#self dehumanisation

[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.

[astrumavis]

Sitting by a path, waiting.

[sunsetcougar]

VERY hung up on the imagery of Vaggie prying the muzzle off Lute's face with her spear, good lord

Lute has never felt worse in her entire 172 years of existence. It’s not a life tools don’t get lives. Forced to be on her knees so Vaggie could get her spear angled properly, her feathers still singed and her clothes still torn and dirty from being discarded. Of course she was discarded she’s even more defective than Vaggie.

The looks of horror and pity and confusion shes being given just make her feel small and fragile. She wants to fight, to flee, but there’s a spearhead pressed against her face and her wings still ache to much to do much more than hold them off the ground.

The spear nicks her cheek and Lute just stares at the blood on the ground. She doesn’t hear Vaggie apologize.

Like the blood of the people she couldn’t save God what was wrong with her was she really this fucking useless? This broken?

This defective?

She half expects Vaggie to put her spear through her head, to end Lute right then and there while she was so pitiful vulnerable.

She’d deserve it anyway, dangerous animals should be put down.

She almost wishes they’d just ended her up there in the courtroom. Slit her throat, it would have been a more dignified death. Let her watch as she bled gold on blue in front of the one who created her flawed design. She wishes they discontinued her like the broken prototype she is.

[reckless-lambert]

Do you have any lore for Roboticized Infinite?

Of course I do!

It's not that much because I kinda abandoned him (more on that later).

He was based on power in misery difficulty in cruelty squad. If you fail too much, management will turn you into fucked up blob of regenerating flesh.

The idea was that Infinite was used as a test subject for metal virus. It made him immortal because he just regenerates like zombots. Eggman didn't erase his consciousness because it was helpful with understanding orders n stuff (never did it again because of experience with Infinite). Becoming a voiceless weapon with no agency broke Infinite's mind, yes it was something he wished for, but yet again he just didn't appreciate what he had before he lost it (first thing was his squad). If you were able to read his mind it would be just "AAAAAAAAAÀAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" And the worst part is that no one even remembers his existence, after all he has done all his desperate attempts to scar the earth, to leave his mark, no one remembers him. His robotosised form looks different enough where even Sonic and Co don't recognize him. He tries to scream but his scream is silent, the only indicator of something happening are waves of red energy going from him. It is something akin to silent scream of Pure Vessel from hollow knight

He is super twitchy for a robot, feels like something closer to horror games with his erratic movements. He is highly suicidal, he tries get himself killed in battle constantly because it is the only leeway he has from Eggman's grip, too bad he regenerates from any damage. It was my version of bad ending for Infinite. I headcanon him finally dying in molten metal in one of the battles. No one even gives it a second thought.

Anyways when I presented him to discord everyone started saying shit like "serves him right" and other suggestions on how to torture him. It made me really uncomfortable so I just abandoned him altogether (yeah super hypocritical considering what I just wrote, but I can't help, it's how my brain works).

[cruelsister-moved2]

speaking as an autistic person, the secret to making friends (and meaningful romantic/sexual relationships) is 95% just engaging in a genuine way. if someone doesn't want to be friends with you when you're being yourself, their friendship wouldn't be something you want anyway. the sad irony is that a lot of SELF-consciousness puts ppl off because... they can tell you're thinking about yourself & not them.

people just want to be seen and valued as a human being (and to have fun!). they don't want to feel like you're just using them to fill a need, or their company actually makes you kind of miserable and stressed or you can't be yourself around them. they want to feel like you enjoy their company and are interested in them. if you're autistic use your earnest swag & they love it because it invites them to be genuine and at ease too!!

[fellhellion]

THE hanging panel and general incomprehensible web weave if u haven’t seen a completely different piece of media below as usual

[nebulouscoffee]

That scene between Tuvok and B'Elanna from 'Resistance' wrecks me actually... It's such a great moment for both characters (and actors, Tim Russ is SO underrated ugh) which highlights the differences between the two of them so well- yet, ultimately shows that under certain circumstances (in this case, torture) the distinctions between people... don't really matter. In an episode full of political violence, this moment is so significant, and I don't even really think I have the smarts to articulate why but I'll try lol.

TORRES: We told you already. We don't know anything about the Resistance.  AUGRIS: I've heard that many times, from many people. Take him.  (The forcefield is lowered, and Torres grabs the guard that steps through.)  TUVOK: Lieutenant, stop! That will not help either of us.  AUGRIS: He's right.

Everything about the way this scene (and the final shot where she's shoved back into her seat) is framed makes B'Elanna appear small, helpless- and embarrassed at her own helplessness- in that cell. We see her fidgeting, unable to sit down, constantly trying to break out or improvise her way out of the situation (she gets electrocuted earlier while trying to tamper with the circuitry)- it makes me wonder whether Tuvok was chosen to be tortured not because they believed he was more likely to have information, but because B'Elanna was more likely to be demoralised watching helplessly as he's dragged off. Augris's line implies that he's "broken" a great many people in the past; a tactic to instil fear and a helpless sense of inevitability in them both (torture doesn't work as a reliable way of extracting information; this is stated in dialogue in other Trek episodes such as 'Chain of Command' so the assertion here is at least not that- but what it does do is demoralise the public involved in resistances like this one.)

Later, B'Elanna is still trying to escape (do the guards know she's doing this? Are they just not intervening?) and she hears him screaming. Tuvok is someone who considers letting others witness him lose control over his exterior a huge (indecent, violating, humiliating) vulnerability, and the fact that he's the one being tortured is Not Insignificant in this context but like- it could've been the other way round. And B'Elanna knows that. It could've been her, and perhaps a small, scared part of her is relieved that it wasn't her, which is an awful way to feel (and if there's one thing B'Elanna hates, it's feeling like a coward). Also- the sheer violation of this, for B'Elanna to have witnessed him in this state, against her will- to later see him bloodied and weakened and flung in a cell, to have heard him screaming in pain- without his consent, knowing she can never un-witness it, knowing it wasn't her fault but still being put in such a situation where she has now played that role... Does this experience forcibly rewrite their respective conceptualisations of each other? Was Tuvok even thinking of her- somewhere outside, listening, worrying, blaming herself, fearing for herself, feeling ashamed, feeling so aware of him and her and the shared humiliation of this- when he was in there? Did seeing her upon coming back out change things? Could it ever change things? Did her presence, even as an outsider, whose memories of this event will always be (visually, at least) the constructs of her imagination- somehow make what happened in there real? Does her role as witness- and her memory thereby carrying some sort of legitimisation of what happened to him now, however warped and coloured by her own perspective and fears and embarrassment- make things better for Tuvok? Does it make things worse? Would he rather have endured this in secret? Would it have been better if she were a total stranger? Would it have been worse? And does any of this even matter when, for a moment, your life (your personhood, your goals, your presence) was completely reduced to what you "must endure"?

AUGRIS: We don't have to ask your friend any more questions, if you give us the answers.  TORRES: I told you I don't.  (Torres stops herself from hitting Augris, who leaves.)  TORRES: I'm sorry. I guess I always assumed that Vulcans didn't feel pain like the rest of us. That you were able to block it out somehow. Until I heard. Was that you I heard?

And the way B'Elanna's voice breaks when she asks this, as if she was still somehow hoping the answer would be no... There are complexities to this which again I don't feel like I'm smart enough to articulate, but like- yes, B'Elanna would like to hear that it wasn't him because that would mean her friend wasn't tortured "that badly", he wasn't put through "enough pain" to scream that way, and it's easier and more comfortable to think of violence (and violation) as something you can rank on a scale, and the lower on it Tuvok's experience ranks, the better! the more easy it will be for them to "move past" this! - but also, there's this element of "I want the answer to be no because that would mean I would not have been a participant in your humiliation, just some stranger's whose voice I don't have a face to put to, which is much better than having to know what you (my friend, my colleague, my respected senior officer, someone I will have to see every day on the bridge, someone I know prefers to keep vulnerabilities hidden even deeper than anyone else I know) sound like when you scream. But also... it doesn't really matter, does it...? Whatever he says, there always was still a moment- however brief- where B'Elanna heard a man screaming in agony, and thought it could've been Tuvok. And in that moment, that possibility was created. Now, it will always exist. That moment will always have happened. It will always have done something to her. It will always exist between them; an ugly, uncomfortable bond.

And this is getting into even more things I'm not smart enough to articulate, but like- it's pretty significant to me that B'Elanna is one of the few characters who never actually tries to poke Tuvok into Doing An Emotion, even normally. She doesn't consider trying to get him to crack an entertaining pastime, unlike others (and I'm sure her experiences of feeling like an outsider- always- feeling Very Visible As Klingon, play a role in this- "all they ever saw was my forehead" does not lend itself so kindly to "let's see if we can get Mr. Vulcan to smile", "why, Tuvok, it seems you've been corrupted by Human (read: default) rituals after all!"- it's a light-hearted joke for many, sure, but what if Tuvok genuinely considers the idea of smiling in the presence of others reflective of a humiliating loss of control and deeply debasing?) I think it's pretty clear from canon that he's just being himself; he's not trying to be a killjoy or trying to be mean, he's just Vulcan. And this is one of the few moments in Trek I can think of when a Vulcan's perceived "control" over their emotions is not connected with their reluctance to laugh or cry or say something sentimental, but... this. B'Elanna is shocked, she's horrified, she demands an explanation as to how he can possibly go through something like this and not feel the desire to "fight back" in a way she understands- and the way she cannot grant him the pretence of not having witnessed, here, the way she can't just shove this in a box, pretend she never heard, because she's just so fundamentally honest- and Tuvok (who is also so fundamentally honest), in a painful moment of openness, tells her exactly what his reasoning is. He lets her see. He lets her hear; on his own terms. He wants for her to understand (for her to witness?) his (very Vulcan) distinction between resistance and endurance; his understanding of endurance as its own form of resistance. Idk it's such a quietly powerful and like- devastating- moment for me... So many people try, over and over, thoughout the show, to get Tuvok to break his Vulcansona- try to make him smile, make him say tender things, make him get irritated- just to see if they can do it. Just to see if he'll ever crack. I bet B'Elanna wishes she never had.

[proudfreakmetarusonniku]

Whumptober Day 8: Panic attacks and Disassociation.

Bench Trio Royalty AU. Tommy refuses to play along with the big happy family facade, and due to the conditioning his adoptive “father” put him through, panics until he's disassociated entirely. Warnings for kidnapping, abuse and torture that have gone on since a very young age, infantilisation, dehumanisation, neglect, xenophobia (in a medieval everyone hates the country right next to them way), self-victim blaming, mutilation, self hatred, forced family dynamics, conditioning, panic attacks, and disassociation.

ao3 link

—— Tommy’s life felt like a mess of conflicting ties, pulling him in each and every direction until he was split into two.

First off, he knew he wasn’t an Enderia native. That much was evident with a look- he was short, covered in flesh instead of carapace, and strangely coloured in comparison to the enderians he grew up around, lacking a tail for balance and instead having awkward-ass wings that bumped into everything. Father usually kept them bound behind his back for convenience since he wasn’t allowed outside anyway, and he had no fucking clue how to fly, but that meant they ached and pointed in weird directions and had areas where his soft, downy feathers were rubbed raw, revealing scarred and bony flesh. He was an abomination amongst his peers, and it was no wonder only Father and Ranboo liked him.

Yet, he held no attachments to the place he was born in. The few memories he had of the Empire were vague and fleeting- being held by a dark-haired man, a tall, pink-haired man teaching him to fight, and the fuzzy appearance of his birth father- and he held little feeling towards them except a vague longing that maybe he would have been allowed to grow up if Father hadn’t taken him in.

Even in the small circle of people who actually talked to Tommy, his allegiance felt pulled between Father and Ranboo. And Tubbo, he supposed, but while the Mercis prince was new enough Tommy hadn’t quite gotten a feel for him yet, he got the feeling that he and Ranboo were at least tentatively on the same side, even if their marriage was arranged.

He supposed it was safe for the two of them to hate Father, but it never was for Tommy.

Ranboo was the heir, and it’s not exactly like Tommy could inherit, being a glorified hostage, so him living was non-negotiable, though Tommy got the feeling Father would have killed Ranboo to replace him with Tommy if he had the opportunity. Tommy was the target of Father’s abuse and kindness alike- yet he rarely so much as looked at his own flesh and blood. And Tubbo dying would start a war with the beastmen, and as fucking off his rocker Father was, he wouldn’t risk that unless he knew he could win.

But Tommy? As long as he could appear in the diplomatic meetings to be shown off to the people he supposed were once his family, the unspoken implication any aggression of the Empire onto Enderian territory would result in his suffering, Father could do anything to him. He’d showed up to some of them with concussions and broken arms. And he knew he wasn’t meant to know this, but he’d seen the experiments Father kept in the dungeon. Death, it seemed, was not as permanent as he once believed.

Such a thing was an offence to Lady Prime in all ways, but so was kidnapping a five-year-old and treating them like a punching bag their whole life, so it wasn’t really a surprise Father wasn’t as devout as he pretended to be. Just disappointing. Father had been the one to introduce Her to him, and praying together, despite Father’s oddities, was one of the few times in Tommy’s life he felt free because it was forbidden to use what was said in prayer against another faithful. Now, he spoke carefully to avoid Father’s endless wrath or, even worse, his pride.

Not that he hated Father, of course. On a good day, Father was downright doting, even if he refused to let Tommy act like a grown-up. Ranboo was his age and getting married, for Prime's sake! He wasn’t the little kid everyone treated him like, talking down to him and not letting him do shit or go outside or so much as choose his own fucking clothes. But Father at least listened to him, unlike the servants. Father refused to let him learn Enderian, and while of course royalty knew the Empire’s tongue, to any common servant, he was as unintelligible as the toddler he was treated like.

It’s just… Ranboo and Tubbo treated him like an equal, not a pet. They weren’t as kind as Father ever was, but that meant they weren’t condescending. And they’d never hit him- not once. That he didn’t understand- when the soldiers took him away, they hit him a lot, and he never could really walk without a limp after that day. Father never hit him that much all at once, but he’d done worse over the years, sometimes just because he was curious to see how non-enderians cry. Even the maids pulled on his hair and dragged him hard enough to leave bruises when he got in the way, because Father had told them he needed discipline. He simply deserved it, for being obnoxious. Ranboo and Tubbo were just fucking saints or something.

Tommy sighed, flopping onto his bed, far too big for him and done up in hideously bright greens. He knew it was Dream’s trademark, but he could be less obnoxious about it, right?

Wait. Wait. Wait. Nononono.

Father. Father’s trademark, Father Father Father.

He wasn’t allowed to call Father by his name. That was wrong, that was bad. Bad bad bad bad. It wasn’t proper; it was Tommy pretending he was older than he was; it was Tommy defying the family; it was proof he was just a stupid evil horrible spy, who only cared about the family he never knew and not the ones who raised him. Else, why would he be defiant? Else, why wouldn’t he adore his role as the eternal innocent?

Phantom knives clawed up Tommy’s skin, branding him a liar, a monster. Carved emblems of his owner, the man he refused to call a father. Shouting in a language he didn’t understand. He was eight years old again, and everything hurt. Everything hurt. It was his fault.

The air felt like it was made of lead, suffocating Tommy as he curled up as tight as he could. Tears pricked at his eyes, feeling like a hot knife as they made their way down his cheeks. His heart felt like it was beating at a million miles a minute, like it’d explode out of his chest. Was he dying? It felt like he was dying.

The cells, filled with corpses not allowed to rest, in the dungeons under the castle forced their way into Tommy’s mind. If he died, he’d become one of them, because no fucking way Father would let him die. He was awful, too awful to let him rest far too loving to let his adoptive child go, ever. Ever ever ever.

He could feel everything as his wounds were stitched shut, the medicine keeping him still but not unconscious. The next day, he’d say something wrong again, and they’d be opened up. They scarred over badly, ugly raised marks across his upper arms and back, circling his wings. He was part of the family, whether he wanted to be or not. The eternal little brother. Father told him as much.

Tommy tugged at his hair, pulling out chunks, and that only made him feel worse. So, so much worse. It felt like when Father would drag him by his hair when he got into places he shouldn’t. It’s not like he was ever told why. Sometimes, he thought Father made excuses, like how he made excuses to give him extravagant gifts. It felt like he was breathing hot coals, like he could feel them on his skin.

Burying his head in the blankets, he sobbed and sobbed, until he couldn’t remember why he was sobbing. The pain running through his mind and body overwhelmed him, and his mind blurred over. There was no Tommy, and there was no mistake, and there was no feeling. He cried, but he could no longer feel a thing, just numbness in his chest.

It didn’t matter what happened while he felt like this. He simply felt too tired to even care.

He let his body relax as he stared at the wall. His head was completely empty, all thoughts gone, except for the vague idea that it was so silly to get so upset over everything.

After all, he just needed to listen to Father, and everything would be okay, right?

[pigeonwhumps]

Flinching

MD-264N masterlist

Febuwhump day 2: flinching

@febuwhump

Asim tries to introduce himself to Morgan. It doesn't go too well.

1.1k

CWs: self-dehumanisation, expecting to be punished, wanting to be punished, caretaker new whumper, bad caretaker (for a bit), conditioned whumpee

Morgan's looking out of the window when the new person enters.

It's been a strange few days. Rhian is nothing like its old handlers. Her gentleness hasn't left yet, and for some reason she expects it to share her bed. She seems happy with the arrangement, and Morgan doesn't understand why she'd be so willing to be close to it, to let it touch her, when she could just as easily store it elsewhere, but it's… a very acceptable situation.

When the door creaks open, Morgan scrambles away from the window and sits on the edge of the bed, back straight, arms behind its back, gaze on the floor. Exactly how a weapon should sit, subservient, ready to be taken out and used if the person entering wishes, dangerous hands safely out of the way. It's the best it can do with no safety restraints.

It's not Rhian's footsteps, or Asha's even. Morgan has no idea who it is. Its throat tightens. Is it to be used now?

The footsteps pause, before continuing, coming to a halt in front of Morgan.

"Er. Hi. I'm Asim. I haven't met you before, but Asha's ill so I'm going to change your bandage instead."

Morgan flinches back as Asim's hand reaches for its ankle, jerking its leg out of reach. It's not safe and it's a surprise and Rhian says it's allowed to move. It pulls its leg up to its chest, trembling.

"I'm trying to help you, Morgan," says Asim, sounding annoyed, and Morgan freezes. What if Morgan's only allowed to move around Rhian? Is it going to be corrected for this? It will be, it knows it, it's heard that tone of voice before.

The weapon doesn't know how correction works here. It doesn't have a control harness, so there must be some other method.

"You don't need to be so scared, I'm not going to hurt you." Morgan doesn't move. It knows that. It's a weapon, it can't be hurt, it's just going to be corrected. Asim sighs. "Look, I'm going to fetch Rhian. You just… stay here, yeah? I'll be right back."

Asim leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Is Rhian going to correct it then? She must be, and for some reason Morgan feels a pang in its chest, its heart-rate increasing. It's malfunctioning again. If it's going to be corrected, it's not safe out here. It drops off the bed and crawls over to the cabinet, climbing inside. With the door shut behind it it's safer. It feels safer, even if that feeling is an aberration and not something it should care about. Even without a lock it's… better. Its heart rate is decreasing.

There's voices outside, and Morgan strains itself to hear, curled up in a tight ball. Its hearing isn't as accurate as it was, although it hasn't been obedient enough to bring that up to Rhian yet, but it can still hear Rhian and Asim open the door.

"... like I did you. And they just… where are they?"

"They're safe. I can guess where they are. But Asim, you can't treat us both the same. I might've been imprisoned for seven years but I knew you were on my side when I arrived. I was confident enough to ask things, even if it took a while to come out. Morgan… they don't know they're safe. They still think we want to use them, Asim, it's what they've been trained for. You can't just expect them to trust you."

"They thought I'd hurt them?"

"They wouldn't call it that, but yeah. Let me calm them down and then you can say hello."

"I'll leave them to you then. Let me know when they're ready."

"Yep."

The door shuts, and footsteps approach the cabinet. Morgan flinches hard when there's a knock on the door, hitting its head hard against the wooden ceiling.

"Hey Morgan. It's just Rhian here. You're not in trouble, but when you're ready to come out I have some food for you. I'll wait on the bed."

Rhian walks away, and Morgan takes a deep breath, then another. It pushes the door open before it can inconvenience people for any longer.

Rhian smiles at it. "Hey there sweetheart. Can I check your head when you get over here? That was a nasty bang."

Morgan nods before crawling across to the bed. Rhian makes a face but doesn't help, and that's a more than acceptable state of affairs. It has to do something on its own or it's entirely useless. It bends its head to allow Rhian to see.

"It doesn't look too bad. Bet it hurts like hell though."

"Weapons don't feel pain," replies Morgan automatically. Rhian raises an eyebrow, and it adds hurriedly, "It is an uncomfortable sensation though." In multiple places, actually, its ankle too, but it isn't going to mention that.

"I'm going to give you some painkillers then. It's about time for your next dose. And then you can eat."

Morgan swallows the pills and looks at the plate Rhian's holding, trying to disguise its eagerness. The sandwich smells so nice, and the nutrition – food – here actually has taste and texture. It rests the plate on its lap as it eats, just like Rhian does. She chuckles lightly.

"I knew you had a sweet tooth. Luckily we had some jam left." She pauses. "Asim's not the most tactful, but he really was just going to change your bandages and say hello. It's okay that you were scared, but you don't need to be. He's not going to… correct you or whatever it is you call it."

"Weapons don't feel emotions," whispers Morgan. Weapons don't feel. It can't forget that.

"It's only human to feel, there's nothing wrong with it."

"But it's not human, it's only a weapon, it's against this weapon's programming to feel." The weapon's malfunctioning again, it's arguing with its handler, but it can't seem to help it, she doesn't know much about weapons. It almost wishes it could be corrected, to be rid of these aberrations that just keep getting worse.

"Oh, sweetheart. You're so very human. I'm just not sure how to convince you of that."

They pull Morgan into a warm hug before it can protest again. Morgan buries itself in them. They might have some strange ideas about weapons but they really are very warm.

[three-in-one]

We feel more like an object than human at this point. It's like we're just here to please others and be tossed aside when they're done. I don't know, maybe being an object would be better. Maybe we deserved everything that happen...

[stoic-whumpee]

Prompt #109

Whumpee who was made in a lab to become a living weapon. As a security measure, they have a countdown system to self-destruct. The only way to keep themself alive is to rewind the countdown everyday using a special key only the lab has. If they take too long on a mission and don’t return to the lab soon enough, they will also die even if they don’t run away.    

[whump-blog]

i think nearly a year ago you wrote a drabble about a pet whumpee and their old friend caretaker. could you write a continuation of that? maybe there is some more progress in the recovery, maybe whumpee starts to recognize their friend… <3

Hello anon, thank you for sending this ask. I really enjoy it when someone is interested in something I write enough to want to read more.

I'm sorry I haven't answered sooner, I've been very busy these last two months. But I swear I started writing this second part the same day you sent me this request.

Thank you and I hope you're still around here to read this :D

CW: catatonic whumpee, low self-esteem, fear, angst, feelings of guilt, past pet whump, recovery whump

Part 1

The days in Caretaker's house seemed to affect Whumpee. Headaches and sudden flashes in the middle of everyday actions had been increasing over the last few months.

Today Whumpee had been tidying the house, cleaning as he did every Monday. Leaving everything perfect for the person who gave everything for him.

And then as Whumpee swept the floor looking distantly at Caretaker, something happened, the event was unexpected and sudden.

It was the light, maybe? The time of day? The smell? The atmosphere? Or something that Whumpee couldn't explain. But the sight of Caretaker standing there against the light of the window, just passing by, brought to his mind, something like a déjà vu.

But it wasn't just that, no, it was something stronger, the image that entered the retina of Whumpee's eyes stiffened him.

Everything seemed to come together. The flashes he had been having, the headaches and the disjointed images and sounds that came and went out of nowhere came together like pieces of a puzzle to give him the answer he hadn't been looking for.

It all seemed to make sense. And Caretaker, as usual, was quick to notice Whumpee's startled face.

"Whumpee?" called Caretaker.

The broom slipped from Whumee's hands, and he stared blankly. In shock. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, and the world seemed too much. Overwhelming. And then the information frenzy stopped.

Caretaker ran towards him, but Whumpee was no longer present.

-----

Whumpee had been catatonic after recovering his memories. During which time, Caretaker had had to care for him almost as much as the day Whumpee had arrived at his home.

Whumpee spends all day in bed, looking out of the window, but seeing nothing. He eats when Caretaker puts food in his mouth and lets himself be carried away so that his friend can give him a bath. It is not that he is not objecting; it is simply that Whumpee is not there.

Eventually one day, as Caretaker was putting Whumpee to bed, Whumpee reacted. He came back as suddenly as he had left. He grabbed Caretaker by the wrist as he was about to leave the room. Whumpee pulled him by the arm and hugged him, leaning his head on his shoulder. Emotions burning in his chest, he shed only a few tears that were enough to accept the forgotten truth.

Caretaker could no longer contain himself either, and decided to share the moment of release of long-held anguish with his friend.

-----

After that, life went on as before Whumpee regained his memories, almost as if nothing had happened. Whumpee and Caretaker went back to their routines. Only now, while watching TV, eating dinner or cleaning the house they could talk about the old days, their adventures together and the times they had shared before Whumpee was turned into a pet.

Anyone would have thought that the worst was over, now Whumpee had nothing to fear. His friend who had always been by his side would not let anything bad happen to him, and Whumpee knew that.

But there was something else, as the days passed a deep fear grew in Whumpee's mind. He knew that now that he had recovered his memories, he would have to leave. Go back to his old life. The thought disturbed him, and Whumpee could not accept that truth and face Caretaker.

How could he be so ungrateful? Even now that he had all the pieces of his life, he decided to refuse to do what he was supposed to do. Pack his bags and stop living off Caretaker's work, but instead of doing that he continued, like a parasite, to take advantage of Caretaker's kindness.

Then, like the cowardly worm he was, he began to do everything in his power to make sure Caretaker wanted him in his home. He cleaned every day, always cooked for Caretaker, ironed the clothes, made the beds and saw that everything was perfect.

Caretaker of course noticed this, but Whumpee brushed it off. He excused himself by saying that he enjoyed doing something in return for all that Caretaker did for him, besides, he was in the house all day anyway!

And things, for a while, seemed to be going according to plan until one day they weren't.

Despite all his efforts, the stress of what might happen in the future had been building up in Whumpee, causing him to make a mistake that day, a simple mistake, a stupid mistake that had resulted in revealing the secret he had wanted to keep from Caretaker.

He had forgotten to turn off the water in the sink when he had finished washing the dishes, and it had ended up overflowing. The floor was soaking wet and Caretaker was about to arrive home.

The situation reminded Whumpee of what had happened in the first few weeks at Caretaker's house, when Whumpee had not yet recovered his memories. And just as the day of the burnt dinner incident, Caretaker arrived in the middle of the disaster.

And at that instant when Caretaker crossed the threshold Whumpee burst into tears, kneeling on the wet floor, his tears mixing with the water that was spreading everywhere.

Caretaker lifted him off the floor and carried him out of the kitchen. Sitting him on the living room couch.

"Wait here," said Caretaker, leaving Whumpee, who was listening to the footsteps on the wet floor. Caretaker had returned to the kitchen to turn off the tap and once again solve all the problems Whumpee was causing.

When Caretaker returned to Whumpee's side, he was still crying, only now silently. His elbows on his knees and his face staring at the carpet on the floor. Caretaker knelt in front of him to gain access to his eyes, the entrance to what words could not convey.

"Whumpee, you know it's all right, there's nothing serious going on that can't be fixed. You know me, you know I'm not going to get angry or hurt you." Caretaker tried to explain as he always did, with simple, comforting words.

Whumpee cried harder after those words. Knowing that Caretaker deserved an explanation and not for Whumpee to add to the sadness he had already brought him since he came back into his life.

"It's…it's just…it's just… I… I… I-" Whumpee continued to sob, unable to utter his thoughts, "It's not perfect…" he finally admitted.

"It's okay whumpee it doesn't have to be perfect… everybody makes mistak-"

"No, it's not; you don't understand… you… if it's not perfect… now that I have my memories... there's no excuse, there's no reason for me to be here-" Whumpee broke down again as the cards were laid out on the table. Now he just had to listen to his destiny.

Caretaker said nothing, from where he was kneeling in front of Whumpee he just watched him with a perplexed expression. He stared at nothing for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts, but when he looked back at Whumpee he did not say a word. His face showed understanding and no words were needed as Caretaker took Whumpee in his arms and the two shared a moment of a warmth that no person could have put into words.

[in-the-abyss]

Introducing blorbo from my thoughts: Asher

okay so because I made them a character profile in artfight I think she deserves to have a tag on here too

[Image ID: A digital drawing of a humanoid bird hybrid. The drawing is titled: Asher, she/they/voi, with little aromantic and asexual flags under the description. Asher has black iridescent wings with purple, blue and green shimmers, and feathered ears. She has claws on voids hands and feet, and their limbs are a dark colour similar to her feathers. Voi has yellow irises and black scleras, and dark feathers on their cheeks, nose and forehead. They have sharp teeth and are smiling. Her hair is blonde and with little feathers that grow between the locks. They are wearing a red hoodie, black shirt and grey jeans with black belts on the sides. Voi is barefooted. End ID]

backstory under the cut (cw: slight body horror, dehumanisation, violence, medical abuse of a child, death and claustrophobia. nothing is explicit but im tagging just in case)

backstory: Asher is a crow shapeshifter that survived in the streets since she was orphaned when their parents died in a fire.

Voi was then kidnapped and grew up in a lab where scientists tried to force void to shapeshift into creatures other than crow. They were kind to them, but punished her when voi couldn't transform into what they wanted, putting void in a dark small room for long periods of time.

Because of that kindness, she wanted to please the scientists, so while she was in the dark room she would practice voids shapeshifting until finally she felt themself transform into something that wasn't a crow.

But that was a mistake, because after the painful transformation they looked at voidself and found that voi had shifted into a monster half crow, half human. Worse, she couldn't shift back into their human OR crow form, so voi was stuck as a hybrid.

When the scientists discovered what had happened to them, they were excited and congratulated her for voids efforts, implying that if they trained a little more voi would finally be able to transform into what they wanted. But Asher was scared of what the scientists would do to her if they found out that their shapeshifting was gone, and finally realised how fucked up was their situation. As the scientists guided void to her room, she suddenly stopped walking, growled at them, and attacked! They killed everyone who crossed voids path, finally escaping the lab.

She ran to the woods and lived there for a while, going half-feral as they leaned more into their crow instincts and surviving with what voi hunted.

One day someone found her and took void home, and while they were wary at first voi gradually relaxed as she learnt how to be human again. Although they were never able to recover her original form or shapeshift again, and had to deal with tons of childhood trauma, voi discovered she missed living in the wild. One night, without telling anyone, they escaped again. Voi explored for a little while and finally settled in her new territory, a forest far from the civilization. They built a little house and lived there happily ever after :)

[eldritch-queern-magicat]

I wish I could apologize to my cousins for being such an unstable, sometimes just plain mean, mess. It's not about being forgiven, necessarily, but just clearing the air between us on my end. It really hurts that we're all like this now. I just want to know I did everything I could to make things better. It'll hurt if they still don't want anything to do with me. But at least I'll know I tried.

It wasn't my fault for being so easy to take advantage of. I was outright groomed in foster hell to be used for sexual gratification. It was sort of just, might as well use me like that since I'm already basically a demon and not a real human child, anyway. I was never allowed to be innocent. They kept punishing me because according to them, I was constantly misbehaving. I just wouldn't learn, they said. And it only got worse with time.

Some parts did become suicidal, and they were shoved down as far as possible. Some of us were damn well aware of how much we were butchering our face. It was often very subconscious behavior, but not always. Some of us liked doing that damage to our face. We don't have a specific reason, either. It's just a consequence of what we were brainwashed with.

It was a shock just how much our family actually cared to make absolutely sure we got reconstructive surgery. It was an even bigger shock in the sixth grade when I was dealing with the top of my head being in itch-like nerve pain, and the teacher and my classmates freaked out in genuine concern for me because I was bleeding. I hadn't even noticed until they said something. Really, I didn't have any chance to look at my fingers between the pain and paying attention to class. So all I felt when they pointed it out was my rising panic and fear of judgement. Judgement that didn't even happen.

And still, I go back to much of my own family who won't talk to me at all anymore. Family that treated me like an outsider. Family that turned an already severely abused kid into even more of a villain. Family who often barely even tried to make sure I was alright. Family that prioritized appearing completely normal over actually being psychologically stable. The only adult family member around consistently who seemed to want me there was Grandma. I felt in everyone else's way most of the time.

Maybe I'll never see or speak to those cousins again. And maybe it'll be for the best. But it hurts right now, and I keep wishing it could be different.

-Cal 🛞😺

[gurorori]

the mika in me whenever the topic is children