#military whump

[befuddled-calico-whump]

thinking about a whumpee on a forced march through rough terrain

hands tied in front of them, on foot while their captors are mounted, sleeping out in the open, forced to beg for adequate food and water

maybe they're barefoot, a captured royal in silken robes

maybe they're in a torn suit or soldier's uniform

maybe they were stripped at the start, increasing the exposure to the elements, the humiliation

are they a terrified mess from the beginning, or do they try to endure with dignity? how long before they're stumbling, barely putting one foot in front of the other? how long before they fall?

[whumpy-bi]

But just…I feel very strongly about a Whumpee being tortured for information they just don’t have. Whumper is certain they know, they are totally convinced Whumpee is lying through their teeth.

Whumpee wants to scream if they hear that goddamn question one more time—but they have no choice, Whumper will keep asking until Whumpee cracks.

But they’ve cracked a long time ago, they just don’t know.

Whumper tells them over and over—“If you’re honest, we can stop. You can lay down, I’ll even get you a drink. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

But Whumpee just wails and begs them to stop, even as Whumper asks again. They just don’t know.

[redd956]

ideas for newly rescued living weapon whumpees?

>:D Of course

Newly Rescued Living Weapon Prompts

Caretaker failed to notice that Weapon woke from their drugging. It wasn't until they were being held against the wall by their throat that they did.

Two newly rescued living weapons are proving to be dangers to each other. Caretaker isn't strong enough to break them up shit hits the fan.

A muzzled Weapon won't allow Caretaker to remove their constraints, citing that they promise they'll be a danger.

Caretaker removes the heavy armor Weapon always wore, unveiling thickened scars lashed across their back.

Living Weapon accidentally draws Caretaker's blood. Before Caretaker can even convince them that an accident is simply that, Living Weapon takes their leave.

Screams and hollered commands woke Caretaker from a deep sleep. They immediately knew who it was coming from.

Weapon doesn't cry, peep, or really do anything as Caretaker tends to them. Caretaker is worried that in their poor healthy they're going to fall dead on them without saying a word about it.

Caretaker acted gently, tightening weapon's bandages, asking them if it hurts, cleaning old wounds. They were shocked at the tears that Weapon started to weep in silence.

Whumpee doesn't understand what's fully going on. They've assumed themselves as caretaker's new weapon, guarding them wherever they go. They're even starting to get aggressively protective.

Weapon's dangerous features (fangs, sharp tail, claws, robotic attachments, etc.) need some TLC too. Caretaker has to put their entire trust in Whumpee to help them, as in such a position Whumpee could easily finish Caretaker off.

Weapon only eats, drinks, and sleeps to specific commands. Caretaker either has to get things forcefully into Whumpee's system, or figure out these commands before it's too late. Weapon is growing thin.

Caretaker traces their fingers over all the scars Weapon has accumulated. These can't be from battles.

[cpt-winters]

Forced Surrender - Leader Whump

"I knew you'd come."

Whumper's lips curled into that familiarly sickening smile as the metal gate rolled back, creaking on its hinges as Leader approached.

"I'm here, so let them go," he ordered.

Whumper's fingers waved a vague motion to the henchmen behind, promptly followed by kicking and scrapping against the gravelled ground.

"Get the hell off me!" Teammate One shouted, jerking against their restraints.

Three froze in their tracks, eyes widening as they landed on Leader. "Leader? What are you.."

"We had a deal," Leader answered, steely gaze refusing to break under Whumper's tangible glee.

"What? No- You can't-"

He stood rigid as the henchmen pushed his team past him, holding Whumper's gaze as he got to his knees.

"Leader-" Teammate Two started, desperation seeping into their voice. "Leader, don't do this!"

He set his jaw, composing himself from his teammate's distant pleas as Whumper drew closer, cuffs in hand.

"Leader! Please!"

Leader let out a breath as he drew his wrists together, offering them up to Whumper. He closed his eyes as cold metal wrapped around his skin, the light click of the cuffs a death sentence.

[wollemi-whump]

i love enemy caretakers. people who shouldnt be helping the injured person but their morals just wont let them stand by. a soldier patching up an opposing soldier even knowing it might put their own life at risk. a criminal talking down a gang leader to keep a detective from being killed or leaving them an anonymous tip to a dangerous situation. a vigilante keeping the person who wants to arrest them alive even if it increases the chance they get arrested. theres just so many great versions of enemy caretakers!!

[snippetsnitch]

Okay, but military whump. Military tropes in general. The POTENTIAL.

(❗️TW: Mentions of Torture, War, Oppression, Death – basically anything related to the shitty sides of militaries, power-abuse and warcrimes❗️)

Characters being captured by enemy forces and tortured for information until they either break or get rescued before they give out anything important.

(even better, if they don't have the information, but no one believes them 🥲)

Characters that are mistreated and abused in and by members of their own military. Maybe because they:

- do not agree with the way of their armed forces doing things (torturing enemies, repressing protests, committing warcrimes, etc.).

- have problems with authority and higher-ups that will be beaten and drilled out of them.

- are an outsider or part of a group that is strongly marginalised in the society the military forces are embedded in.

Characters being conditioned to never show any sign of pain, emotion or other 'weakness' to make them an effective and lethal fighter weapon.

Characters who are convinced pacifists being conscripts and suffering through grave emotional turmoil due to what is expected of them.

Dehumanising the enemy through language, propaganda and stereotypes.

Humanising the enemy by having to talk to one of them through a line of unfortunate circumstances (being imprisoned together, helping each other despite strict rules and surveillance, showing mercy on the battleground, etc.) or through anti-war-activism.

High-ranking characters that are dressed in ✨️fancy uniforms✨️

Power-dynamics and intrigues in the high ranks that have nothing to do with the cause and everything to do with elitism and gaining political influence.

Character A being higher-ranking than character B and using that power to bully them mercilessly (or to protect them, if you want it to be wholesome, though 😚).

Childhood friends being separated and seeing each other again on the battlefield – on opposite sides. :(

Old generals that have given up on the world, because they saw the cruelty and senselessnes of war vs. young, idealistic and possibly propaganda-brainwashed characters that see service in the military as the most honorable thing someone can do.

- breaking the view of those young idealists through the horrors of war.

- breaking the view of those old pessimists through good and selfless behaviour despite the horrors of war.

The "Well, well, well, what do we have here?" when characters are captured by enemy forces/caught spying and are taunted by their captors

(possibly combinated with forcing the captive to their knees)

(and grabbing their chin)

("Look at that, such a pretty face...")

(For the captive to defiantly spit in their captor's face or on their uniform)

(Only to be beaten violently)

(And to find themself with a boot on their chest/back/neck)

(You know what I'm getting at 👀).

Characters killing for the first time and breaking down completely.

Or characters killing for the first time and finding out that they enjoy it far more than they should.

Characters refusing to hurt/torture enemy characters, causing rank-internal drama and possibly putting the merciful character at great risk.

Veteran characters that struggle to find back into their "old life" after their service has ended.

Characters who grew up in a war-setting and know nothing but violence and danger.

etc.

etc.

etc.

There is just so much potential to explore your characters in depth, especially because it's such an extreme setting.

[rizzoto-whump]

I really enjoy the dynamics of size difference in whump, especially when there's a smaller whumpee and a larger whumper. The contrast of a small and fragile whumpee, easily overpowered or defeated by a larger whumper—like a pathetic, sad wet cat they are.

[whumpy-daydreams]

Since you mentioned living weapon prompts…

Defiant whumpee with some sort of superpower finally breaking and becoming a weapon?

ooh i love this and now its really long and i want to write more because i have the plot bunnies

CW: electric shocks, brainwashing, needle mention, military indoctrination

Whumpee had been sloppy. They'd trusted the wrong people and been screwed over as a result. And now they had been arrested? Drafted? They supposed the specifics didn't matter.

Whumpee was wondering how long they'd been stuck in this stupid chair when a door opened, pneumatics hissing as a portion of the wall slid aside.

The man in uniform didn't smile. He sat opposite, barely registering them as he opened a file, scanning through the two pages inside. That was good. They clearly didn't have much information about what Whumpee could do.

"Please state your name for the record."

If Whumpee could cross their arms they would have. But instead they just cocked their head, lips pursed. A slight twitch was all that gave away the man's annoyance.

"It would be in your best interest to comply."

"Why?"

"Because it will save me time and you pain." He clasped his hands on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Your name."

"You forgot the magic word," Whumpee smirked. A jolt of electricity burst across their wrists and ankles. Clearly the restraints were for more than keeping them in place. "Shit!"

"As I said, it is in your best interest to comply. What is your name?"

"Fuck. You." Another flash of pain, stronger than the last, and Whumpee cried out through gritted teeth. Their heart was pounding now, sweat beginning to bead on their back.

The man waited patiently. Whumpee just glared.

When the electricity hit again they screamed, back arching. White flashed across their vision. Whumpee wished they could move. Wished they could shake out the growing cramps in their arms and legs. Still the man just watched, waiting.

Whumpee lost track of time as shock after shock hit them, the only breaks in the silence being the sounds of screaming and the same question from the man, over and over and over. Your name.

"Whum-" their voice caught between sobs, "-Whumpee. My name's Whumpee."

They were drenched in sweat now, limbs shaking from the electricity that had coursed through them just moments before. They were so tired.

The man just nodded, not bothering to write anything down. Bastard. He already knew their name. All Whumpee had done was shown how much pain they could take.

"Would you like some water?" The question caught them off guard. After a moment Whumpee nodded. The man reached down, putting a glass of water on the table, a straw already in it, but didn't move it closer.

"You are being recruited into a special division here. There are others like you already in service, and you will receive comprehensive training to complete your missions."

"Why would I do that?" Whumpee rasped.

"To serve your country. You would receive compensation: food and lodging, thorough medical care, as well as a generous package when you retire."

"Can I think about it first?"

"While cooperation is preferable, we do not need any consent from you to enrol you into the program. I will repeat that it is-"

"In my best interest to comply." Whumpee finished for him. They looked at the glass of water and thankfully the man got the hint. He brought it forward, holding it so Whumpee could drink from the straw.

They took a long sip, looked at the man, and spat it in his face. "You can go to hell." He reeled back, wiping the water from himself with a sleeve. To Whumpee's dismay he didn't look angry, or even particular annoyed.

"Perhaps you need some time to think about it." Was all he said before leaving, the door hissing shut behind him.

___

Whumpee sagged forward in the chair, cheeks stained with tears and sweat as their muscles spasmed.

It had been hours. The shocks were random, or random enough that they hadn't been able to find a pattern - though it was hard to keep track when you kept getting electrocuted.

They didn't have the energy to scream any more. Strained whimpers and a rigid body the only sign of the electricity coursing through them. I won't let them do this to me. I won't let them turn me into a monster.

A firm hand on their arm startled Whumpee, who flinched away, silently sobbing. Then a scratch on the back of their hand, the strange feeling of tape keeping something secure. Whumpee didn't have the energy to look.

"Please..."

"Let it run through before shocking again, don't want them dislodging it." A different voice, and a murmur of acknowledgement. A few minutes silence.

"Have you thought about your situation, Whumpee?" The man's voice again, calm and professional. Fuckyoufuckyoufuckyou- "This can all stop if you want it to. All you have to do is cooperate."

It was so tempting. It would be so easy to give in. The exhaustion in Whumpee's body screamed at them to say yes, to accept whatever future they were offering.

With a sob, Whumpee shook their head.

"Why?" The man's voice was different now: softer, gentler. "You have no family, no true friends. Here you will have purpose. People to depend on, a stable place to live, the chance to make a difference in the world."

It was true. Whumpee didn't have anyone they trusted. There was no hope, no purpose, no stability in their future. Because of you. It was their fault Whumpee didn't have those things.

"Just let me leave," they said weakly.

"I can't do that. You belong here, even if you don't realise it yet." Whumpee heard rather than saw the man walk over. He pushed them upright, their head lolling backwards. "What's your name?"

"Whumpee." They didn't know why they said it. Whumpee told themselves it was because he already knew, but deep down that was a lie. It just... happened. They felt pliable, like their brain had been massaged into acceptance.

A video hologram appeared in front of them. It showed people in uniform eating together, playing games, doing training exercises and helping each other. Images of clean facilities, sports and books and tidy bedrooms flashed past one another.

It looked... nice? Not cosy but safe and welcoming. The calm speech of the voiceover repeated itself in Whumpee's brain.

'You'll be part of a family trained to be the best'

Whumpee wanted a family. They wanted to feel safe. Loved. To not have to worry about food and shelter, or who to trust. They're lying to you. The voice in their head took on an uncertain tone.

"Well, Whumpee? Are you ready to cooperate?" Yes. No. Whumpee didn't say anything, their thoughts merging together in a swirling pool of conflicting needs.

The man didn't say anything as he left again. Panic gripped Whumpee and they nearly called after him but it was too late. The door disappeared into the wall.

But no shocks came. Instead another video started, this time an interview of a young woman in uniform. She had powers too. And despite Whumpee's exhaustion they couldn't help but listen.

Another video played afterwards, and another, and another. Each one echoed in Whumpee's head, the voice telling them it was a lie getting quieter until it all but disappeared. Calmness spread over them, making them forget about the shocks, about the fact Whumpee had been kidnapped.

When the man finally reappeared, Whumpee looked at him silently.

"Are you ready to comply?"

"Yes."

[dresden-syndrome]

Requested by @sweet-lost-husbands and @monarchthefirst

Whumping in EESU: Defiant whumpee

Whumpee kicking and fighting so much they need much more effective restraints than their class unit/facility provides.

Whumpee dragged across the floor by said restraints to the interrogation room.

Whumpee screaming how they hate the government and the EESU regime, whether out of pure desire to say it out loud for the first time or to piss the captors off.

Whumpee being put in a cold small room or box for their "highly inconvenient" behavior.

Whumpee refusing to eat as an act of protest strapped to a chair or floor and fed through a feeding tube.

Whumpee of the "pet" designation which didn't cause much trouble back in detention lashing out, absolutely enraged by the fact of being owned by someone and the laws allowing it.

Whumpee not remembering half of the time in detention just because they were sedated way too often.

Whumpee held down to be injected with a sedative fighting, pushing, screaming as the needle approaches their skin.

Then, when the drug kicks in, sluggishly moving their hands and muttering swear words, desperate to keep fighting as their strength and awareness fades away.

Class 1-2 whumpee of defiant hot-headed personality struggling to control their impulses and behave well on interrogations to avoid getting demoted to a much worse fate.

Class 4 whumpee going absolutely feral since they have nothing more to lose.

Whumpee being selected for the State Security officers to practice capture/restraint techniques on; given their defiant nature, they're deemed "the extra hard target" for learning and practicing more brutal methods.

Whumpee getting tied up in their cell because they won't stop banging at the door.

Angry test subject whumpee calmed down by the doctors - in a condescending kind of way.

The moment when a previously defiant whumpee finally realizes they can't do anything with a situation they're in.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Reasons your character may be tortured that don't revolve around trying to get information:

(for those who care about accuracy and don't have time to research psychological techniques)

Revenge: the torturer feels wronged by their victim, and wants to make them suffer.

To get at a loved one: the victim isn't the actual target, but hurting them will emotionally affect or demoralize the torturer's enemy.

To force someone else's hand: similar to the above, torture by proxy to force the torturer's target to turn themselves in, sign a binding document, or make an impossible choice.

To coerce a confession: the torturer needs to pin a crime on someone, and their victim is a believable scapegoat.

Propaganda: we've captured one of your strongest men, now watch as we make them break down and beg for their life.

even more reasons

[whumpy-bi]

Whumpee watches through blurred, rapidly darkening vision as a new person pushes Whumper out of the way.

Even from their position on the floor, Whumpee can identify the newcomer is wearing the same uniform colors as their torturer. Different clothes, but…the same colors, Whumpee was sure of it. They moaned quietly—were they changing shifts?

The voices were distant. They bounced around Whumpee’s head like an echo along cave walls.

“Whumper. What have you done?”

“I…was questioning the detainee, Commander.”

“Questioning?” The newcomer’s voice rose a little. Whumpee half registered them looking down at them. “They’re half dead!”

“Well, they wouldn’t answer my question—“

“They can’t answer any questions, not like that.” They dropped to one knee, ignoring Whumpee’s mumbles of protest as they shined a flashlight across both of their eyes.

“You’re lucky you didn’t kill them, Whumper.”

“What does it matter? They’ll probably be executed, anyway—“

“This prisoner is under my authority, do you understand? It will cost all of us if they die, but especially me. Which means you will be the one paying for it. You won’t be questioning them again.”

A long, uncomfortable silence enveloped the cell as the commander pulled Whumpee up to sit against the wall. Whumpee was silent and pliant, their entire body still aching from earlier.

“What did you do to them?”

“Standard procedures…blunt force, electric shocks—“

“Back to back, clearly. And why is there blood on the wall?”

“I…may have thrown them against it.”

“Whumper, you’re dismissed.”

Whumper left without another word, feeling a burning sensation from their commander’s harsh tone.

Whumpee closed their eyes, finally losing themselves to exhaustion as Commander sighed and spoke into their radio.

“Prisoner was injured during questioning. May be a concussion—“ They tapped Whumpee’s jaw. “Hey, stay awake. Stay awake.”

“May be a concussion, prep a medical bed. I’m taking them in myself, Whumper is no longer authorized to deal with this one.”

The words were starting to blur and mush together, Whumpee couldn’t make sense of them anymore. They weakly attempted to squirm, shifting away from the high ranking official looming over them.

“Stop moving.” Their voice wasn’t exactly gentle, but it wasn’t quite harsh either. Whumpee found themselves obeying, despite their fear and the increasing haze in their mind.

“I’m not hurting you. Do you understand me?”

Whumpee managed a weak nod.

“Good. You will be questioned again, but not now. Now, you’re receiving medical attention. I’m telling you not to fight us, it will not help you whatsoever. Do you understand?”

Another smaller nod.

“Good. Let’s go, before you actually pass out on me.”

[redd956]

Living Weapon + Military Whump Ideas

Living weapon is discarded after taking one to many blows in war

Soldier who fights alongside living weapon, can't stand watching them suffer either, even if it's in silence. A comrade in arms, is a comrade in arms.

Enemy commander is a living weapon, and they only break when they begin to realize that they're losing, because they can't imagine what's going to happen to them

Ally thinks highly of their living weapon colleagues, their nation, and their military. They did so until they accidentally witnessed a living weapon being punished for something incredibly minor.

Civilian doesn't understand how the soldiers are living weapons, and bestows tons of kindness and humanity to an injured one that crosses their path.

Enemy and Ally living weapon snap, realizing that together there's more of them, than there are of the people who made them.

Enemy and Ally living weapon decide this life ain't worth it, and run off together.

Medic dives in to rescue a living weapon, after finishing up with the normal set of soldiers. The epiphany of touch starvation kicks in for the living weapon, when they feel the medic's hands acting as gently and carefully as possible.

Groups of soldiers are paired up with one living weapon. At first the soldiers despised this set up, and the seemingly lifeless living weapons, until they begun to realize how great they were protectors, and that they seem to bestow humanity in their own...unique ways.

Enemy living weapon plagues a crew of soldiers for a long time. When they finally defeat it, they're all incredibly shocked at the pure despair coming from it, as it believes worse is to come of it for failing it's task.

Very skilled soldiers are "promoted" into living weapons

Soldier needs patching up. They just so happen to hate their living weapon comrades, and are even more distraught now when their local living weapon unveils their medical training for this exact situation.

Deserting soldier gets chased down by one of their living weapons.

[cpt-winters]

me and my friend are going absolutely feral for the team leader battle aftermath story. it’s so, so, sooooo beautifully written. the emotions and imagery are outstanding. I am completely immersed! we’re both dying for more. and tysm for writing and posting <3

Aw, thanks sm <3 This is the last one lol hope you and your friend enjoy!

Collapse Aftermath - Leader Whump

He tried to stay upright. He really did, but the second Leader's knees buckled any effort to grip onto composure was lost.

"Whoa, hey-"

A quiet groan was the most objection Leader managed at the arms locking around him, flaring the wound in his side.

Colourful exclamations of panic from his teammate morphed into something distant as he slumped against the other, short breaths the only thing to be heard above the heavy heartbeat- not his own, thudding against his ear.

Heavy limbs of no use to him, Leader could only shudder as Teammate lowered him to the floor, the painstaking care doing nothing for the torn skin that screamed in protest until the ceiling above finally flooded his vision.

"...ear me?"

His eyelids drooped beneath the harsh fluorescent tubes glaring down, a distinct chill settling around him as his head lulled to the side.

"Shit, shit! Hey- Can you hear me?"

Leader mustered some vague groan, frantic tapping against his cheek tugging back on his thread of consciousness. He failed to bite back his half-strangled cry, no warning coming before the firm pressure pushed into his side.

"Fuck! Why didn't you say something?" Teammate's wide eyes flickered from their captain's wound to his paling face.

".. 'thought I had it h.. handled," he gritted out, biting back another wince.

"This- this is not handled boss!"

Dark spots blotted the face looming above him in and out of focus, nothing but Leader's choked breaths occupying the space between the pair. "Yeah.." he whispered, eyes threatening to fall closed.

"No, no. Come on Leader, eyes on me," Teammate encouraged, shaky voice accompanied by incessant tapping resuming on the side of Leader's face.

Sluggishly swiping at it only yielded his own hand caught in Teammate's, guided down toward his side.

"Just keep that there, okay?" They carefully laid his palm across the soaked material, drawing a shaky breath. "I'll get help just- just stay there."

Leader's glazed eyes followed Teammate as they scrambled to their feet.

"I'll be right back. Right back," they promised, giving their captain's limp form a final glance before sprinting out the door, rushed footsteps fading down the hallway.

3/3 (Part One, Part Two)

[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 ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ 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.

[urlocalwhumper]

two critically injured, probably dying soldiers tucked away behind cover while a battle rages on close by.

they're on opposite sides, but that hardly matters when they're both slowly bleeding out, too consumed by pain and weakness to go reaching for their weapons.

so instead they talk. about themselves, their loved ones, what they hoped to do after the war, their life's dreams, even things as simple as their favorite foods or colors. in their dying hours, they build a strong connection to a person they've only just met, and both wonder to themselves if they could have been good friends, had things been different.

maybe they die there. two soldiers wearing opposing uniforms, bodies slumped against each other and hands tightly linked, seeking the comfort of human touch in their final moments.

or maybe one soldier's comrades come to save them, and they struggle with what little strength they have left, begging and pleading for them to bring the other soldier too, that they won't go without them.

[rizzoto-whump]

"You're a monster."

Whumper just laughed, "Maybe I am." they said, "But at least I'm not the one bleeding all over the place."

"You think it's funny?" Whumpee shouted, "You think it's funny to hurt people?"

"I think it's hilarious. And I can't wait to do it again."