#whump pov

[lumpsbumpsandwhumps]

Maybe this is too hyper-specific but I just fucking love??? the stance??? of whumpee lying on the ground and whumper standing over top of them???

"But Danny that's so generic--" yes, okay, but listen. Listen...I am talking about whumpee on the ground, injured, unable to get up, had probably just been crawling away before the last of their strength gave out. And then there comes whumper's legs into view. Whumpee doesn't even have the strength to look up, doesn't know if they'd even want to. And here's where the good shit comes in:

Whumper nudging Whumpee's side with their shoe like they're playfully checking if they actually died, or maybe really checking, or maybe just testing to see if there's any fight left

Whumper kicking a weapon that had been mere centimeters from Whumpee's reach, bonus points if they purposely catch Whumpee's hand under their foot and bear their weight down

Whumper using their heel to kick Whumpee's shoulder and force them to roll over on their back, now forcing them to look up and see Whumper (plus the beautiful imagery of Whumper leering down at them while Whumpee is symbolically beneath them...*chef's kiss*)

Whumper straddling their feet on either side of Whumpee's hips, or chest, or head; anything to have them confined between Whumper's legs from where they stand

Whumper suddenly dropping down into a crouch when Whumpee had only been able to look at their shins before, startling them, now hyperaware how close Whumper has made themself to accommodate this new position

Whumper instead continuing to go about their business, completely ignoring Whumpee on the ground, who can now only helplessly watch their retreating form as Whumper carries out whatever they originally had planned before Whumpee got in the way

Whumper stepping on fresh wounds, stepping on Whumpee's neck to choke them, stepping on Whumpee's head and holding their foot in place until they're done speaking whatever it is they want to say

Whumper that asks "are you done?" "that's it?" "so, was it worth it?" because if Whumpee is already at their feet, they might as well grovel a little

[the-bar-sinister]

Whumper who is a smoker

Whumper who enjoys a smoke after ‘working on’ their whumpee.

Whumper who sits in a captive whumpee’s room and smokes.

Whumper who blows smoke in their whumee’s face.

Whumper who leaves a pack of cigarettes on the same table with the tools they use on whumpee.

Whumper who offers whumpee a smoke.

Whumper who smokes big, fat, smelly cigars.

Whumper who smokes a specific brand of cigarettes that their whumpee will later associate the smell of with them.

Whumper who burns whumpee with the tip of their cigarette or cigar.

Whumper who sets their whumpee on fire and lights a smoke off of them.

Whumper who always talks about quitting, and no one is sure if they mean the cigarettes or the whump.

[hippielittlemetalhead]

So I've seen a lot of 'Hop actively dislikes and distrusts Steve', 'Hop tolerates Steve because he's useful during UD shenanigans but doesn't like him', and the big swing to 'Hop has adopted Steve as his own and treats him the same/almost the same as he does El'

BUT, I present:

Hop pseudo adopts Steve because when he and Owens were trying to get the Harringtons to make any decisions about their teenager who saw some sketchy shit and may need government testing they legally gave Hop the rights to act in loco parentis and he takes that seriously because he doesn't want another Will Byers and he's pretty sure the Harrington kid has a concussion.

Hop who stays involved just enough in Steve's life season 1-3 that we the audience see Steve is getting attached. But Hop just sees an annoying kid who won't leave him alone when he's trying to deal with a rebellious psychic and her insane little friends and keeps asking stupid questions about highschool romance and teenage rivalry drama. Knows Joyce Byers doesn't like the kid but won't give a lot of reason why but he's mostly learned to trust that woman's judgement about people. Still gets him the job at Scoops when the kid's dad makes a stink about college and tells him if he survives a few months there he'll consider bringing him on the force, makes sense to keep him close and in a position to help should shit hit the fan again.

Hop who doesn't get it when Steve is one of the most relieved when he 'comes back to life' after Joyce and Murray bring him back from Russia. When Steve introduces him as "My Hop," (something he'd taken to calling him just before season 2 shenanigans) to his sarcastic, fidgety little friend like it means something. The girl, Robin, looks between the two of them and gets this sad look on her face for a second before smiling and shaking his hand and saying something about "Dingus has told me all about you".

Hop who complains to Murray one of the times The Party and assorted teens and adults are over at his renovated and expanded cabin (courtesy of Owens and shady government organizations recognizing these people are worth investing in, heavily if omens are to be believed) when the bald annoyance asks about what's up on there. Complains about having annoying teenagers who have nothing better to do but pester him legally put under his supervision cause their parents can't be assed to care and are spoiled little shits who are slightly more bearable versions of said parents cause he can stand toe to toe with one of those monsters they faced and the kids kind of listen to him. Complains about barely being able to breathe cause of regular visits and check-ins like Hop was still responsible for him. Says at least the extra hands are useful around the cabin what with the still healing up and El pacing herself after the showdown with Creel and still trying to find Max and the Byers not quite moved back to Hawkins yet.

Hop who doesn't realize that Steve hears every word cause he had gone looking for the older man when he disappeared for more than a few minutes, when he couldn't see him to make sure he was here and safe and alive. Steve who thought Hop actually had come to care for him in his own gruff way and had confessed to Robin that in a lot of ways the way Hop has taken care of him makes him the closest thing to the father figure he's always wanted but never thought he'd get to have. Steve who hears Murray hum and recollect a visit from Nancy and Jonathan where their romance officially started (he vaguely knows about the visit, didn't realize that's what happened, didn't realize she couldn't be bothered to even do the decent/considerate thing before moving on to something better) because it seemed it was a pattern he was seeing 'people liked Steve, but people didn't love Steve'.

Hop who hears a choked sound like someone taking a claw to the gut and turns to see Harrington. Steve Harrington his bandages just peeking out from the collar of his shirt and the opening of his sleeves. (He never did get the stories behind those, too busy being fussed over and being told about the kids and how they were doing as Harrington played babysitter) Steve Harrington a kid who went through hell and still managed to smile and laugh and stand tall and unyielding looking at him with a blank face his eyes misty and his shoulders starting to curl in on himself before he clears his throat, chokes out that he just wanted to make sure Hop was alright but looks like Murray had everything under control. He'd go now, get out of his hair, let him rest, let him breathe. Steve Harrington who walks away with purpose like a man on a mission and doesn't acknowledge the kids calling out asking if he's alright, make sure he has his walkie talkie on him.

Hop, who realizes maybe he left behind two kids who missed (needed) him. Who wonders who took care of Harrington's paperwork when he was concussed and sedated because he was bleeding out and feverish from infection and Hop was busy at the cabin reveling in the comfort and warmth of his daughter and the woman he loved and her two sons who were fast becoming like his own. Hop, who realizes too late that maybe if he'd given the kid half a chance he could have had 3 sons to sit with him and his daughter and the woman he loved as they basked in surviving another end-of-the-world. Hop who has spent years barely giving a damn about Steve Harrington and realizes that he's no better than the kid's own parents.

Part 2

Part 3

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Riot Kings, page 172

first // prev // next

[wangxianficrecs]

Holding shreds by barisan

Holding shreds

by barisan (@barisan-no)

T, 5k, Wangxian

Summary: An accident on a practical lecture has the Lan realising the state of Wei Wuxian's body. Or, the angsty body swap AU my soul needed. Kay's comments: Barisan once again fixes things by putting Wei Wuxian through it! Only in this story, it's also Lan Wangji who suffers, because oops, accidental body swap during the Cloud Recesses Study Arc. Loving the Wei Wuxian Whump in this story and how the Lans unite behind Wei Wuxian and immediately agree that he can't go back to Lotus Pier. Inspired by a @angstymdzsthoughts prompt. Excerpt: “Wangji?” Lan Qiren walks up to them, looking at Lan Zhan… Lan Zhan in his body. “Shufu-” Lan Zhan breathes with what can only be a grimace. “You are in pain.” Lan Qiren notes. “Did the curse cause more than an exchange of souls?” He hovered, worry now clear in his voice. “I don’t know.” Lan Zhan looked back at Wei Wuxian. “It hurts.” There may be a question there. ‘Are you in pain too?’ “I… I don’t-” Wei Wuxian took stock of his own state. He rolled his shoulders, gasping as he didn’t feel them pop. His back didn’t hold it’s usual tightness and his ribs didn’t shock him with the deep pinch every other breath. “I…” It doesn’t hurt! He tries to say. “Ha… Hahaha…” He laughs breathlessly. He brings his trembling hands to his face, all ten fingers are straight! “HAHAHAHA!” It turns into howling. Fuck. Wei Wuxian bends over, clutching his stomach as he tries to reign in a laughter that is not quite his own. His eyes sting at the lack of control over a body he doesn’t know. A body that doesn’t hurt. After a few more moments, laughter fades into chuckling and dies into breathless gasps. His sight is blurry and the world feels faded.

pov wei wuxian, canon divergence, cloud recesses study arc, wei wuxian whump, body swap, no sunshot campaign, angstymdzsthoughts, chronic pain, hurt wei wuxian, hurt lan wangji, implied/referenced child abuse, jiang family bashing, good uncle lan qiren, good sibling lan xichen, wei wuxian has self-esteem issues, wei wuxian is bad at self-care, angst with a happy ending, fluff, getting together, smart wei wuxian

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

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

“Isn’t it past your bedtime?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[honeycollectswhump]

PLEASE aftermath of the shock collar piece?👉👈 back to normal? back to ashtray being loved and lovingly used for his normal standard purpose? so he knows he in fact didn't do anything wrong? and he's a good boy? MAYBE... MAYBE EVEN... merciful mistress mireille checking on him to make sure he's gonna be alright?🥺 because maybe she's worried she went a bit too far with all the shocks?🥺

-🪷

Citrine Kisses

[masterlist]

CW: pet whump, dehumanisation, cigarette burns, past torture (referenced)

When her servants carry in the ashtray the next day, no amount of makeup they have desperately seemed to apply can hide his condition. As Mireille lounges on her velvet couch, worth someone’s fortune, she can’t help but notice his sickly sweet, pale tone and the occasional twitch he tries and fails to hide. It’s unbecoming of such a luxurious good as him, laughable for the price she paid for him to be pretty. 

It almost makes her want to ring her stupid servants back and have someone, anyone, answer for ruining her scene with a pathetic excuse for a golden ashtray. And yet…

And yet she doesn’t. 

Despite it all, he still looks beautiful, doesn’t he? There is beauty to be found in his alabaster skin, no matter if it was caused by the thick collar around his pretty thin neck, which has still left imprints like two pricks of a vampire. The thought makes her laugh, elegantly like chiming bells, like candlelight and a passionate kiss. No, Mireille wouldn’t mind being a vampire.

Twirling a lush black lock around her finger, a cigarette between her lips, she leans forward, taking in the sight of her ashtray. If he were a diamond, she’d hold him in her hand against the light, letting rays of sun play with the rainbow. What happened yesterday, it too was like seeing a rainbow illuminate her walls, each gasping scream echoing in her mind like a marvellous symphony. 

Under her gaze, the ashtray goes still like a marble statue. He never raises his eyes, just like it should be. Silently worshipping but never being brash enough to gaze upon her. 

Mireille bathes in the knowledge that the ashtray’s biggest fear must be displeasing her. That is all he was made for after all. Maybe… maybe that is why he now holds himself differently, but it’s not like she could expect a simple thing like him to understand the aesthetic intention behind the shock collar, the joy and entertainment so unlike a punishment. Of course, the ashtray is too simple to get that.

It almost makes her feel bad, if only for the unappreciated amusement getting drowned out by his pleading devotion. He had been good yesterday, had been less an ashtray and more a diamond yet to be polished. She is merciful, Mireille thinks with a slight smile, and his pretty screams have earned him a reward.

Gracefully, she takes her cigarette from her lips, gazing at it for a moment, before delicately placing a hand on his shining golden locks. Immediately, the ashtray leans into her touch, imperceptively stretching himself to press himself into her palm. 

He was made mindless but a simple drawled “Ashtray” is enough to get his attention fully on her. Melting under her gracious touch, her thing turns towards her, lowered and on his knees. Mireille pets his head a couple of times, like she has seen with her friend’s lapdog. She much prefers love as an act of passion, of art and burning.

The ashtray shivers under her touch, as she lets her long fingers glide down his jaw and tilt his head up to meet her eyes. “You love that, huh?”, she chuckles, and that alone seems to give him to strength to hold himself straighter. 

“You’ve been a good boy, a very good boy. Your screams have been delightful, you’ve done so well.”

A hazy smile appears on his lips as if drugged, and for a moment she considers the fun in that. Instead, though, she holds out her hand, beckoning him to lay his hand in hers. Of course, the ashtray complies, it is all he knows, eager to please like a dog or something less.

Holding eye contact makes her ashtray flush sweetly, and he shivers again. This, she thinks, is also art. 

“You are my favourite toy, I want you to never forget that.” Mireille purrs, lightly holding his hand like a prince would a princess’, his fingers curled around hers. “A reward would only be fitting, don’t you think? Something to commemorate this?”

She turns the cigarette between her fingers until it feels right, before placing the glowing end of it on the ashtray's pale skin, pressing down until the citrine gets swallowed up by ash. 

Never once does he flinch, steadily looking at her. A practice of worship, the greatest price of them all.

Soon, when her servants wash away the dirty ash, a bright red spot will remain, burning through skin and tissue, a kiss his body will never be able to heal. And her ashtray, her stupid little ashtray, will look at it in doglike adoration, his most precious possessions are the scars she allows him, and he will be thankful. 

Sometimes Mireille wonders if the ashtray pities her servants for their lack of burning, wonders if her little lamb prides itself in the red scarf wrapped around its neck, telling a story of how the butcher will one day cut its throat.

taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @whumpshaped, @clickerflight let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

[avvail-whumps]

‘the facility’ — the breakout 2/?

previous · masterlist

content warnings: prison whump, whumpee turned whumper, sadistic whumper, mass prison breakout, captivity, imprisonment, torture, violence, beatings

Noah’s head felt as though it had been rammed through a wall when he finally came to. It took him a long, aching few seconds to realise that was pretty much what had happened - the elevator doors.

His hazy vision could barely make out where he was, if he was the right way up or not, but he soon began to wriggle his limbs and realised he was lay on his side, head pressed uncomfortably into the cold floor.

He bit back a small moan of pain - his arms were twisted behind his back, knotted together with an uncomfortable, scratchy rope. The fear was stabbing numbly at his chest, the situation dawning on him.

The breakout. Cash – shit, Cash.

Noah’s breath hitched, feeling automatic tears start to relentlessly sting his eyes. He could recognise one of these rooms, one of torture. It wasn’t the one they had experimented on Cash in, being much larger and decorated with so many more horrifying tools.

The scientist felt dizzy looking at them, shifting. Aches spiralled through his muscles, the pins and needles kicking in once he finally became aware. As he did, something caught his eye.

There was someone else against the adjacent wall, an Apoid. The helmeted head was dipped down low, arms equally twisted behind his back, but Noah could just catch a small glimpse of a short link of chain. The visor on the helmet was cracked, and their chest was rising and falling slowly.

Noah’s heart sank. The Apoid was still alive, and better yet, he prayed it was who he thought it was.

“Fionn?” He croaked, his throat dry from the last moments he’d spent screaming. His heart was hammering in his chest. “Fionn, wake up. Fionn.”

“He’s not gonna hear you.”

Noah felt his body seize in a vice grip, the voice from behind him making all of his blood go cold. He didn’t even have time to crane around until someone was stepping over his body, and his wide eyes flickered up to meet Cash’s face.

He was smirking. But those eyes; he wasn’t amused at all.

“Hello, doc,” he spoke calmly, crouching down closer towards him. Noah winced, his chest rising and falling with his quickly labouring breaths. “Glad someone didn’t pump you with any lead. Been looking forward to this since the alarm went off.”

Noah shrank further into the floor.

He remembered what that prisoner had said, and it frightened him how Cash had been gunning just for him the whole time the chaos had erupted. To fulfil the promise he’d made. His throat ached in reminder of that moment.

“It’s not as fun when the boot’s on the other foot, huh?” Cash sneered, tilting his head as his unrelenting gaze didn’t falter for a moment. Noah forced himself to look away, tucking his wobbling bottom lip under.

“Cash, please, I—” His words dried up, squeezing his eyes shut. He was so terrified. “I didn’t take any pleasure in it. I didn’t—”

“—want to?” Cash interrupted. “You signed up for this place.”

“I had to,” he shakily whispered. “It’s my sister. There was no way I could afford her treatment if I didn’t—”

“Noah,” Cash groaned, the irritation evident on his face, now hardened from his fear induced babbling. Fingers twisted in his hair, pressing his temple into the concrete floor. Noah bit back a whine of pain. “I don’t want a justification. In fact, I don’t care. But I am gonna make you pay. There’s nothing you can say that will change that.”

His stomach twisted. He was shocked he hadn’t thrown up yet, with the stress of the breakout and all the horrfic things he’d seen, and now this horrific predicament. His white jacket was still stained with patches of blood, a cruel reminder that none of it had mattered in the end.

“Why not run?” The scientist whispered shakily. “This is your chance to escape this place. There’ll never be another opportunity.”

Cash raised a brow, looking disinterestedly at the muck on Noah’s jacket. “Doc, getting out of this place ain’t easy. They’ll have the army, thousands of Apoids, anything swarming the outside of this place. Those lucky enough to get out won’t last two minutes up there. But here?”

Cash grinned, the sight wolfish. The secretary figured he might sink those sharp teeth into his neck for good measure. “They’ll eventually get control of the place. They’ll round up the prisoners and take us alive once we cooperate. After all, they won’t gun us all down as long as we remain in the Facility.”

Cash’s fingers twisted harder into his hair, and Noah’s body went rigid, hissing through his teeth.

“I’ve been in this place longer than you, doc. I know how they work,” he whispered sharply, the puff of air on the shell of his ear making him shudder. “So, why not take this time to do something I’ve wanted to do since the moment I laid eyes on you?”

He roughly released him, and Noah’s throat bobbed as he swallowed uneasily. Cash was right - an escape would only end in death. Clearly, after the fiasco when he’d broken out of his cuffs, the Facility prioritised taking the prisoners alive unless it was absolutely necessary to kill them. They’d send in reinforcements, round them up, and get the place back under control.

It meant that Noah was going to have to wait for the reinforcements to show up. Who knew how long that could take? Depending on how far the breakout had stretched, which levels were unaffected and under control, he was in the dark.

In the dark, and trapped with his prisoner, who had every desire to make him wish for a merciful death.

Noah hadn’t even realised he’d started crying until Cash scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, biting back a small whimper.

“You’re a doll, doc,” he cooed, his eyes gleaming. “I’m going to take my time with you. Though, I was kind enough to provide you with some company, at least.”

Noah’s teary eyes darted over to Fionn.

He wondered how Cash even knew that was him, but he didn’t care.

Fionn wasn’t safe, neither of them were, but at least he knew he wasn’t dead. The last thing he had been so consumed about was if he’d cost the Apoid his job; now he wished that was all he had to worry about. Noah bit back the little sniffle, the dizzy headache throbbing uncomfortably through his skull, only intensified by the pounding of his heart. 

Level Nine was terrifying enough as it was; locked in a room with one of their prisoners, completely at their mercy? Noah didn’t think anything worse could have happened. Level Nine prisoner’s were some of the most ruthless war criminals, prisoners of war, agents and spies, too dangerous to be kept anywhere but a highly sophisticated underground prison. He had recieved Cash’s file, but it didn’t tell him anything about the things he’d done to get himself locked up in here. Only blood types, medication - things that he would have to know as his scientist. 

Noah didn’t want to think about all the horrific stuff Cash had done.

The fact that he probably knew how to kill Noah in more ways than he could ever imagine. 

The fact that he would know how to hurt him until he wanted death. 

Horror twisted his core - there was no point begging right now. For Cash, this was how it was supposed to be. The Facility would be swarming on the surface - the moment someone managed to get out, they wouldn’t be there two minutes before they were found and gunned down. 

And, for some reason, Noah got the impression that mindless slaughter and violence would become pretty boring for someone as calculated as Cash. The breakout was an exuse for anarchy and escape; for Noah’s prisoner, it was an opportunity for payback. 

“If you want to punish someone, punish the Higher Ups,” Noah choked out, cringing when Cash’s eyes remained staring languidly at Fionn’s unconscious form. “The people who run the place. They’re the ones that pass the orders. Please.” 

Cash tilted his head, cold eyes flickering up to the ceiling, as if in thought. “That’s the thing, doc. They’re smart enough to know that. It’s always why they’re smart enough not to stick around when they don’t have to.” 

His boots thumped across the ground, stopping in front of Noah’s damp face again. Over his prison clothes, Cash was wearing one of the Apoid’s jackets, unzipped. He’d probably taken it from someone he’d killed, since Fionn was in full uniform apart from his weapons. The prisoner had stripped them. 

“But we’ve both seen for ourselves that people like you are expendable,” he mocks cruelly, reminding Noah of those words Fionn had shouted with such conviction. Something stung at his chest. “That’s why.” 

He admired the crestfallen expression that fell upon Noah’s pitiful face for a few moments, before he pretended to glance at the non-existent watch on his wrist. He hummed, lip quirking into a malicious smirk. 

“Alright, enough chit chat, doc,” he murmured. “I was hoping your little Apoid would wake up, but we’re on a time crunch here. So, let’s get started.” 

Noah flinched violently when his hand fisted into his shirt, hoisting him onto his feet like he weighed nothing. The prisoner even made a quiet comment about how little he would weigh, even soaking wet, but Noah couldn’t hear anything over the relentless pounding in his skull, and the blood rushing through his head. 

The prisoner guided him, or more like dragged him, close to the wall, where he took in the horrible sight of shackles attached to a chain in the ceiling. His knees were refusing to even hold his own weight, a colourless complexion fixed itself to his face. 

“Coveniently, these rooms were made for torture,” Cash smoothly spoke, taking a pocket knife to Noah’s restrained wrists and cutting through them easily. Before he could even consider attempting to wrench away from him, the prisoner was slapping the cold metal cuffs around them, stretching his arms uncomfortably above his head. There was a small pinch in his shoulder blade from the position, and he had to bite back a pained whimper. 

“The most challenging thing was deciding what to do with you first, though. Especially with all of these options,” he hummed absentmindly, running his fingers along the wall, lined with various tools that Noah didn’t dare crane his head around to see. He heard the clank of metal, and Cash circled back round in front of him to see he was cradling a lead pipe. “I don’t want to put you out of commission too early. Look at you - you’re so frail, doc.”

Noah’s heart was racing. With each passing second of being in this position, he was imagining all of the places that the lead pipe would crack against, and he could barely breathe from the horrifying concept. Was this how it felt for them? Waiting for the inevitable torture?

“Cash,” he breathed out shakily, biting back a sob. “Cash, please.” 

“Not gonna work on me,” the prisoner sighed, unbothered. “I don’t have a soft spot for those that grovell. Sorry.” 

Noah had barely even been able to brace for the first swing. Cash had moved so fast after standing so casually, that he only registered the movement after the crack of impact landed on his side, and his throat closed up in agony. His whole body seized up, a wretched, choked sound escaping his lips. 

The chains rattled from the very impact, his eyes wide and watery. Cash’s eyes gleamed with something predatory, like he could sense he was going to enjoy this. The numbness came next, followed by the tidal wave of crippling agony. Noah wanted to double over, try to ease the blinding pain, but it was impossible with the chains. 

“That was just a love tap,” Cash purred, and there was this sick delight in his voice, like the hit had released something within him that had been festering for years upon years. “Don’t be dramatic, doc.” 

Noah can’t even process the comparison of that only being a love tap before the pipe sinks into his stomach with vigor, and a sickening cough gets all tangled up in the scientist’s throat. The sheer force is enough to rip the air from his lungs, rendering him gasping and squirming in the chains as he tries to process the throbbing pain spreading through his body. 

The pipe goes for his side again. Then his ribs - Noah see’s stars on that swing, and he can barely even feel the instinctive panic that something was cracked before another was slamming into back, avoiding his spine. 

“Stop,” Noah tries to choke out, but he’s been rendered breathless and he’s in so much pain and he just wants to go home. Cash taps the edge of the pipe under his chin, gently tilting his head up to meet his unfocused, tear filled eyes. He can’t help but wrack with groaning sobs, each jolt making his body flare up in intense agony. Breathing aches. 

His face is contorted in pain, and Cash admires it languidly. 

“But, doc,” he drawls. “Why stop when we’ve only just begun?”

tag list – @suspicious-whumping-egg @sunshiline-writes @rabidrabidme @whumpatize-me-captain @thegirlwholived1213 @reverie1234 @unforgivenn @morning-star-whump @seaweed-is-cool @d-cs @whump-me-all-night-long @whump-me @gala1981 @pirefyrelight @whumble-beeee @miss-unicorn0907 @avidrambling @anoontjecanush @2in1whump @ha-ha-one @steh-lar-uh-nuhs @whatwhump @sowhumpful @whump321 @alexmundaythrufriday

[blackrosesandwhump]

Febuwhump Day 15: Who Did This to You?

CW: 2nd pov, injured, blood mention, unconsciousness

Something happened to you.

Your consciousness is nothing but a grey haze, letting certain sensations and noises through: pain in your head and neck, footsteps, voices, a low roar that could be wind or traffic. You’re conscious enough to realize that something’s wrong, and that’s it. No strength, no willpower, barely enough breath in your lungs.

The voices grow clearer. One of them filters through the strange haze that has you in its numbing grip.

“Who did this to you?”

You recognize the voice. Someone you care about, maybe. It sends a ripple of desperation through your veins, desperation to get up, open your eyes, do something, but all you can manage is a slurred “I…don’t know.”

“Who did this? I’ll kill them.” A pair of hands clamp onto you, heaving you upright. Your legs buckle; the hands grip tighter. An arm braces against your back. And now you taste something: blood, metallic and bitter. Your own blood.

Something happened to you. But what? And why do you feel like death?

[whump-in-the-closet]

“You? No, no I won’t touch a hair on your head. Your friend on the other hand…oh, can you hear the screaming? Yeah, that’s them. Such a lovely voice.”

[snakebites-and-ink]

CW: Pet whump, referenced kidnapping, captivity, conditioned whumpee

Whumper stretched and glanced at their clock. It was probably time to check on their freshly-caught pet. They headed to the room their new pet, Whumpee, was in, and opened the door only to be greeted with furious yelling and the jingling of chains. Clearly Whumpee was not happy with their new arrangement.

Whumper walked into the room and shut the door behind them. “Hello there.”

With a small growl, Whumpee lunged towards Whumper and swept their leg out in a kick that very nearly landed.

“What do you want?” they demanded angrily as Whumper stepped just out of their reach.

Whumper smirked. They retracted Whumpee’s chain so that it was too short to stand with, and Whumpee was forced to their knees. “Nothing too extreme. I just want you to behave and obey me.”

Whumpee struggled against the chain uselessly. Whumper walked closer, feeling fairly safe from attack now. “What—? What are you going to do with me? Why am I even here?”

Whumper smiled. Someone was asking all the right questions. “I’m going to keep you for myself, dear. You’re here because this is your new home. You are my pet.”

Whumpee paused. Their eyes went wide. “You mean you’ve adopted me?” they asked.

“That’s right,” Whumper confirmed.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you! I won’t disappoint you,” Whumpee said, nuzzling Whumper’s leg affectionately.

Whumper hesitated, dumbfounded. They gently tipped Whumpee’s face up to look at their own. “Are you…already trained?”

“Yes sir, I know my place,” Whumpee said intently.

“Oh?” Whumper responded. “Then why were you acting so feral just a minute ago?”

“I didn’t know you were adopting me! I thought I’d been kidnapped, and I had to fight my captors like a person to have a chance at getting out. I can be good, sir, I promise!” They looked up at Whumper with pleading eyes.

“And why were you going about the world without an owner when I found you? Living your life like you thought you were a person?”

Whumpee averted their gaze, not looking like they’d been caught faking, but like they actually were sad. “After I was taken from my first owner, no one wanted to have me as their pet. They all said I was a human. No one else took care of me, so I had to take care of myself.”

Whumper lowered themself to Whumpee’s level. They cupped Whumpee’s cheek gently, and noticed that they automatically tilted their head slightly into Whumper’s hand. 

“Oh, I bet that was hard, wasn’t it?” They kept their tone soft and sympathetic, but inwardly Whumper was ecstatic. Whumpee didn’t even want to be free.

Whumpee nodded, face rubbing against Whumper’s hand as they did so.

“Don’t worry. Now that you’re mine, I’ll take care of everything for you. You won’t have to work another day in your life to have nourishing food and a roof over your head, so long as you don’t do anything too foolish like running away.”

Whumpee dove towards Whumper and hugged them fiercely. “Thank you thank you sir, thank you, you’re so nice I need it—”

Whumper was delighted. Whumpee was so so grateful, practically loved Whumper already for taking them. And here Whumper had been expecting to be hated and resisted for a couple weeks at least. They pulled Whumpee back enough to see their face. Were those tears? Aw, they were! Whumper forced their instinctive grin to emerge as something warm and soft instead. If Whumpee thought they were nice and caring for doing this, Whumper wasn’t planning to disabuse them of that notion as long as their behavior stayed good enough. “Shh, it’s alright, dear pet, relax. You’ll never have to worry about anything again.”

Whumper hugged back, holding Whumpee close. They felt so small and sweet in Whumper’s arms. Whumpee obediently quieted their rambling and let go of a portion of the desperate tension in their body. With Whumpee’s face tucked safely out of view against Whumper’s chest, Whumper allowed their wide grin to finally appear. This was going to work out wonderfully.

[the-bar-sinister]

Caretaker finds recovering whumpee curled up in a tight little ball on the bed, hugging their pillow. Caretaker asks what's wrong, and what's on their mind, but whumpee just shakes their head and won't or can't speak about it or anything else.

Eventually caretaker just sits down next to them, petting whumpee's hair and reassuring them that they're safe.

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

The fun part about stress is that when you're under a particularly large amount of stress from a single source, it's really hard to actually buckle under that One Thing. Even if it's a really, really big thing, that is threatening to ruin your entire life in one fell swoop, it's hard to fully get yourself to wrap your head around it. Big Things, in our experience, almost always take a good chunk of time to chew on and fully digest. You don't give way under the weight, you simply have to chew on it. Work through it. Maybe not directly work on it, but you don't really shatter from it. It just sort of hangs over your head, like a single massive weight.

The thing about these sorts of weights, of course, is that this adds to the stress from other things. You don't break down about the Big Things directly. When it happens, it won't be the Big Weight of, say, that cloying medical problem. It'll be the little things. That big weight is too big to really wrap your head around, too heavy to comprehend in one piece - so what gets you is, instead, the little things. The stuff that reminds you of it, in a way that's ever so more tangible.

Because you don't just think about, say, your future potential inability to financially support yourself. You go on with your life. You keep acting as normal. You work as you are, for as long as you can. And then that straw comes along.

You go out to a club with your friends. You think of buying drinks together. All of a sudden, you remember your bank account. Every penny spent on gin feels like a risk, a waste. You're irresponsible. You're wasting your savings away. How long can you sustain this? Everything you buy, and everything your friends buy, feels like abrasions on an invisible plane. Thinking about it makes you feel sick, and the more you stay, the worse you feel.

It's not spending two dollars on a beer, realistically, that's causing you the stress. It's the looming spectre behind it. The problem, showing itself in symptoms, so much more easily grasped. Your phone slips from your hands, and you think of the nerve problems that will only compound, and all of a sudden the mere idea of picking it up and dropping it again makes you feel sick. Your friend texts you something just north of warm, and all of a sudden you're spiralling worrying if your continuing problems have finally alienated them.

It's easier to grasp the smaller things, you see. It's easier to have one little thing happen and realize that you'll have to grapple with that for the rest of your life than it is to go through the symptoms list, because it's simple and immediate. Thinking of your future is too big to wrap your head around, but thinking of having to rely on someone to hold your hand just to walk you to the bathroom, over and over for the rest of your life - that thought scares you, more than any thought of the underlying cause ever would. It's not she's dead, it's how will i water the roses without her? or what will i do on tuesday now that she's gone? or how do i ever care for her pets?

Small is easy to grasp. Easy to think about. Easy to worry about. Easy to have happen, and have the horrible, bleeding spectre of its underlying cause crash into you, and leave you shaking and struggling to pull yourself together on the floor. A forced windows update might not scare you, but the looming fear of forced obsolescence will, the horror of not even being able to choose to opt out on a should-be-optional update.

Which is to say: it's not being forcibly turned into a werebeast that really gets you. Not the blades at your heels, or the blood on the floor, or the immediate knot of emotions when you realize your teammate's just seen you behead someone without even meaning to do it. It's not the injury, or the inability to walk, or the burning like boiling oil trickling down your muscles hours afterwards. What really gets you, once everything's over and done with, is sitting down and realizing that your only pair of shoes has been slashed to ribbons because of your own cursed body's spur blades.

Because it might not be the boots, on their own, causing the problem. But that, in and of itself, makes it worse. Because even if it's not the core of the problem, it's still the part that you'll fixate on, because it's faster, because it's simpler, because it's so much easier to grasp than wrapping your head around all that's been done to you, and crying over something as horribly, horribly trivial as boots makes you sound - well, it makes you sound like an immature fool, doesn't it?

A cruelty, perhaps, that the emotional state at which you'll cry over boots isn't one where you can put the source of the problem together. But really, knowing that it's the werebeast thing doesn't make you feel any less stupid. Because now you're the kind of person who cries over boots, and stupid, material possessions, when you have so many more problems, when a slip of your sleeve could get you arrested. And that, more than anything, makes you feel a tiny bit more helpless than before.

They were good boots, too.

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Total $hit$how: I'm Going In

in which Joy goes on a life-changing field trip

cw: referenced violence, death mentions, implied lab whump, adult language

previous // masterlist //

×~×~×

Tomorrow came too fast.

In preparation for the mission, Joy’s body refused to sleep, waking her up at least once an hour to remind her that hooray, you have an important task in the morning! Better be ready, wouldn’t sleep be great?

She rolled out of bed at the first chirp of the alarm clock, groggy and more than a little pissed at her own brain. Vic hadn't specified a required uniform, so she changed back into the clothes she’d arrived in; breathable hiking pants, a black tank top, and a pair of combat boots. The shit they'd been provided for training was nice and all, but if she was about to embark on an expedition she wanted to remember exactly where her pockets were.

No one had seen Sahota since yesterday’s challenge, but Vic said he'd meet her by the compound’s exit. She waited there, slouched against the wall, tapping her foot in an uneven rhythm. 

Fuck. The moment of truth was at hand. She knew she could technically hold up her end of the deal now, shoot an ‘oh damn, are you okay?’ Sahota's way and immediately get shot down with a gruff ‘fine. Don't ask me again.’

But that probably wasn't what Jericho had in mind. Joy couldn't be direct about it. Last time she'd tried, it had only pissed Sahota off, and that wasn't the effect she was going for. She'd have to be subtle, dance around the subject as best she could. Too bad she had two left feet.

If she hadn’t been cued in already, the first sign that something was wrong came when Sahota actually made noise on his approach. His footsteps were heavier than they usually were, his breathing more ragged. It took effort to suppress a wince when she caught sight of him. He'd looked bad before, but now she was surprised he was still standing, much less about to head off on a mission. His left eye was swollen shut, and cuts and bruises littered his face. 

How many times had Harbor hit him?

Her anger at the other man doubled in size, but she managed to choke it back, keep it out of her expression.

“Hey,” she said. “Time to go?”

Sahota gave a silent nod, moving to the door and typing in a sequence on the keypad beside it. Joy thought to try and catch a glimpse of the code two seconds too late, and all she could do was mildly regret it as the door slid open.

It struck her as a little weird that it locked from both sides, but that was probably for cases like theirs: schmucks off the street, employed by vague threats and promises and kept on a tighter leash by Vic’s control issues. 

She followed Sahota up a set of concrete stairs and into the daylight. The morning air was almost chilly enough to make her wish she'd brought a jacket, the overcast sky promising rain. Gazing up at the clouds, she realized this was her first time setting foot outside since her arrival. Thank fuck she’d been distractred enough that the thought was only occuring to her now, otherwise she would’ve been going stir-crazy in there.

Getting to the compound had been a bit of a blur—some generic car with tinted windows and a silent driver dropping her into Vic's loving arms—so she wasn't too surprised that its exterior wasn't familiar. Brutalist concrete building that wouldn't look out of place in a sci-fi movie. Bigger than it looked from the outside, but she knew now that most of the structure was underground.

Sahota moved away from the entrance, to an overhang at the side of the building. Joy didn't know why she was surprised to see a car parked under it. It made sense that they had a way to come and go, but their vehicle of choice caught her off guard. It was just a beat-up truck, not the sleek spy car she might've dreamt up. It was probably better for blending in, but she still found herself a little disappointed. All the fancy tech Vic had at his disposal for training, and he'd settled on a ford for his getaway vehicle.

Sahota moved to the driver's side, and she noticed for the first time he was limping. Just a little, barely enough to tell, but once she caught on, it was clear he was favoring his left leg. 

Joy couldn't stop herself. “Did Harbor do that too?” she blurted out, gesturing down. He stared at her blankly for a second, then gave a small shake of his head. 

“Old injury. Acts up in bad weather.”

“What's it from?”

He unlocked the car, sliding into the driver's seat. “Training.”

Bit ironic that a lasting injury came from training and not the job itself, but life was a bitch like that sometimes. She'd broken her wrist in a middle school softball game once. Not diving for home plate, or even staggering back to catch a ball. She'd just… tripped and landed wrong. It still got stiff on some winter mornings, much to her irritation.

Joy climbed into the passenger seat. “Is it gonna bother you on the mission?” It was a blanket question. Should you even be out here? Go to bed, is what she wanted to say, but she imagined Sahota would take offense to that.

“This isn't a mission,” he replied, starting the truck and tactfully avoiding her question. Fair enough.

“How far is it to the lab?” she asked.

“Hour. Maybe more if we catch traffic.”

Well, on the plus side that gave her plenty of time to slowly close in on the topic of Sahota’s okay-ness. On the negative, if she somehow pushed the wrong buttons, she’d be stuck with a silent and grumpy Sahota for the rest of the drive. And the mission. And the drive back. Joy swallowed, winding her fingers together and pointing herself towards the window. Tactful. Be tactful.

“Uh.” She cleared her throat. “Kinda lame that Vic shot down your idea.”

“Hm?”

“The challenge? I thought it was…” Fun? Hell no. It had been just as awkward as this. “...Interesting,” she finished. Sahota said nothing, his eyes—eye. Should he even be driving?—locked on the road.

“Also,” Joy continued when he said nothing, “it's kinda bullshit that Vic changed the plan after we won.”

At that, Sahota let out a sigh. “I shouldn't have let you try in the first place. That's on me.”

“Is it?” She turned in her seat, facing him. “Sounds like it's on Vic. Aren't you guys partners?”

His expression didn't change, but his hands seemed to tighten around the steering wheel. “Yes.”

“Then why is he the one calling all the shots? You should get a say.”

“It's complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

“It's…” his mouth tightened. “Vic’s had a lot more time on the job. He knows better than I do. If he overrules me, it's for a reason.”

It could be true, partially true, but Vic seemed to think he had more power than just that. Her mind went to the video. Vic’s total disregard for his so-called partner.

“Maybe he knows better, but that doesn't mean he can treat you like shit.” She might've been overstepping, and maybe the incident really was just so routine that neither of them cared about it, but the slight shift in Sahota's face, the way his arms tensed, had her thinking she was right.

“Why do you work with him?” Joy asked. “You're really fucking skilled. Why not get a job with someone who appreciates that?”

“What about you?” Sahota replied without missing a beat. “You're smart. You build and fix things like it's second nature. Why'd you go for the criminal side when you could be something better?”

Joy scoffed. “It's not that easy.” She'd watched her oldest sister struggle with student loans, and high school had already been hard enough to stay focused through. She'd been scared of college, to tell the truth, and joining the army fresh after graduation just seemed like the smart path. No financial burden for her parents, no help from anyone else.

“Exactly,” Sahota said. “It's not that easy.”

She couldn't think of a retort on the spot, and instead turned her gaze back to the window, watching the clouds gradually darken. The city skyline was growing in the distance, but they didn't seem to be headed in that direction. She figured she could ask about that, fill the silence, but she knew it wasn’t the question she was supposed to be chasing.

Are you okay? It was on her tongue, refusing to be spoken. Whatever he answered, she knew it would be a lie, and voicing it seemed pointless when she knew he wasn’t.

Eventually, they turned down what her mother would've called a road less traveled; a ribbon cut through the trees that was more pothole than asphalt.

“Rotorworx has a lab back here?” Joy said, trying to peer through the dense foliage. 

“Used to. Closed down after an incident.”

“What kind of incident?”

“You’ve probably heard of it. Happened during the experiment Harbor was part of.”

Wait wait wait, this was that lab? Joy wracked her brain, trying to recall everything she'd read about the experiment. The published studies were vague at best. Something something innovative, life-changing technology. A sixth sense in development, a peek into another word. For a few months, it had been advertised on the daily; little teasing articles that told you nothing.

And then all of a sudden, news of the experiments stopped completely. Rumors circulating a few online forums suggested the project ended in a disaster, but she'd never found an official source; nothing to indicate exactly what went down. For all she knew, the research team had just been forced to scrap everything after losing funding. 

But something had to have gone right, right? Harbor had come out with… with… well, the promised sixth sense. Why hadn’t that ever been publicized?

“What do you know about the incident?” she asked Sahota.

“There's not much intel available,” he replied. “Something went wrong. Several researchers were killed, and the lab was closed by the government.” He pulled the truck into a patch of weeds that lined the road.

Killed? It had gone that wrong?

“We’ll need to walk from here,” Sahota said. “The area will be fenced off.” He hopped out of the truck, stumbling a little on the dismount. Joy couldn't tell if it was from his knee, or some new, Harbor-caused injury. She jumped out after him.

“You okay?” she said.

“Fine.”

Exactly how she’d thought it would play out. Ah well, it was a decent warmup. Sahota started into the treeline, his boots crunching against fallen leaves, and Joy followed him.

“You said people died.”

“They did.”

“How?”

“Cause of death was never made public.”

Joy raised an eyebrow. “None of this was ever made public. It just… I don't know, went away.” She probably shouldn’t be too shocked. Big companies loved their good publicity.

The promised fence made its appearance before too long. It was simple chain-link; no barbed wire, no cameras that Joy could pick out. Instead, spaced out along every ten meters or so, there was a plastic sign:

DANGER. CONTAMINATED AREA.

“Contaminated,” she read aloud. “Fun. Should we be worried?”

“Probably not.” 

Sahota scaled the fence with ease, and Joy followed. The area inside was less overgrown than the surrounding woods. Weeds came up past her ankles, but all things considered, that was pretty well-kept. Directly ahead, nestled between a few trees, a white concrete building stuck up out of the earth like a broken molar.

For a moment, she forgot she wasn't alone, taking off towards the lab without another word to Sahota. It wasn't very big. Was most of it underground? Had this been built solely for the sixth sense project, or had they conducted other research here?

“Cavan.”

Joy stopped short at Sahota's voice, casting a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “Sorry.” She waited for him to catch up, then held back a bit, deciding it was probably smarter to follow his lead. She knew her way around a shady area, but he seemed far more versed in subtlety than she was.

Sure enough, he honed in on what she assumed was a maintenance door, and knelt in front of it to get at the lock. In the six steps it took for Joy to reach him, she heard a click, and then he was easing it open, squinting into the darkness with his one good eye.

“No lights, no sounds. Safe to assume they cut all power once shit hit the fan.”

She peered over his shoulder. The maintenance room looked untouched, if a little dirty, and at one end, a flight of concrete stairs descended into darkness. Inviting, in a survival horror kind of way.

Sahota produced a flashlight, turned it on with a twist, and led the way down the stairs. The door at the bottom was also locked, but he made quick work of it.

That was a good sign, right? If there was anything inside worth seeing, it had to have been sorta protected by these security measures. The second door opened into a silent hallway. A thin layer of grime covered once-white tile, and she could see a few darkened doorways further in.

“If the main target's Elysium, this must be Asphodel,” she said, wrinkling her nose as the smell of mildew wafted out to greet it.

Sahota cast a glance over his shoulder as he stepped into the hall. “Didn't pin you for someone who knows Greek mythology.”

It sounded like something she should take offense to, but Joy just shrugged. “I'm allowed to have more than one hobby.” It wasn't like she made a habit of studying mythology, but the Percy Jackson books were some of the few she'd been able to sit through as a kid. Not only that, she'd actually enjoyed reading them.

“You like reading?” Joy asked as they pushed further inside, past a few empty rooms that looked like they'd once been offices. The corridor seemed to end at a set of double doors, deep in the dark.

“When I have time,” Sahota replied.

“Funny, I didn't pin you for a nerd,” Joy said. It was too dark to see his face, but she was willing to bet he wasn't smiling. “Are the books in the library yours?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“All of them?” Her mind went to the copy of 1984, all the tally marks. At first she'd assumed they'd been made by some previous owner, but maybe it had been Sahota all along. What would he be counting? Missions? Kills? Why put it there, of all places?

“Some are Vic's,” he answered.

She couldn't imagine what Vic would be counting either, unless it was all the parades he’d rained on. “Got a favorite book?”

He was silent for a moment, the only sound the faint fall of their shoes on the grungy tile. “The Hobbit,” he said at last.

“You are a nerd.”

“Maybe.”

She couldn't see shit past the flashlight’s beam, but this time she swore she heard the touch of a smile in his voice. 

Before she could ask if he had a favorite character, they'd arrived at the double doors. They looked sturdy—or rather, they looked like they used to be sturdy. The layers of wood and metal had warped somehow, buckled outwards. Like it had been rammed with a truck from the other side, or sustained some kind of intense pressure.

Sahota tested the door on the left, and it gave, just a little. He hit it with a more focused shove, and it gave a little more.

“Help me get this open.”

Joy stepped forward, bracing her palms against the door and leaning forward with all her weight. The door swung open with an awful scraping sound and a terrible smell to match, all stale smoke and the sour odor of rusted metal. She took a step back, letting Sahota and his flashlight get in there first.

The walls were charred, likely by scientific failures. The floor was also charred, with a few random squares lightened by what she could only assume was the removal of equipment. It looked emptied out, but not completely. A few metal cabinets were jammed together against one wall, a few more toppled like dominoes near the center. 

If Joy didn't know any better, she'd say there’d been some kind of explosion in here. And really, she didn't know better.

“Site of the incident?” she said.

“Looks like it,” Sahota agreed. “Check the cabinets. We're looking for notes, blueprints, any surviving papers.”

Joy nodded, even though he couldn't see it, and moved to the first cabinet. Sahota set the flashlight in the middle of the room, creating a dim, but usable, glow. 

Cabinet number one wasn't in great shape. It seemed buckled in on itself, much like the doors, and getting the top drawer open took a lot of effort on Joy's part. With the scant lighting, she couldn't see what it held, and was resigned to feeling around inside. Nothing.

“How long have you been working with Vic, anyway?” she called over her shoulder as she moved to the second drawer.

“Almost twelve years now.”

Damn. “You guys must be close.” Vic was an asshole, there was no doubt about that, but had she been overthinking his and Sahota’s interactions? If they'd been together that long, they had to have some kind of weird coping mechanisms for when the other was hurt.

“Mm.”

A week ago, she would've asked exactly how close he and Vic were. She was still pretty sure they were romantically involved on some level, but their weird power dynamic made her… uncomfortable. But maybe it was just some kind of kink that had leaked out of their bedroom? If that was the case, it really wasn’t her business to be calling Vic a piece of shit to his partner’s face.

Joy wriggled open the next drawer. “Sorry about what I said before,” she said, feeling around the inside of the space. “About Vic treating you bad. I shouldn’t have made that assumption.” To her surprise, her fingers brushed paper. A few sheets by the feel of it. 

Behind her, Sahota let out a quiet sigh. “It’s fine. Vic’s… he’s hard to get used to.”

That was an understatement. She’d liked Vic in the beginning, but it hadn’t taken long to see the ruthless apathy hiding behind his friendly mask. Maybe under that there was yet another layer, a sweet side that only Sahota got to glimpse. For his sake, she sure fucking hoped so.

Aside from a lonely sheet of paper in a bottom drawer, the remaining cabinets held a grand total of nothing. Joy shuffled her findings into the crook of her arm.

“Can we move this back to the hall?” she asked once she’d given the drawers a final once-over. “The smell is gonna give me a headache.”

Sahota didn't say anything, but when he knelt to pick up the flashlight, she took it as a yes. Joy left the room in a hurry, taking a deep breath as soon as she'd gotten a good few meters away from the door. Sahota handed her the flashlight, a folded piece of paper clutched in his other hand.

“Check what we have. See if it's necessary to explore further.”

Joy nodded, scanning page one. It took a few attempts of reading the first line before the words actually stuck; her mind was still bouncing between all the other topics of the day. The mystery of the lab, the mystery of Vic and Sahota, the fact that she still hadn’t finished her quest for Jericho… Fuck.

She forced her eyes into focus.

Your X4900 printer’s settings can be accessed by toggling the home menu.

Joy sighed. “This one's no good.” 

“And the next?”

She shuffled the page to the back. “This one… looks like a list of names?”

“Names?” He leaned over her shoulder. It looked like some kind of spreadsheet; names and dates and a shitload of scientific jargon.

Marian Sullivan. 08-12-097. 09-29-133. 10-16-133. Failed acclimation, occular failure, released.

Ahmed Faisal. 11-02-102. 03-10-134. 04-22-134. Failed acclimation, observed deterioration. Released.

It was a list of… what, test subjects? For the sixth sense, or something else? Joy scanned the names, doing a double take when she reached the bottom.

Hunter Harbor. 04-11-113. 02-28-136.

The next two spaces were blank, as if still waiting to be filled in. Joy glanced at the doorway they’d left, the burnt-out, destroyed room. It looked like Harbor was the project’s only success by a hundred miles. And somehow, that hadn't been a great thing. 

She swapped pages. The next seemed to be another piece of some manual, but after that… a collection of notes.

Construction largely consists of a bio-friendly silicon isotope; flexible and non-degrading. Interior electronics package is shown to be well-shielded against external factors. Centermost hollow houses Isotope G—

Joy paused, glancing back at Sahota. “Isotope G. You know what that is?”

“No.”

Definitely seemed like something worth finding out.

—designed to power implant, provided activation can be achieved. Extent of properties unknown, has been shown to emit a unique energy signature.

Joy sighed, shuffling the page to the back. “So Rotorworx is sticking shit in people's heads without fully understanding it. Is that a common thing with them?”

“Rotorworx has a history of not thinking things through. They prefer to look at results over consequences.”

Joy looked down at the next sheet. “Oh, here's more on the G stuff.” It was another set of handwritten notes, neatly penned onto a torn piece of notebook paper. This time, she read aloud.

“Properties largely unexplored, further research to be conducted ASAP. Full energization has been achieved on a microscopic level through ionizing Na-22 sample in proximity. Energization resulted in temporary visual phenomena that witnesses described as ‘otherworldly’. Energization of larger sample to be enacted ASAP.” She glanced over her shoulder. “You don't think… maybe they used this shit for the Reality Cage too?”

“We shouldn't assume,” Sahota said, taking the page from her and squinting at it.

“They said it was otherworldly,” she argued. “Even if it doesn't open portals or whatever, is that gonna stop Rotorworx from trying to use it that way?”

The corners of his mouth tightened. “Probably not.”

Joy glanced at the papers in her hands, once again face to face with the printer manual. “What was the one you grabbed? Have you looked at it yet?”

“Not yet.” He passed it to her, and she hit it with the beam of the flashlight. More handwritten notes, which so far, had been the jackpot.

1237 - Rate raised to .070 mSv/H, no change.

1300 - Rate raised to .071 mSv/H, no change.

1320 - Session terminated. Results inconclusive. Subject stable.

She re-read it aloud for Sahota’s benefit. “Milli-Sieverts,” she finished with disbelief. “They were straight-up zapping the test subjects with radiation.”

It seemed like the researchers were trying to energize the ‘larger sample’ while it was inside someone's head. Even though she knew this project had been shut down, Joy still cringed at the thought. She didn't have every piece of the puzzle, but the bits they'd found didn't paint a pretty picture. How had this been allowed? Why hadn't anyone stopped it before everything blew up in their faces? Literally?

She handed the page back to Sahota. “Think we have all we need?” she asked.

“Isotope G is a good starting point,” he replied, tucking the paper away. “It's more intel than we came in with.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Joy replied, rolling her shoulders back in a stretch. She'd really prefer not to spend any more time in this pit. She passed Sahota the flashlight and got to her feet, following the beam back the way they'd come. Once they reached the top of the stairs, she threw open the maintenance door with a dramatic shove. Ah, sunlight.

She held the door steady for Sahota. “You know what? That was fun,” she said. 

He raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Really. Not every day you get to break into an abandoned lab and find weird shit. Fun.”

He let out a noise that might've been a laugh. Maybe. “Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

Joy grinned at him, leaning back against the white cinderblock and casting one final glance at the papers she'd found, now slightly crumpled from their place in her fist. She could probably trash them as soon as they made it past the fence. Sahota had the important shit, and she doubted she'd ever own an X4900 printer.

But in the daylight, something caught her eye.

Joy frowned, smoothing out the stack before grabbing the first manual page. Turning it over, seeing nothing but manufactured words. Nothing new, what had she just..? Ah. The second page, something had been scrawled with a soft pencil in the margins on the back, hardly noticeable.

“Hey,” she said. “I think there's more here.”

These notes were hastily written, like whoever'd made them was smack dab in the middle of something and just needed to get it down. It took her a second to make out the words.

0918 - Rate raised to 10 mSv/H. Material appears to react. A spike of energy equivalent to 11 Joules is read on the monitor.

0923 - Rate raised to 25 mSv/H. Material shows a spike of activity, equivalent to 78 Joules. Increasing.

“Sahota..?” Increasing. They'd managed to energize the G shit then, at least a little. This… this must've been Harbor's test. She continued reading, this time out loud.

“0929 - Source energy appears to malfunction. Readings asymmetrical. Geiger tube alarm threshold reached. Advise shut down and reschedule test. 

0932 - Rate raised to 100 mSv/H. Material energization increases exponentially, reading 939 Joules.”

Sahota frowned. “And then?”

“That's all,” she said, feeling her eyebrows knit tighter together. “It just ends.”

A hundred milli-sieverts. She'd never gotten too deep into nuclear physics, but that was a lot, right? At the very least it wasn't a healthy amount of radiation for a human to be exposed to. And she knew Joules. Harbor'd basically had a microwave going off in his head. Joy clenched her jaw. Even if she was still pissed at the guy, she couldn’t imagine how that would’ve felt.

“This is what caused the incident, isn't it? They tried to activate the… whatever Isotope G is, and it backfired.”

Sahota had taken the paper from her and was staring it down. “We can't know for sure, but…”

“But you'd agree it's pretty likely?”

He nodded, a grim set to his mouth.

“Fuck,” she whispered. It didn't surprise her that everything had gone so wrong. Popping energetic material into the human brain—even in the name of research—was a disaster waiting to happen. But if things had gone so wrong with something small enough to be implanted in someone's head, what could happen with larger quantities?

“Fuck,” she said again, louder, shaking her head when Sahota looked her way.

“We need to get to the Reality Cage as soon as we can,” she said.

“That is the mission,” Sahota replied.

“No, it's…” Joy shook her head again. “I think it's worse than we thought. I think…” She clenched her fists, tapping her knuckles against her thighs. “If Rotorworx is using Isotope G, if they're trying to fuck with it the same way they did here…” She looked him in the eye, setting her jaw.

“It's gonna be like setting off an atom bomb in the middle of the city.”

×~×~×

@theonewithallthefixations , @violets-whumperflies , @whump-me , @pirefyrelight , @soheavyaburden ,

@snakebites-and-ink , @whumpsday , @kixngiggles , @echo-goes-aaa , @whumpcateyes ,

@clickerflight , @sodacreampuff , @starfields08000

[wangxianficrecs]

heroic aftermath by Last_for_Hell

heroic aftermath

by Last_for_Hell (@last-in-line-for-hell)

T, 5k, Wangxian

Summary: A typical night hunt goes south quickly as Wei Wuxian gets severely injured protecting the juniors. They are understandably not okay with this, and try to deal with the aftermath of what they went through while taking care of a comatose Wei Wuxian. They were in for a long night ahead of them. Kay's comments: My heart breaks for the juniors in this story, but it's also so heart-warming to see how much they care for their Wei-qianbei. I was especially taken with Ouyang Zichen in this one, the fourth junior who often gets forgotten but is just as much part of the junior squad as the others. Despite Wei Wuxian being hurt badly in this story, there's no need to fear! Happy ending guaranteed! And many found family vibes as well! Excerpt: “We almost died but me walking around is too much for you?!” Jin Ling snarled, edges sharp. “We were not the ones who almost died!” Lan Jingyi cried out. The room went silent. A strangled inhale came from behind them, and Lan Jingyi spun on his heel, hand immediately outstretched, “Sizhui, I-“ “He almost died.” Lan Sizhui voice trembled, “He almost died again.” Lan Jingyi’s hand fell. Lan Sizhui didn’t look at them, eyes anchored to Wei Wuxian’s slack face, “Hanguang-Jun would have lost him again - my father would have lost him again. He’d never recover.” He was shaking. “I...I could have lost him again. And this time I remember, I would know what I lost. I can’t- I can’t lose him.” No one had anything to say to that.

pov alternating, post-canon, established relationship, adorable juniors, hurt wei wuxian, wei wuxian whump, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, aftermath of violence, wei wuxian has a fear of dogs, implied sexual content, angst with a happy ending, guilt

~*~

(Please REBLOG as a signal boost for this hard-working author if you like – or think others might like – this story.)

[honeycollectswhump]

Initials

[masterlist]

CW: whumper pov, pet whump, dehumanisation, cutting (NOT self-harm), gore

Mireille hadn’t put too much thought into it, not really. But she didn’t need to. The moment she lay eyes upon the initials carved into the jewelled perfume bottle in the home of one of her suitors, it was decided. 

Henri was a good man, certainly as good as he could get, though not without some imperfections. He was of good stature, broad shoulders, though unaware of how to present them, always slouching slightly, as if the weight of his own frame was too much. And really, that wasn’t acceptable in the eyes of perfection. Maybe Mireille could make him great, could make him her own and teach him how to be proper, but maybe this was the best he could get and she’d just waste her time. Honestly, she’d rather be certain of her efforts, but he didn’t need to know, for his presents still made lovely decor. 

He did have good taste, otherwise she wouldn’t have entertained him for so long. 

All that matters now though, is the sunlight catching in the glass carvings of the bottle, the image replaying in her mind. She wants it too, and she wants it now, and Mireille knows just the possession perfectly suited for this:

Her little ashtray.

There is no thought in her mind of where to do this, who to ask. None of them would see the vision in her mind, the exact way it’s supposed to look. They’d all mess it up, ignorant of the gracefulness she lent to her ashtray. No, this is a personal project.

It is too easy to acquire a proper knife without suspicion. These men –the useful ones– – would bend over backwards just to get a chance at pleasing her. Sometimes she’d go as far as calling it boring, but what else was she supposed to do when all it took was the batting of her lashes, looking up at them with big, dumb doe eyes and slightly parted lips? Her body spoke a language none of them could resist, none of them were ever more than prey to fall in worship. 

And worship they did, falling to their knees to satisfy her in all the ways she allowed them. She was their queen in satin sheets and velvet dresses.

So here she sits, legs crossed elegantly on her precious couch, the fine knife not yet unpacked, resting in a silver case, embedded with diamonds.

No one else understands that not only does the result need to be flawless, but every single step needs to be immaculate, from the tools to the cutting to the one performing. An image has to be created, a scene, and none of those lowly things could ever understand her vision. That was what has always made her inherently different, inherently superior, and deserving of rightful worship. 

A servant rushes into the room, hitching breaths restricted by the working collar, eying the golden bell set carefully on the glass table in front of her. 

“You called, Mistress?” they ask, staring cautiously at the floor, not yet daring to raise their eyes to meet hers. Good. She wants them revering. 

“Yes. Fetch me my ashtray, won’t you?” Mireille drawls, her bubbling excitement hidden under layers of refined grace. “And bring me some strong dogs. They will be needed.”

The servant nods, not worrying their stupid little head about her meaning, teasing what's to come, and rushes out as quickly as they came. They look frail, purposeful like porcelain, probably why she bought them, though their name or number had left her mind long ago. An unimportant piece of information abandoned along the way, replaced with something of value. 

Only minutes later, the same servant returns, gripping the ashtray’s golden leash too tightly. It’s barely noticeable but nonetheless doesn’t escape her all-seeing eyes; the way their knuckles drain of colour disturbs the otherwise pristine scene. They are followed by two guard dogs, muscular and well rested, their posture straight and imposing, their gaze hard and cold like unmoving stone. 

The ashtray looks perfect as usual, the thought both pleasing and stinging in a way that does not fit her image. So Mireille pushes it aside, a worry for later or preferably for never. They can’t have taken long to get him ready. And yet…

“Undress the ashtray. I want his chest to be free” Mireille orders, snapping her fingers. The servant quickly complies, buttoning the fine blouse the ashtray was decorated with open, pulling up away from him and folding it with learned precision. 

It only takes a hand movement for the ashtray to step forward, for him to sink to his knees in front of her. The poor lamb doesn’t yet know what is coming.

“Hold him.”

The ashtray gasps and for a single, disobedient moment looks up at her with big panicked eyes. The way his blue eyes shine in the golden light of the chandelier does nothing but strengthen her resolve. Maybe, in another world, the view in front of her would be a painting she saw at an auction, a beautiful angel wrapped in gold captured by beasts of stone, unknowing of his fate. And like a painting, it is only natural for her to leave her mark.

He doesn’t struggle, even when she can’t imagine this was part of his training, he just looks at her pleadingly, unsure what he is even begging for. 

It’s a scene now and Mireille will be a perfect part of it. 

Slowly, she stands up, taking the silver case from the table as she passes it, positioning herself right in front of the ashtray. It opens with a satisfying click, revealing polished metal, sharp edges, red velvet and her initials finely engraved on the handle. Mireille can just about stop a laugh from bubbling up. 

She crouches down to the ashtray’s eye level, laying a hand on his cheek. He doesn’t even lean into it. “Don’t. Move.”

Mireille takes the knife, letting it gleam in the gentle light, and hands the case to the servant still watching. 

She can’t mess up now. It has to come from her heart.

Carefully, she traces her initials into the skin on his collarbone, making only slight cuts, letting her letters swirl around. 

M. A. B.

Holding the knife like a painter's brush, with meticulous, perfected movements. It comes to her like second nature and the first step is completed. 

In a final decision, she lays the knife’s edge on the first line of the M, watching the ashtray’s breath hitch in horrible anticipation. Not even a wince has broken through his training and Mireille is more than curious to test how far she can take it. 

Were he any cheaper, she’d love to test what would get him to break his training. If she could get him to speak after all. But that wouldn’t be graceful, now would it? It would be a waste.

Instead, she presses it into his flesh, cutting down slowly, precisely. Once, then twice. The ashtray’s breath gets laboured and it only fuels her. She knows what she wants; an ornate engraving, decor on his skin, a signature on her masterpiece.

Fresh, richly red blood pours from the cuts, running down his bare chest like tiny rivers, connecting and separating, getting caught in raised scar tissue.

Mireille moves carefully, taking her sweet time, her lips opened slightly, imitating an artist. Position, press, slide. His flesh parts beautifully, like he was made for this. For a moment, she looks over to the servant, who is pressing the case against their chest, their face showing sloppily concealed horror, and it makes her smile. They would probably call it brutal, ignoring the gentle way her knife slides through his skin, not meeting any resistance. They’d call it violent, not comprehending the second artwork the rivulets of blood form through the hand of fate itself. They lack the mind of an artist and the nature of a human.

By the time she reaches the A, the ashtray is barely holding back sobs, letting out silent, crooked whimpers –a sound so ugly she should punish him for it–, as she etches her mark deep enough to hit the bone. Still, he doesn’t move, doesn’t strain against the unforgiving grip holding his arms, against her carving following the twirls and flourishes. 

She doesn’t admit to herself that it is more challenging than she thought, to follow the rounded lines with a tool that craves sharp edges and straight incisions. The curves of the B make the knife catch on the bone and the ashtray lets out a soundless gasping scream, blue eyes nearly rolling back in his head. The tears he could barely hold back before now run down his face in a disobedient river, mixing with the blood on his chest, destroying her artwork. 

He lifts his head upwards, in a last attempt to stop the flow of the tears, but it only makes them drip from his chin into the gashes and he is destroying everything–

A slap echoes through the room, loud enough to make his pathetic sobbing stop in an instant.

“Get your act together.” Mireille hisses, grabbing his chin and letting her manicured nails dig into his pretty face. “Or I will rip you apart, you worthless piece of trash.”

Only the word Worthless seems to get through to his stupid fucking pet brain. There is a reason he was made into a thoughtless object instead of anything else. His beauty is his only strength, the only reason they didn’t mercy-kill him, punish him for stealing space and air and atoms from anything with more use. 

He is an ashtray or he is Nothing. And if he keeps ruining her attempts to make Something out of him, he will wish she had let him keep his voice to beg for death.

At last, the ashtray doesn’t act up any more, stays motionless and silent as she finishes the B. When she pulls his skin taut, she can feel him tremble with the effort to keep still. Seems like his training had some use after all. 

Finally satisfied, Mireille lays the bloody knife aside, giving herself some time to analyze her work. Briefly, she turns to the servant to order a towel, before devoting her attention back to the signature, quickly overflowing with blood. It’s beautiful, but her interest lies somewhere else. 

She digs two fingers into a line of the A, pulling the incision apart. The ashtray only manages a whimper that she gives no regard to, as she digs deeper and deeper through the tissue, against the continuous blood flow. Then, against the intense red, her own personal gold shines through. 

Bone. 

A pleased giggle escapes her.

It is done. 

Whatever will happen, whoever will lay their eyes upon them, it will be eternally clear who he belongs to. There are nicks in his bone that her knife and her hands caused and he will forever know. 

And when her stupid little ashtray comes back to his senses and remembers his silent purpose, he will thank her for it tenfold.

Taglist: @whumpsday, @2in1whump, @sodacreampuff, @webbo0, @toyybox, @sowhumpshaped, @clickerflight, @itsawhumpsideblog, @piniatafullofblood let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

i hope you enjoyed this chapter!! if you did, i would be very thankful if you considered donating to @whumpcloud's gofundme for their top surgery (of course only if you are financially able to!!!). it would mean the world to us both <3