#living weapon whump

[snakebites-and-ink]

What if a living weapon whumpee remained a weapon but in a reclamatory way. You made me into this, but now I will use it to fight against you. You made me into this, but now I will use it to protect those who are better to me than you were. You made me into this, but I decide what happens with it from here.

[jordanstrophe]

Whumpee’s tied down in a hospital gown gagged and blindfolded. 

The gag is so they don’t bite.

The blindfold is so no one has to look into their eyes when they run unethical experiments.

Besides, they’re here for the science, not torture. They had the stomach for blood but not for the crying.

[redd956]

Living Weapon Whumpee: Caretaking Prompts

Caretaker massaging Living Weapon's stiff muscles that have never had such treatment before. Living Weapon wincing, hissing between their teeth, but relaxing to Caretaker's working touch.

Sick Living Weapon worked themselves too hard, and promptly collapsed. They've woken up in bed, something they can't even remember they last time they've slept on.

Caretaker played a bit of dress up with Living Weapon, finally managing to get them in civilian clothing. They spun the mirror around for Living Weapon. Now they're frantically trying to sop up the tears sliding down Living Weapon's face.

Caretaker needing to frantically ask Living Weapon questions, because they'll never request anything for themselves. "Does this hurt?" "Do you need painkillers?" "Is this too tight?"

Living Weapon has grown frightened of Caretaker due to their gentleness, fearing it because it's something they are not used to. Caretaker is trying to teach them that they deserve to be treated gently.

Caretaker walked in to check on Living Weapon today, only to find them having a reaction based from their "training". Now Caretaker is looming over them, their hand placed on Living Weapon's back, trying to stir their friend to return to them.

Medic Caretaker has brought in soldiers, and civilians alike into their care. They happened to take in one Living Weapon too. As everyone has healed up and returned, no one has come by to claim the Living Weapon. Now Caretaker is in charge of them, until they can find where they belong.

"Where am I?", Living Weapon asked. They took quite the hit to the head, and have been incredibly disoriented. Caretaker doesn't have the heart to tell them where they are, and better yet what they are.

Caretaker took in more than one Living Weapon. They've been watching the multiple whumpees recover and develop drastically differently. They weren't expecting to have to break up fights, but it's made for the perfect lecture time while they add gauze to broken skin.

A Living Weapon far worse for ware then what Caretaker is used to seeing showed up in their care. While helping Living Weapon walk, they look up to the supposedly unexpressive face scrunched up in a look on the verge of tears.

Caretaker and Living Weapon walking out of the bathroom covered in excessive amounts of soap, because Living Weapon assumed Caretaker was trying to "drown" them in this action called "bathing"

Living Weapon slowly unveiling their injuries that are no big deal according to them. Watching Caretaker wrap bandages around their arms, and apply solvents to puffy looking wounds. They think they're starting to understand.

[mintflavouredwhump]

Thinking about a living weapon whumpee who has only known chaos and fear throughout their life, either from their victims or themselves when faced with their boss(es).

They've been physically, mentally and emotionally isolated from the rest of society and as much as they try to cover it all up with apathy, they can't help but want some comfort, someone to hold them and care for them.

[whump-a-la-mode]

I was lucky enough to be able to commission some art of Artemis, and the main character Fera, from my friend @corbytheking​! Want to read Artemis? Start here!

Individual images below the cut

[pigeonwhumps]

Touch-starved

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 1: touchstarved

@febuwhump

MD-264N wakes up.

1.1k

CWs: self-dehumanisation, fear of death, electric shock mention, conditioned whumpee, caretaker new master

MD-264N blinks itself awake. Its systems are not functioning at optimum efficiency but they're close to it, except for its ankle. There's uncomfortable sensation coming from that. But other than that it's much better than before.

Now. Where is it being stored? It has no restraints for… for some reason, and there's a window, so it isn't back at base. How did it get here?

Can it see the sky now?

One thing at a time. What is it wearing? It's far too light. The control harness and mitts are gone, and its clothes are… unusual. They're thick, soft, bright. The weapon looks at its arm, covered in baggy light blue soft fabric. So much brighter than it's allowed.

But it's not at base, so maybe it's what the people here want. That would make sense, right?

Next. This storage room. It's brighter than any at base, walls coloured light blue and pink. There's a wooden cabinet in the corner, a prosthetic forearm lying on it, and a window above the soft cot that MD-264N's on. That's unusual too. The weapon peers out of it as much as it can without moving, just about able to see a grey sky above.

That's its surroundings taken care of then. They don't make sense, but that's what's there. In that case, who brought it here? The last thing it remembers, it was on the street. Why did someone take it and put it in here? What do they want from it? Its hands are free, the only thing that makes sense is they want to use it, but there's no handlers here. This space is too big for the safe storage of weapons anyway.

MD-264N's throat goes tight. What happens if someone finds it out here? It's not safe. It doesn't know if this is what the people who put it here want but surely they want it to be secured safely.

MD-264N's eyes light on the cabinet, and it climbs off the soft cot it's been placed on and starts making its way towards it.

One foot goes on the floor, but when it tries to put its weight on the other foot, its ankle malfunctions and it collapses to the floor.

It attempts to push itself up as it hears footsteps, arms shaking, but it can't move. Aberrant moisture leaks out of the corners of its eyes. These people won't want a faulty weapon. They'll decommission it and then it'll never see the sky again.

The footsteps are very close now. MD-264N tries to kneel instead, desperate to be good enough to see the sky again.

"Hey, sweetheart, what are you doing on the floor? You're supposed to be resting." The voice is soft beside it, and the weapon's not sure who they're talking to. It sounds like they're talking to it but… you don't talk like that to weapons. Gentle, like it's a person. But there's no-one here. "Sit back on the bed, come on. Can you do that for me?"

MD-264N tries, it really does, but it can't move its leg. "This weapon is malfunctioning, sir, it– please." Please, please don't have it decommissioned, not yet.

"Okay. It's okay, sweetheart, I'll help you. I'm going to have to touch you, is that alright?"

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you." The speaker wraps an arm around it and helps it sit down on the cot. The arm is warm and the hand ungloved, and the weapon finds itself leaning into their touch. It stiffens. No, no that's bad, weapons don't need touch. "Hey, you don't need to move away. I bet you're touch-starved, huh?" MD-264N doesn't answer. It doesn't know how. "You don't need to… y'know, act all subservient. You can look at me. And you don't have to address me as sir, Rhian will do. Since it's my name. Do you have one?"

"This weapon has been designated MD-264N," answers the weapon automatically, "designed and programmed for urban use by the Ministry of Defence. Its capabilities are–"

"That's your designation, sweetheart, not your name. I guess that means you don't have one then. Would it be alright if I give you one?"

Why are they asking all these questions? Surely they know it can't refuse anyway.

"Yes, s– Rhian."

"Great! So I was thinking of Morgan, if you like it?"

"Yes, Rhian."

"That's good. You can look at me, sweetheart, you don't have to look at the floor. Why won't you look up?"

MD-264N (no, Morgan, it'd better start using the name its new commander wants) shivers. "This weapon is malfunctioning."

"What do you mean?"

Morgan swallows, preparing to give the information that might get it decommissioned. "Its left ankle is not functioning, and there is aberrant moisture leaking from its eyes. And it keeps having aberrant thoughts."

There's a short pause. "So… you're in pain, you're crying and you're probably scared? You're in a strange place with people you've never met, after being shot in the ankle, I'd be surprised if something wasn't wrong, frankly. I'll get Asha to bring you some more painkillers. It's okay to feel like this, sweetheart, it doesn't mean you can't look at me, or that I don't want to see you. Please, Morgan?"

Morgan can't refuse that, and it raises its head, not making eye contact but looking all the same. Rhian's hair is white dipped in red, and they smile at the weapon, mouth dimpling at the corners.

"There you are. Nice to meet you."

They're so soft, their hand warm on its arm, saying things that don't make sense, not for a weapon, but they're so nice. More moisture leaks from the weapon's eyes at the gentleness. Nobody's ever been this gentle with it.

"Hey, it's okay. Do you want a hug?"

A hug? But it– it's never, no-one's ever– it's just a weapon, why would anyone offer? Morgan nods anyway, and Rhian wraps their arm around it, holding it tight and warm. They don't seem bothered about touching it, like its handlers are, and their fingers almost burn through the fabric of the hoodie. It doesn't remember the last time anyone touched it without gloves.

Its eyes leak even more and it finds itself making sounds along with that, sounds that it would surely be shocked for with anyone else. But Rhian just shushes it gently, and it can't help leaning into their touch.

Of all the people it's met, Rhian is by far the most patient, and it can't help the aberrant and likely futile hope that the gentleness lasts.

[wolfeyedwitch]

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

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

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

Masterlist

---

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

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

“Weapon. Fire.”

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

A second later, the screams started.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It raised its hands again. 

---

Taglist:

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

[bamber344]

kinda thinking about writing a shorter form whump series to post on here in the meantime while i'm working on Addison Project

i got thoughts about a living weapon whumpee in a superhero setting and I've had this little non-consensual cloning plot in my head for a little while

let me know if that's something you'd like to read and i'll put together a taglist!

[inkwell-and-dagger]

Carmen could only watch from the sidelines and Foster demonstrated the ways The Survivors tortured Rayan. Rayan.

He didn't understand how Rayan could take the torture so well. There he was, being thrown and beaten to the ground like a toy, but he rarely made a sound unless They told him to. He would slip up occasionally if Foster did something unexpected, but then he'd get disciplined when Carmen wasn't in the room. He was thankful that he could skip that part.

Even then, as They taught him the countless ways to make one bleed, all for the sake of him being some sort of fucked-up guard dog, he couldn't help but feel bad for the small immortal at Foster's feet.

Countless healing or forcefully opened wounds, bruises that are a million beautiful colours painting the pale skin beneath. Blood caking every inch of his flesh, hair matted and askew and eyes wide with such fear it made Carmen want to be sick. He knew he couldn't, though; They'd discipline him for that.

Whether it was a way to toughen him up or torment him more, he didn't know. But if either of those would be the case, both were working. He noticed he was — gradually, and barely — beginning to get used to the blood and the gore, the dishevelled man and his frail limbs and his small voice pleading for forgiveness. He could only wonder what Rayan had done to deserve this treatment. On the other hand, he had another reason to fear Foster. And Madir even more, for a hand saw was displayed almost proudly on the wall to the left of him which belonged, as he'd learnt, strictly to Madir. He was sure he knew the reason behind the discarded prosthetic and the stump of Rayan's right thigh were from now...

At least he'd hopefully get to join Zayn when He visited Rayan down here. Emphasis on hopefully. Foster and particularly Madir didn't let him go down on his own when either of Them weren't with him, since Rayan was known to be "aggressive". But, Carmen didn't think so. Yes, sometimes, he'd lash out and apologize because of some sort of sudden movement, but.. overall, he was a sweetheart. And if Zayn was able to convince His sister and the Others for Carmen to come down there with him and Ivy, he'd get to see that gentle behaviour.

He wondered if Haedrin or Iyrle had ever seen Rayan when he wasn't getting tortured. Maybe Carmen was the only one They could excuse going down there. He liked that thought. Maybe he could tell the other two about it when they had any free time, or...

"Eyes up, Carmen. You're gonna miss the best part."

His eyes snapped up on instinct, zeroing in on Rayan and Foster. A knife was held to the immortal's throat, whose eyes were wide with terror. He could've sworn he saw Rayan's lips mumbling a silent apology.

Meanwhile, Foster grinned. "...And, if he gets too much to handle, all you do is this."

...Carmen had to look away for that part as Rayan's body hit the floor.

[whumpwhumpwhumpwhump]

Living weapon whump but after the war the weapon was created for

What do they do now their purpose is gone? Do they go on loyally serving the people who made them, waiting for the possibility the threat will return? Or do they become a mercenary, driven by their desire to continue to be useful and live out their purpose for anyone who is in need? Or do they try and start a normal life, feeling like they've done their duty for the people who made them? And if they do choose to stop, are they resented for betraying their people, and not using their powers for the service of the group, country, race, species, that created them?

[pxppet]

Thinking about Chase with extreme accurate aim powers who Anti - rather than the strain of possession constantly - bribes and manipulates until he agrees to use his ability to kill. After the first it's too late to go back. Anti convinces Chase he'll always protect him, if he uses his powers to become a mercenary on Anti's behalf. "Living weapon" trope ensues as Anti is completely uninterested in between jobs, which leaves Chase homeless, on the run, and alone. Anti wires him stolen cash, but usually just throws out what he buys next time they need to run. Eventually he's just always desperate for Anti, scared and bored and empty without an order to follow. Did he have a family once? He's well into his 40s and has killed so many people - innocent or not, if that even matters now. Chase sometimes has dreams of soft baby's tummies and a woman calling his name lovingly, but he figures they're dead anyway, so doesn't dwell on it. Just waits in his hotel rooms or tents Anti sets him up with and taps his feet in boredom. Sometimes buys cheap food, but at this point he's hardly ever hungry. Hell, sometimes it's like he's craving a new task, a new kill, just to have something to do. Anti doesn't even give him a ball to bounce around. His once fun trickshot powers only know guns and darts now. Chase feels more gun than skin, more weapon than man. But he always listens. It's the only option any more. Just the emptiness and then the adrenaline and over again, endless cycle. Fucking circles, or something like that. Chase doesn't find himself caring much anymore. Anti's praise and Anti's orders are all he lives for; all he was ever meant to be.

Edit: sketched him!

[snakebites-and-ink]

Thinking about how some people kiss certain objects for luck before using them (dice before rolling, less commonly but more relevantly guns before shooting, etc.) and like. What if someone kissed their living weapon before each mission for luck?

[jordanstrophe]

Behave: The Laboratory 2/2

[Masterlist]

CW: Whumper turned caretaker, medical whump, living weapon, sickness, angst, hurt/comfort

Whumper managed to get a heater going and boiled tea in an experiment vial. It was a strange way to do it, but it was all they had.

"Try and sip this down." Whumper poured it into a beaker (the closest thing they had to a cup) and handed it to them.

"I'm sorry, I think I'll pass..." Whumpee scrunched their face away, feeling nauseous just looking at it.

"I didn't slip anything in it if that's what you're worried about. I agreed to your terms; no secrets." Whumper coaxed it closer until whumpee took it out of fear of it spilling on them.

"That's great, but I still don't trust anything you hand me." Whumpee gestured.

"Whumpee for goodness sake it's peppermint tea. Drink it, I'm tired of listening to you sniffle. You'll interrupt me." Whumper put their hands on their hips.

With shaking hands, whumpee took a hesitant sip. "Then please, start talking."

Color drained from whumper's face when they realized this was the moment they had to face everything. Their attitude evaporated and they sat in a chair next to whumpee's gurney, folding their hand over their lap.

“Your sickness, it saps your vitals at random. We had never seen anything like it... No one knew how to help you. Our boss believes, if you’re to be stabilized; you could be used as a weapon.”

Whumpee exhaled and immediately curled into themselves. “A weapon..." Hair stood on the back of their neck as dread filled their stomach. "Wouldn't curing me fix it then? Please say it does...” Whumpee rasped.

“I was only to keep it dormmate, not eradicated. Your blood had potential the company was trying to harvest. People would kill for it. People would kill with it.” Whumper tried putting their hand on their knee but whumpee twisted their legs to the side. 

“Then why hasn't it killed me yet?” Whumpee clutched at the hot beaker in their hands hard enough it burned.

"You're the host, it started slow enough you weren't overwhelmed and your body adapted to it. Think of how much damage it would do to someone who never built immunities. Think of how much it's made you suffer. ... Now imagine it all at once- Actually, no, don't do that." Whumper quickly cleared their throat.

Whumpee sighed and closed their eyes, taking another involuntary sip of the tea. It did, somehow, sate some of their nausea.

“Once I had stabilized you, you were to be sent to a different lab to be tested. Your blood would be drained. They would keep you alive, of course. But hardly."

Whumpee took a moment and stared into the distant nothing. Whumper didn’t interrupt them.

"Why not kill me and harvest it all? Why keep me alive for so long?"

"And kill an infinite source of pure poison? They would get so much more from you alive. They would have drained you, slowly. Then allow you to recover and start again."

"Then again."

"And again..."

"-Okay! Okay... I get it, please stop." Whumpee shouted, clutching the bridge of their nose like it would dull their headache. “And that’s what you were after?” Whumpee’s eyes returned to meet theirs in a cold, blank stare. Whumper sighed and their eyes found the floor. 

“It was.”

“It was?” Whumpee raised a brow.

Whumper couldn’t help but feel like it was an accusation as they stood and started pacing. “Look I- ... It was- ... They promised me you weren't going to be killed! But the more I heard whispers about what was going to happen to you I- ... I couldn’t let them take you away. The doctor was a taste of how you would have been treated. I guess you could say I found it erm- Unethical.” They huffed like a confession.

Whumpee let out a shaken breath they didn’t realize they were holding. They sank further into the gurney and laid their head back. 

“Terrified of you as I may be, you did save my life." Whumpee mumbled. They didn't elaborate, but whumper could feel it an olive branch being extended with a glove and a long claw arm.

"So what happens now?”

Whumper brought their hand to whumpee’s forehead and felt heat. They sighed and began rooting through their bag. “Now, I keep you safe. We’ll figure it out as we go, but my goal is still the same: To cure you.”

“Can I go home?” Whumpee asked. 

“You want your family and friends caught up in this mess?” Whumper handed them a handful of pills. “No one is safe, especially your side of the coin. You’re being hunted. We both are... Anyone we contact is a target. Take this, it’ll bring your fever down.” 

They waited for whumpee to swallow the pills down before continuing. They seemed to struggle at swallowing, weakened to almost a mindless state. 

“You were only out for a few hours, you should rest. We have a lot to do in the morning. I have equipment to repair.” Whumper took the bottle from whumpee before they dropped it and started heading for their kit. 

“Wait.” Whumpee grabbed whumper’s wrist before they were out of reach.   “I can only guess the sacrifice you paid to get me out of there... So thank you.” Whumpee managed a small smile. It wasn't forced, just tired.

Whumper seemed to be at a loss of words; they didn't realize they were still staring wide-eyed at them for too long before quickly looking away.

“It was nothing. Not as much as you might think.” They shrugged, pulling away. Whumpee decided to not pry on their answer and closed their eyes, falling asleep almost immediately.

@serialobsesssor @fishtale88  @bluesoulpeace  roblingoblin285   @echo-of-umbra @whump-bunny  @pretty-little-whump @akaijisatsu  @whatiswhump @shannon-foraker  @whumpkitty @suspicious-whumping-egg @whatwhumpcomments  @whumpdreamz @elletheclover @whumpinhereyes  @veyroswin @dustypinetree  @anonintrovert  @cepheusgalaxy @cyborg0109@whatwhumpcomments @whatiswhump ​ @laurenhufflepuff2 @pirefyrelight @pigeonwhumps

[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.

[syncopein3d]

The Warm One 6: Spring Campaign

Part 5: Would You Say No

CW/tropes: living weapon, nonhuman caretaker, female whumpee, discussion of past noncon, intimate/nonsexual touch, servant caretaker, traumatic restraints, dry heaving

The snow melts sooner than it feels like it should. The army can march while it’s still on its way out, decaying in gray and listless drifts. So now they are on their way to Althaen. It would suit the Master’s consequence better for Aldo the Orc to ride, as he will ride himself, but the Orc he has given the Wrath of the King for her plaything and servant obviously can’t ride. What Orc can? And besides, only the war horses trained to wear armor are big enough, and definitely no one is sacrificing one of those.

Fortunately, while the scarring of an old arrow wound in his thigh prevents Aldo from running as fast as he could when he was a soldier, he can walk fast enough to keep up with the wagons. He doesn’t even seem to mind, trundling along with a knobbly walking stick that the Master insisted at least be polished and varnished.

The weapon can see him through the open curtains at the back of the ornate wagon where she rides. She is shaded from sun and wind, but the great sword and sickle on the crimson banner outside is there to let everyone know what is in this specific wagon. The whole thing is painted black. Gilt trim glitters in the late afternoon sun. The bars of the back door are gilt-plated, too. They’re thin enough that she thinks Aldo could probably bend them. They’re not really there to keep her in. They are there to remind everyone how valuable and dangerous is the work of the Sorcerers of the Kingdom of Man. The back curtains are velvet. There’s a solid panel that can slide across against the possibility of snow or arrows, but unless that happens, she is there to be seen as they travel, trying not to be sick as every movement jostles her. Her red traveling robes are a little less ornate than her daily clothes, plain velvet instead of beaded brocade. The backing of the fabric scratches her arms. The tulle of her shift scratches almost everywhere else. The pins in her pile of braids poke and prod with every jolt. The pile of cushions she’s sitting in don’t really help. They’re stiff and shiny with embroidery.

After hours of this, only the sturdy reinforcement of her corsetry keeps her upright. Her entire world is the branched scar that covers the front of her trunk. It throbs and almost seems to writhe. She has no clear idea of when the day will end. This is their fourth day of travel. Soon they will reach the border with the kingdom of Althaen.

The army stretches out all around them, ranks of Humans and Orcs and the occasional taller Gnome. There are a few officers that are Elf or Ifrit, all on horseback, resplendant in their acid-etched gold and black armor. The Orcs all have one mail shirt each, and a helmet that doesn’t cover their faces. Aldo doesn’t get any armor. He gets to walk, like a soldier, but go without protection, like a servant. The weapon knows the Master likes that, reminding her every moment how easily his gift can be taken away from her.

At last, after what seems like years, the wagon starts to turn, the army pinwheeling around it into a form more conducive to digging lavatories and setting up tents. The weapon crawls to the back of the wagon to hold onto the golden bars. Her golden bracers feel heavier than ever, sapping even that bit of her strength. Aldo comes closer, leaning on his staff.

“You’ll be out soon, Milady,” he said. “I’m going to help them set up.”

She nods, still struggling not to throw up. She watches the Orc lean his stick on the wheel of the maids’ wagon as he goes to help the other manservants. He is allowed to wear embroidered wool instead of velvet while they travel, and he is obviously more comfortable in it.

It takes a while to set up, but at last the red silk tent is finished, and the Master of Sorceries comes to ostentatiously unlock the cage bars and hand her out. She doesn’t know what art keeps him younger than her thirty-four years when he was a grown man at the time of her birth, but it must be something terrible. All magic is.

“We come to the Field of Thearn in two days,” he tells her. “The Althaenir await us there. They know we have never been defeated, but not how. Won’t you be excited to surprise them, little one?” She leans on his arm, but he is thinking of future glory, half-dragging her toward the tent.

“Yes, Master.” She struggles to keep sarcasm from her tone. He still has the ability to ruin her night. “I still hunger.” That tone doesn’t have to be faked. She knows what is coming, and hates it, and wants it so, so badly. Aldo, holding the tent flap for them, looks at her curiously. He’s never heard that note of trembling desperation in her voice.

“There’s my good girl.” He stops to look down at her, finger under her chin. She knows what he wants. He has wanted it since she was grown. He has never been stupid enough to do it. She looks back up at him with exhaustion and indifference, fighting to keep down disgust. If he kisses her she really will throw up, she thinks. But at last he drops her arm abruptly, leaving her swaying, and turns and strides from the tent.

“I pity whatever woman he’s keeping,” she tells Aldo, as the maids rise from the traveling trunks to come and get her out of her robes and take her jewels and hair comb. She hisses in agony as the shift peels away from the scar. Dried blood was holding one to the other, as it turns out. It forms a horrid branching shape like a tree tossed by the wind.

The maids grumble to each other about the laundry, but they’ve dealt with this before. They’ve brought more than one shift. They sponge her off as quickly as possible, ignoring her stifled noises. Aldo helps them get her into her thin woolen robe, leaving it loose, and then they hurry over to pack and wash and leave her with her Orc. It’s a big tent. There’s no cot. There’s an oilskin under a duvet, and there are the same type of stiff cushions piled on top of that. At the center of the tent below the smoke-hole there’s a brazier.

Aldo carries her over to the duvet and sets her in the vee of his legs, facing the fire. He already has the comb and brush and a little tin cup of water to dampen her thin hair.

“He’s never?” he asks. A heavy, warm hand cups the side of her head as he begins sorting the knots with the comb.

“No. I think he took one of the others, and she hurt him before she died,” the weapon says. “He limps a little when the weather changes. Even his art couldn’t fix him all the way.” Her voice is weak, listless. “So he wants to, but he won’t. Aldo, I – hk. Hkk.”

“Easy, Milady. I’ve got you.”

He holds a towel to her lips as she dry-heaves, but nothing comes up but spit tinged with blood. Afterward she leans against his chest and his big belly, head whirling. He strokes her back very carefully.

“Milady,” he says after a couple of minutes.

“Yes, Aldo.”

“I’ve made an ointment I used to use for scars, if you would like me to try it. I think it will help,” he says.

“It can’t do any harm,” she says.

Aldo’s fingers slather something that burns coldly across her shrunken breast and down her bony ribs. Somewhat to her surprise, it does help, soothing the deeper ache. It’s an intimate touch from any outside perspective. But where she knows what the Master wants, and is revolted by it, the weapon knows Aldo has no desire of that kind toward her. She thinks, as the tent starts to blur and fade, that it’s how she imagines a farrier would treat a horse. That’s a funny thought. She must have said something garbled about it, because Aldo chuckles, a bassy rumble against her ear.

She doesn’t have to ask him to hold her. He pulls her back to his belly and covers them with the velvet blanket, trapping heat inside. The duvet isn’t thick enough to keep the hard ground away, but she is warm. She used to be so cold on campaign. The weapon sighs.

“There we are,” Aldo says. Warm breath touches the back of her head. “That’s better.” She doesn’t hear the end of the second statement, already sinking into a heavy sleep. Tomorrow they’ll do it all again.

[whump-a-la-mode]

A Proper Education - Part One

Summary: When Villain is injured, they don't wake up where they expect

Includes: Villain whumpee, living weapon whump, dehumanization, shock collar

The rumble and lights of a lone car drove by, a single movement in an otherwise empty world. The lights of the city had all gone dark, neon signs turned off, with only the distant music of dance clubs serving to accent the breeze.

Hero crossed their arms, leaning back against the front of the building. Cold concrete pressed against their back. Next to them, Teammate had one foot pressed up against the wall, their head tipped back, gaze turned up towards the stars.

Guard duty was never the most entertaining, but tonight seemed to be dragging on. Their shift lasted all night, and only a few hours had passed so far. Would it ever end.

Hero sighed.

Teammate stretched their arms above their head.

“What’s this thing we’re supposed to be guarding, anyways?” Teammate question. “Some kind of medicine?”

“Something like that.” Hero replied. “It’s supposed to be able to make Enhanced people stronger. Something about strengthening your powers.”

“Alright, so, what’s the big deal?”

“The first batch was stolen by Supervillain, remember? Well, most of it. What we’re guarding, it’s what was left over.”

“Again… What’s the big whoop?”

“Teammate. When Supervillain got their hands on this, they tore down three city blocks. There were thousands of casualties. Remember? We were there.”

“Oh, right right right. So, we don’t want that to happen again.”

“Yes.”

“So we’re guarding the special super-soldier serum.”

“It’s not called that, but yes.”

“Okay.” They nodded. “But why us?”

“Because the others are guarding the transport truck that takes it away tomorrow morning. It’s our turn.”

“Bleh.” Teammate stuck out their tongue. “I hate night shifts.”

“Who doesn’t?” Hero commiserated. “At least nothing is going to happen. Supervillain won’t be coming back anytime soon, we beat them pretty bad. I’m sure they’re still licking their wounds.”

“What if someone else comes after it, though?”

“That won’t happen.”

There were a few more silent moments between them. Almost silent-- Neither of them noticed the soft padding of wolf’s paws, turning the corner of the building. Black fur blended in with the color of the night as a wet tongue licked sharp teeth.

Another step closer. Hero perked up.

“Do you hear something?”

“Huh? No, did you?”

“Yeah, I thought I-”

Hero had no time to finish their sentence as a flurry of black fur burst from the left. The wolf was a blur as it dashed as Hero, toppling them to the ground.

Meanwhile, from their back, Teammate took their bow, nocking an arrow from their quiver. As they drew back, Hero and the wolf wrestled on the ground.

Teammate released, sending an arrow in the direction of the tussle. On impact, the arrowhead exploded, a concussive blast that sent the two spinning. It was enough to get the wolf off of Hero.

They had a new target, now.

“Hey, doggy, nice doggy!” Teammate tried, nocking another arrow all the while.

“Teammate!” Hero shouted as they climbed to their feet. “It’s not a real wolf, that’s Villain!”

The wolf let out a growl, crouching down and preparing to pounce. Teammate launched another arrow, right at the wolf’s front feet. Yet, by the time it landed, the wolf was gone, a goshawk in its place. The bird flew over Teammate’s head, barely escaping another fired arrow.

Hero scrambled to their feet, having recovered from being knocked down. They extended a hand, electricity crackling between gloved fingers, as they struggled to aim at the fluttering bird.

A bolt of electricity snapped through the air, something which the goshawk narrowly avoided. It allowed itself to fall to the ground. An instant before touching the ground, the goshawk had turned into a nimble mouse.

“Dammit, Villain!” Hero snapped, clenching their fists. “We don’t have to do this y’know.”

The mouse let out a series of squeaks that sounded awfully like the words Hero had just spoken. Were they being mocked by a mouse?

There was no time to consider that possibility. Villain was on the move again, scrambling up the concrete wall and dashing onto the door handle.

Another arrow was loosed. A tiny hummingbird deftly ducked out of the way.

There was a creak as the door fell open.

Teammate’s arrow had shattered the lock.

“Oh.” Teammate spoke. “Oh shit.”

Before they had much time to react, Villain’s form had changed back to that of a wolf. They shouldered open the door, paws clattering against the tile beyond.

Hero and Teammate shared a panicked glance before giving chase.

Villain’s paws clattered against the ground as they leapt up a flight of stairs, taking three steps at a time. Their black fur sharply contrasted with the white walls around them. How stupid to keep the Serum in some random laboratory. There was hardly any security to speak of! This would be easy, more than easy!

Raising their nose to their air, they scented out the strong, pungent chemical smell of the Serum. It was close by, it had been taken this way, not that long ago.

They continued down the rest of the hallway, up until they came to a door. They stood on their hind legs, scrabbling at the handle with their front paws. Behind them, they could hear running footsteps growing closer. 

“Villain! You’re not going to get away with this!” Teammate shouted. 

Yeah, right. Why did heroes always feel the need to say ridiculous things while they lost?

With some effort, the door opened beneath Villain’s paws, which they kicked open with their hind legs. 

The heroes were getting closer. They’d wasted too much time.

Paws turned to hooves as wolf turned to gazelle. The more nimble animal leapt down the hall in a series of jumps. Behind them, the heroes made it to the top of the set of stairs that VIllain had just climbed.

The Serum was on this floor, they could smell it. 

“Villain!”

“Villain, stop!”

Their hooves clipped against the floor as they leapt over carts and printers. At last, they found it, the source of the scent.

They were going to be akin to a god.

Villain shed their animal form, allowing themself to again stand on two legs. They pushed open the door to the lab, picking through tables and chairs before finding the fridge they were looking for. It was low, unassuming. One would never expect that it held behind its door an unlimited power.

Taking a deep breath, Villain opened the door. Then, everything went black.

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With a click, the video on the screen stopped. The person in front of it pushed back from the desk.

“What do you think?”

“I think it has potential. But it needs training.”

“Training, yes, certainly training. With training?”

“With training, we’ll have quite the weapon on our hands. All it needs is a proper education.”

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When Villain awoke, it felt as though their head had been rung like a gong.

The world below them was cold, yet their body was overheating all the same. What had happened? Their eyes ached as they struggled to blink them open. 

The world around them was bright, shining. They struggled to remember where they had been last. There had been fighting, and… Oh, yes, the lab. That was right, they’d been in the lab. They must’ve still been there.

White tiles came into focus overhead as the staccato thrumming of their skull began to quiet. Villain lifted a hand, rubbing their eyes as they sat up.

They let out a small, panicked sound, scrambling as they realized two things:

For one, they were not alone.

For two, they were not in the lab anymore.

The hospital room around them shimmered with white, as though it had been just polished. They lay on a bed with white linens, surrounded by carts and cupboards, all done up in stainless steel and baby blue.

Across the room, a figure sat in a chair. They wore a lab coat, holding a clipboard. Some sort of doctor, then. 

Had the heroes brought them here? Had they gotten hurt, somehow? Every possibility made Villain’s heart thump faster.

The doctor did not take long to notice that Villain was awake. As soon as they sat up, the doctor raised their head. A pair of glasses framed their eyes.

“Good morning.” They spoke as they stood. “It’s good to see you awake.”

“What…” Villain rubbed their head, still out of it. “What’s…”

“Don’t fret.” The doctor spoke as though it were a warning. “You were hurt. We saved you.”

“I was hurt?”

“Don’t you remember? Hero Team.”

They did remember. Being chased down the hall, all the way to that room, then black.

“They caught up to me.” Villain echoed. “Are you-” At once, they tensed. “Are you one of them?!”

The doctor gave a small chuckle.

“No, I’m far from one of them. Trust me, I’m on your side. I can only hope you’re on mine.”

With that, they turned, leaving the room. Villain heard the lock on the door click.

Whatever that doctor said, they didn’t trust them. They glanced to one side-- There was a window. Well, this would be easy enough.

They closed their eyes, imagining their arms turning to wings-

A shock lurched through their body. Villain’s hand shot to their neck.

Was that a collar?

Where were they?