kitchen. In one of the drawers, they looked around before finding what he needed. A thermometer to check Whumpee’s temperature. With it in hand, they walked back to their room and found them where they left them. 

Caretaker clicked a button and slowly moved the thermometer across their forehead and over to above their cheek. As they did so, the room was quiet other than quiet beeping from the device. They pulled it away from their face and looked at the little screen displaying the temperature. Their expression faltered a bit.

Whumpee saw before they could mask their expression. “What does it say, what’s wrong?”

The temperature was high. 104 degrees Fahrenheit high. It’s far too early in the morning to call a doctor about it. But the high temperature had them fearing the worst. Caretaker’s sibling is all the close family they had- they couldn’t help it. At that moment, it didn’t matter that a hospital bill would really hurt to have to pay.. they supposed that’s the price for their peace of mind, and more importantly, to make sure they’re okay. 

“You have a bit of a fever, Whumpee,” Caretaker said as calmly and gently as they could. “I know it’s early but I think we should get you checked out.” 

“Is- is it really that bad-? I- what’s going on?” Caretaker could see tears glistening in their already barely open eyes. They didn’t know what was going on, but it broke their heart to see them so worried.

“I don’t know what is going on, but it’ll be okay. It’s just in case. Hopefully it’s nothing much, and we can get home later and I’ll call you out of school for tomorrow, okay?” Caretaker watched their sibling and they gave only a small nod, which is enough for them right now.

“You can stay here and I’ll go grab your shoes.” Caretaker waited for Whumpee to nod again before standing up and heading out of the room again.

Instead of getting Whumpee’s shoes first, they headed to their apartment’s kitchen. Out of the freezer they took a bag of frozen vegetables and wrapped it a few times with paper towels. They also grabbed a water bottle out of the fridge. Only then did he grab a pair of Whumpee’s shoes by the front door after putting their own on, and return to their bedroom. 

Caretaker set the water bottle and ice pack next to Whumpee on the bed. “You can use the ice pack in the car if it helps, and you should drink some water to get some fluids in your system.” They set Whumpee’s shoes on the ground for them to slip into while they spoke. 

Whumpee slowly put their shoes on. “I’m sorry we have to go so early..” they murmured quietly.

Caretaker was about to grab their keys off the nightstand but then they looked back at their sibling. “It’s not your fault, Whumpee. You don’t have to apologize, getting sick happens. It just happened to be early in the morning this time,” they said gently.

Whumpee looked down and slowly blinked, not responding to what Caretaker said. Caretaker grabbed their keys and then stood next to them. They kissed their hair and then offered their hand to help them stand up. “Everything will be okay, I’m glad you woke me up. Let’s get going.”

Whumpee whispered another quiet “okay” and took Caretaker’s hand. They grabbed the things Careraker brought them before they started to head out to the car. Whumpee felt wobbly but her sibling helped keep them steady. 

The two drove to the hospital together shortly after. Caretaker really hoped Whumpee would be alright..

[jumpywhumpywriter]

Assassin Rescues Prisoner from Target's house part 1

TW: blood, intense torture, recovery, pain, death, assassination, severe whump, etc.

PROMPT: an assassin breaks into their target's house and kills them, easy enough, a job they've done a dozen times before. But as they're leaving, they realize that the target wasn't alone in the house – whumpee has been kept there in captivity, and is in a bad state. The assassin considers leaving for a moment before making up their mind to get whumpee out and do whatever they can to help them – they've never been so happy to have killed someone after seeing what the target did to whumpee.

MY WRITING:

The mission itself was easy enough. Get in, kill Target, get out. Jax was a professional assassin, the best one in town. Killing was what he did best.

Dressed in his black outfit and cloak and armed with his favorite daggers and throwing knives, the assassin effortlessly infiltrated the extravagant mansion his target lived in. Using the throwing knives, he took out every guard he came upon, quickly and efficiently, making his way deeper into the building, his footsteps quiet as death as they ghosted over the floors, unnaturally silent. He had scoped the place out ahead of time, mentally mapping out every entrance and exit that he now knew by heart. Jax made his way to the private living quarters of his target, taking a deep breath before kicking down the door to the bedroom.

The target never saw it coming. They didn't even have time to gasp in surprise before Jax leapt gracefully forward and slashed their throat open with a wickedly sharp dagger, watching impassively as they crumpled to the floor, twitching feebly and clutching the gushing wound. Choked gurgling was all that escaped them as they tried to speak. It was over in under a minute, a quick, clean kill. The assassin wiped the blood from his blade on his target's own clothes before sheathing it, preparing to make his escape now that his task was complete. But something made him pause.

A strange, muffled sound reached his ears, that almost sounded like... crying? Whimpering? Jax's curiosity was piqued, and he debated whether to investigate. He didn't like to stay in one place for too long, lest he be caught, but something about the sounds intrigued him. He cursed himself for the hesitation, knowing that curiosity often kills cats.

But eventually he decided that there couldn't be any harm in snooping around his now-dead target's house. He realized that the sounds were coming through a wall, so he left the bedroom and went to the next room over, picking the lock in seconds and stepping inside. It was the absolute last thing Jax would have ever expected to find. It was the complete opposite of the lavish, excessively-decorated mansion.

No, this room was solid concrete top to bottom, cold and dark like a prison, or some twisted sort of dungeon. And against the back wall... chained up in a standing position... was a person? Almost unrecognizable, covered in dirt and blood and bruises. Was it a dead body?

The assassin warily crept closer, cautious, taking it all in. The prisoner was a young man, no more than a teenager, with wrists chained spread out to either side of him, the only things holding him up as he slumped forward limply against them, head lolled against his chest. And the boy was blindfolded with a piece of thick black cloth. The poor kid's breaths were broken and hitched with pathetic sobs and sounds of pain and suffering.

Jax's eyes roamed across his beaten body, all he was wearing was shorts and a ragged shirt. He was horrified to see the hundreds of vicious gashes and lacerations shredded across his entire form, some older but a lot much fresher, still oozing blood. Lash marks, burns, the cuts made from unkind blades... it was a miracle the boy wasn't dead already.

The prisoner's bones were highly visible beneath his bloodied and bruised skin from starvation, his appearance haggard and broken. It was hard to believe Jax's target could have been so cruel. It was clear this captive had been brutally tortured for weeks, if not months. And the boy's face was deathly pale from obvious blood loss, his whole body trembling with fear.

"What on earth did they do to you...?" Jax breathed aloud, hardly believing the brutality.

The teenager flinched hard at the sound of his voice, barely mustering the strength to weakly lift his head, still blindfolded.

"P-Please sir... n-no more..." he croaked. His voice was no more than a raspy whisper, throat bloody and raw from screaming. Then a racking cough shook his frail form.

Jax felt a sharp twinge of pity, and slowly unsheathed his dagger, hesitantly bringing it to the boy's throat. Perhaps it was better to put the poor mangled creature down, end his suffering. The prisoner let his head droop back down against his chest in defeat when he felt the cold metal rest against his artery, giving himself up to the mercy of welcoming death. Like a puppet with strings cut his body lolled forward against his restraints, going limp and submissive.

A few seconds of heavy silence passed, before Jax pulled his blade back and re-sheathed it, cursing under his breath. He couldn't bring himself to kill him.

"I'll get you out of here...." Jax reluctantly grumbled. What was he doing? Was he going soft? This was definitely not part of the plan. Jax shoved the thoughts out of his head and focused on the task at hand, picking the locks on the cuffs holding the teenager to the wall. He was barely able to react in time as the prisoner pitched bonelessly forward, and Jax caught him in surprised arms. The boy was feather-light from malnourishment, and he felt a hot flash of pure rage at how brutalized he was, barely alive.

Jax lowered him to the floor, resting his broken body in his lap as he eased the blindfold off.

The prisoner let out a pained groan that was dipped with the purest agony, blinking up at the assassin several times with sunken, hollow eyes full of pain. "...You're not... (Target's name)..." He wheezed softly, before more coughing racked his weak frame.

Jax could only nod, too speechless with horror and anger. He could feel the sorry soul shivering violently, skin ice-cold to the touch with blood loss, as his head rolled weakly against Jax's chest. Shallow breaths wheezed in and out of his lungs, a struggle to even draw air.

Wordlessly, Jax slowly got up and as gently as possible slung the teenager over a shoulder to carry him out of the wretched place.

The boy let out a weak, strangled, rattling cry of sharp pain as he was picked up, injuries singing with excruciating agony at even the most simple movement. He didn't even have the strength to struggle, or jerk away from the pain. He remained a limp weight over the assassin's shoulder as Jax carried him out of the mansion, to a new life.

It was a long journey back to his hideout, and with the dead weight over his shoulder, it slowed him down. The whole way, Jax was highly aware of the warm blood sliding down his shoulder, flowing red over his black stealth suit. Part of him wondered if the prisoner was even still alive, or if he was now carrying a lifeless body. But at last, he arrived. He slipped silently into his secret hideout, which was no more than a small underground dwelling built under the city to conceal him. His personal base of operations.

Jax was aware of every second ticking by, every second that the teen lost more blood with each sluggish heartbeat. He felt his adrenaline rising as he carried him over and set his broken body on the couch. The kid's head rolled lifelessly to the side, and his breaths were shallow and wheezing as he writhed and twitched weakly in pain.

Why am I doing this? Jax asked himself. Why do I care whether this kid lives or dies? I've ended plenty of lives myself...

Saving this captive could bring him trouble in the near future, maybe more trouble than he was worth, but Jax didn't have time to dwell on that. He whisked over to a corner of the room and dug through a wooden chest, gathering some medical supplies he often used on himself after missions gone wrong. He brought it to the side of the couch, placing fingers on the boy's pale neck. There was still a pulse. Barely. Fading more with every passing moment.

Quickly, Jax reached over to cut open the center of the prisoner's shredded, tattered shirt to check the extent of the injuries and prioritize the worst of them.

And he couldn't help a small horrified gasp when she saw what was beneath the ruined shirt. The captive's skin was mottled black and purple and red with hundreds of bruises and cuts and lacerations, all in various stages of healing, a grotesque mosaic carved into his flesh. It was cruel beyond belief, and to do something like this to someone so young... it made Jax's blood boil with rage.

His wide eyes roamed across the damage, taking it all in. Deeper gashes laced across the prisoner's chest, and larger bruises had formed over his ribs, some of them no more than a day or two old. The poor teen was covered in so many vicious injuries that it was hard to believe he was even still alive at all.

Jax's eyes flicked over to his wrists, chest twisting in knots as he spotted the inflamed chafe marks there where the skin was rubbed raw and bloody, signs of a futile struggle. It was clear he had been held captive for a long, /long/ time. He let out a shaky breath and rifled through the medical kit, quickly finding his suture kit, the same one he'd used on himself countless times to fix up battle injuries.

With trembling hands, he slipped on a pair of gloves and turned his focus to a particularly deep, oozing gaze. He had seen a lot of injuries in the past, but this was one of the worst.

His practiced skill came to aid him as he started stitching up the wound as fast as he could. Then the prisoner suddenly came back to semi-consciousness with a jolt, a weak scream of agony tearing loose from him as Jax brought the needle to his skin again and again. He started blindly lashing out in pure panic and terror, clumsily trying to push him away with failing strength, which was about as effective as pounding on solid rock. He was desperate and frantic, doing anything he could to escape the terrible agony racking his body with every breath, with every stitch Jax made. The teenager's breaths were strained and labored, coming in gasping pants, and the cries of pain were only broken up by breathless sobs as he writhed weakly on the couch, unable to out-scream the pain. Tears rolled down his filthy face, mixing with blood.

Jax winced as another gurgling scream wrenched from his mouth, making his ears hurt. He paused for a beat to reach over into his basket of supplies, pulling out a bundle of gauze.

"Quit making so much noise, it's giving me a headache," Jax growled, growing annoyed. "Bite down on this." He stuffed the roll of gauze roughly into the prisoner's mouth, muffling his cries of pain as he resumed stitching his side, tying off the thread at the end. He did the same for several other wounds he found, until finally it seemed he had gotten them all closed up. And not a moment too soon. The prisoner's face was deathly pale from blood loss, and his breathing kept growing weaker with every passing second. He was in terrible shape. And he had stopped trying to scream, falling silent, having finally passed out from the pain and physical distress.

Jax loosed a heavy sigh, and set to work covering up all the places he had stitched with gauze and medical wraps, before shifting focus to the smaller injuries. It was astonishing that the boy had survived so much physical trauma. He must have endured so many unspeakable horrors during his time at Target's house.

When Jax was finally done patching him up, he sat on a chair adjacent to the couch with another weary sigh, giving him a chance to reflect on everything that had happened. This was a stupid idea, he told himself. Even if the teen survived his grievous injuries, what would he do with him? He worked alone, that was how it always was. Keeping track of another person would be... hard. He knew this from experience.

Because a long time ago, he'd had an apprentice he worked with. Together, they were the two most dangerous assassins the world had ever seen. At least... until his apprentice had been executed in front of him as an act of revenge. Assassin had sworn to work alone ever since that day, the pain still sharp and fresh despite the years. He winced at the memory.

Exhaustion tugged at Jax's limbs, and he got up to check the teen's breathing, which had finally steadied a bit. He was too tired to worry about cleaning up all the blood in his hideout, so he just grabbed a blanket to pull over himself as he sat in a chair next to the couch, letting himself doze off for the night.

Next ⏩️

Masterlist

[staydandy]

Meet You at the Blossom (2024) - ก่อนดอกไม้…บาน / 花开有时颓靡无声 - Whump List

List by StayDandy Synopsis : Jin Xiao Bao, the heir of the wealthiest family in Jiangnan, meets a young woman and falls in love with the icy, white-clothed beauty at first sight. When he comes to the rescue of this injured "woman" however, she turns out to be a disguised man named Huai En. When Huai En learns who Xiao Bao is, he hatches a plot to use Xiao Bao’s feelings for him to accomplish his mission. But this plan backfires when Huai En starts to develop real feelings for Xiao Bao. Will Xiao Bao learn the truth about who Huai En is, and his real reason for wanting to be with him? Could their feelings surpass animosity, and is true love around the corner? (MDL)

Whumpee : Jin Xiao Bao played by Wang Yun Kai (center left) • Zongzheng Huai En / Zheng Huai En played by Li Le (center right)

Country : 🇨🇳 China Genres : BL / Boys Love, Romance, Historical, Wuxia, Bromance

Notes : This is a Full Whump List • Adapted from the novel "Hua Kai You Shi, Tui Mi Wu Sheng" (花开有时, 颓靡无声) by Shui Qian Cheng (水千丞) • Co-production with China, Taiwan, and Thailand - I am going to list it under the "China" on my list/category/genre pages since that is the language used. • A mystical Uncensored Chinese BL • TW : SA

Episodes on List : 12 Total Episodes : 12

*Spoilers below*

01 : Zongzheng Huai En in a fight, cut a few times & stabbed, collapses & passes out … in a fight, cut a bit.. hit with needles poisoned with aphrodisiac (TW)

02 : … continued from previous ep. ... Jin Xiao Bao collapses, Huai En unsteady, collapses … Xiao Bao wakes in a strange place, been asleep for 2 days, sore (😏 lol) … briefly choking on a grape

03 : Huai En drugged with muscle relaxant (faking) … Xiao Bao sick, collapses out of bed … cared for

04 : Huai En nightmare … (at end) stabbed

05 : … continued from previous ep. ... Fight, cut & stabbed.. collapses

06 : Xiao Bao drunk, choked (TW) … carried … knocked out … hit with a walking stick … captured, caged, imprisoned

07 : Beat up, pierced with poisoned needles, bites his lip in pain, collapses.. unconscious … Huai En choked … Xiao Bao shivering … Huai En chained … Xiao Bao wakes from fitful sleep, beats on his chest, pain, treated with ~energy~ … Huai En fight, cut, stabbed, passes out.. imprisoned, chained … Xiao Bao unsteady, supported.. shivering, feeling overly cold

08 : … continued from previous ep. ... Needle pulled from his arm, pain.. in shock, knocked out … unsteady … extreme pain, falls out of bed, held steady in attempts to treat him … Huai En still chained … Xiao Bao rolling in extreme pain, treated with acupuncture, biting his hand … collapse in shock, unsteady, collapses in pain

09 : Rendered mute via pressure point (fixed a moment later) … choked, Huai En spits up blood, poisoned.. Xiao Bao shivering, passes out … unsteady, supported

10 : Huai En in fight, Xiao Bao's hand used to stab Huai En, Huai En spits blood, Xiao Bao in shock, shaking … weak, unsteady … pain, passes out

11 : Knocked out … Huai En unsteady … arm in a sling, poisoned.. treated … Xiao Bao in extreme pain, treated with acupuncture … Huai En fight, wounded … passes out.. tumbles off horse.. passes out

12 : … continued from previous ep. ... [replay] Passes out … Xiao Bao wakes with a start.. unsteady, grief … attempting to be cured, pain, fighting to stay awake … [quick flashback] Huai En passed out on the ground

More Whump Lists for this show: simply-whump

[sorrowful-hyacinth]

What The Tide Brought In

[Next] — {Masterlist}

Contents: TW Restraints, TW Choking/ Strangling, TW Venomous Injury, TW Threats, Siren Whump, Pirate Whump, Sadistic Whumper, Defiant/ Stoic Whumpee

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“Captain, we’re going to need to make a port stop sooner than we expected. Our food supply is a little low.”

Looking off towards the distance of the endless sea, Malik was leaning against the wooden railing along the side of the vast ship. A deep internal sigh escaping him from the calmness of the morning. The waves were docile today, clear skies, and perfect winds. Glancing over his shoulder to acknowledge his first mate, Jovey. His signature side smirk that was as charming as ever.

“Means the lads are all eating well. Maybe too well, but we’ll tackle that later.” The deep rumble in his chest resonates through his chuckle, coming out a bit course from the early morning air. “Set a course for Port Royal, should be the nearest one to us.” 

Rising from his hunched position, his arms reach to the amber sky and soft huff escapes him. It had been a long month on the waters of the Atlantic, but shifting to the warmer tides of the Caribbean always reminded him where home was. It wouldn’t be more than a day now when he’d be able to collapse in a bed that doesn’t sway with the waves, in a warm tavern with a bottle of rum all to himself, and a bowl of stew from anything that wasn’t pescado. Possibly partaking in a little stealing, sabotaging, or cheating just to pass the time. Not having to be a captain for at least a week was a break he couldn’t wait for. The crew he inherited only knew how to follow orders when his voice was harsh as the winds, otherwise they’d slack off or get too comfortable. Not that he minded putting them in their place, it boosted his ego and there was a satisfaction in seeing the yielding in their eyes as they adjusted their tone and fixed their posture. Intimidation and strength. The qualities he believed was required of a captain, especially one as successful as he was. 

Unfortunately for him, because of his imposing presence on both the waters and the shores, it was now a rare occurrence for his ship to be attempted to be commandeered or attacked by other occupants of the sea. Even on land, most steered clear of him or were careful with their words. It made his exhibitions boring to say the least, no challenges, no competition. There hasn't even been ruthless storms as of late, the type to make experienced sailors soil themselves, the ones that threaten to sink you with your ship until you come out victorious. Even now as he turns to grip the wheel in his hands and his eyes scan the deck a flight below him where his men work, he doesn’t feel that thrill of adventure that used to drive him. He didn’t know if he would anytime soon with his reputation being as strong as it is.

His luck was akin to that of being at the mercy of a coin toss at times, whether today was a virtuous luck sent by the gods or a vicious one, he couldn’t care when his wishes were granted. Of course they were, he always got everything he wanted eventually.

“Captain! We caught something!”

His heads whips over towards port side, his men hoisting up large net that swung and twisted violently. Setting Jovey to steady the wheel, he quickly glides down the railing of the stairs before hopping to his feet on the deck. Trotting over to the commotion as his crew surround the catch. They part away to forge a path for him as he approaches and what he see’s makes his whole world light up in flurry of excitement. A siren. 

“Captain... is that the creature from the legends?”

Malik can’t help but let out a hearty laugh, not just at the question, but also out of astonishment at his luck. His eyes glued to the young male siren thrashing about in the thick rope, hissing and growling like a wild animal.

“That’s right lads! Look what the tide brought us, a siren from the tales of the sea.”

He gets down on one knee beside the tangled fishy creature. The strong scent of seawater mixed with an all too familiar rotten fish odor. Reaching down to grab the main rope line and tugging on it, the net tightens around the specimen and constricts its movements. A protesting growl leaving the siren as it glares through the rope straight at him. He can’t help grin a little maddeningly. Realizing just how amazing this turn of events was. Seeing this sirens unwavering aggression and defiance even from only being on board a few minutes sparked a fire in Malik.

“You’re far from home, aren’t you bilge rat? These aren't your waters.”

The siren, seemingly frantic and panicked from its predicament squirms in the net. Its tail thudding against the boards of the deck. Maliks chuckles overpowering the sirens protesting sounds. The crew that surrounded them watching in a mix of curiosity and caution. Taking the time to admire such rare creature in their waters. Its contrasting palette of blue hues and white accents. His finned tail pointed at the ends, three appendages along each side of his fish body with cerata extended out from each. His upper body resembling that of a normal young man, but scattered with a light blue vitiligo-esque pattern along his skin. Medium length dark blue hair damp and cascading over his shoulders. His fingers pointed like claws and his fangs baring. And those, oh so, captivating golden eyes.

“Alright lads, quit gawking. Why don’t we make our guest more... comfortable?”

Malik stands up as his crew get to work, knowing the protocol underlining his words. A few of the men dragging the siren towards the largest mast in the middle of the top deck. When they start to extract him from the net, he proves to be nothing if not aggressive and hostile. Using his sharpened nails to dig into the crews arms and legs, making them bleed. Biting hands and forearms when they try to lift him up. It took 5 sizable men just to get him up off the floor, but nobody was ready when one of the men got hit with one of the large appendages flapping around erratically through his struggle. The man stumbling back and falling down onto the wooden boards with a hard thud as he grips his chest. The crew managing to tie the siren up against the mast and restrain him. Everyone turns to look to their crew mate on the floor, struggling to breath. Malik rushes to his side and crouches down, inspecting the man and tugging his shirt down to see a hue of red amongst the inflammation quickly building on his chest. 

“Hey… hey, lad, keep your eyes on me, alright? You better fucking stay awake, you hear me?”

Malik slapping the mans cheek a few times to keep his attention when he notices his eyes lolling around with no intention. He looked sick, almost nauseous. His hands clawing at his own chest as if there was a pain that he fruitlessly attempted to dig out of himself. Malik having to grab the mans hands to keep him from hurting himself.

“Get this boy below deck! Don’t let him fall asleep and keep a bucket near in case he vomits.” When his crew just stare at the both of them with nervous and distant expressions after what they witnessed, Malik let go of the mans hands and stood up with a threatening posture. “NOW!” That woke the crew from their paralysis as they quickly made their way to the injured man and helped carry him below deck to be treated and supervised.

Malik turning towards the mast where the siren was left restrained and desperately fighting at the thick rope. His hands clenching at his sides, a fury in his eyes that would make most crumble at his feet. He walks over to the creature with steady strides until he’s standing before him. The siren glaring right back up at him, a smirk twitching onto his face, expressing his satisfaction.

“Whoops, sorry cap. Didn’t realize how weak your me—”

The siren chokes on his words as Maliks hand wraps completely around his throat. An iron grip, unyielding as he leans down closer to the sirens face. A cold fury brewing behind his gaze while the creature flails and gasps for air. His tail beating against the mast frantically. 

“If you dare to speak another word with that vile tongue fo yours, I will personally slice it out and force it down your throat. If that’s not enough to shut you up, I’ll cut off that tail of yours and feed you to the sharks. Got it, caviar?”

His voice was almost hushed, but didn’t lack the venom behind every word. Naturally making the siren tense as his glare falters from the combined threat and lack of oxygen. Maliks hand tightening around his neck hard enough to cause him to see stars and he reluctantly relented with a subtle nod. Enough for the hand to quickly retract and allow him to cough violently and heave for air. Maliks foreboding stance towering the fish creature while he watched with a sense of triumph that blossomed into pride as his grin plastered onto his face one more. For the first time in a long time, Malik found a thrill, something that made his heart race, something that made him tick. This siren, who had just backed down not even a few seconds ago, now scowling at him with a passion that was contagious.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for something like you to come along, little sea dragon.”

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Date: September 16, 2024