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hold-him-down · 4 months

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Hold Him Down (pt. 1)

TW: Med Whump, Gratuitous Med Whump, Medical Restraints, Chemical Restraints, Noncon Touch, Referenced Noncon, Parker Destin, Institutionalized Slavery, Noncon Drugging, Conditioning, Referenced Food/Water Restriction, Referenced/Described STI testing, Referenced/Described Shock Collar, Whumper POV, literally over 4k words wtf, get leo a pet fish and warm hug when.

Notes: This is one of those things that I'm, as usual, not sure needs to or should exist, but I spent so much time writing it that I couldn't just NOT post it, sooo here it is. Parts 4-6 coming eventually. Takes place in the 12-ish hour span after Leo is prematurely returned from our best guy, Parker Destin. This may be one that I revisit and try to refine down the line.

✥ ✥ ✥

From behind a two-way mirror, Handler Otto Gray and an unfamiliar intake handler stand, arms crossed over their chests. They watch Leo quietly, relieved that, at least for now, the dust has settled.

His eyes finally closed, a few hours earlier, following a massive fight that ended in a sizable dose of Lorazepam. Even drugged, it took what felt like ages for him to settle down, and even longer for his body to finally go limp. Hours later, the salty tear-streaks are still visible on his cheeks.

The doctor asked them to wait on cleaning him up; in spite of the second handler’s objections, in spite of the apparently innate desire to put this unconscious boy in his place, the handler turned on his heels and left in a huff. Otto hesitated, sparing a quick glance at Leo. He wondered, briefly, how he had managed to fail so spectacularly, before dismissing the thought all together. Against his better judgment, he squeezed Leo’s hand briefly, then he checked to make sure the restraints were appropriately secured and exited. Today was sure to be a long day, sure to be even longer if they could not get a handle on whatever panic-induced psychosis Leo was clearly grappling with.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, shift change happened. The handler who had spent the evening scowling at Leo’s lifeless form clocked out, muttering a, “Good luck,” to his replacement. Otto stayed, though, with a quick glance at handler Nick Ford, according to his name tag, and a muttered greeting. Hopefully, he thinks, this one is better suited for this type of work than the last. The doctor comes up behind them, and the three stand in silence for a moment.

“He’s asleep?” the doctor asks, which is a question that could ordinarily be answered with a quick glance through a chart, but Leo has a notoriously unpredictable response to sedatives and that, if nothing else, has been noted numerously in his file.

Otto nods, his jaw locked. “I think so.”

Leo’s wrists are red, raw where each strap hugs them, but for the last few hours, they have been still. Mostly.

“For how long?” the doctor asks, thumbing through the notes from the night before. A colorful account of the events that led to this moment, which, although maybe not immediately helpful, might lend insight into the inner workings of Leo Evans.

“A couple hours,” Handler Ford supplies, and Otto is struck suddenly with a potent distaste for how this night has played out.

It’s not out of the ordinary, exactly, for a worker to require this level of support after a contract. He hoped, though, maybe naively, that Leo was more resilient than this.

He’s been drugged out of his mind, and as hard as he fought it, the drugs eventually dragged him under. To Otto’s understanding, it was only after several hours of trying to calm him down using other methods that he was eventually medicated, and, to Otto’s understanding, the doctor intends now to keep him drugged until he’s under control. He idly wonders if there’s a chance at modifying those plans. Leo is tough, sometimes damn near impossible to work with, but they had found a kind of balance when Otto was his handler. And he thinks, now, he can perhaps spare everyone some heartache if he can have a go at his former trainee.

Otto peers in closer to the window as Leo gasps, his wrists pulling once, lightly, at the straps.

“Alright,” the doctor says, at the same time that Leo’s eyes crack open. As Handler Ford reviews the notes with the Doctor, Otto studies Leo. He hadn’t been an easy trainee. He had been downright defiant at times, resistant to every standard training tool the DLS employed. Otto had been called in in his second month, after his primary handler was fired for, more or less, losing his patience with Leo one time too many, with Leo landing in the ICU. Even after that, success came in short, nearly unpredictable bursts.

When Leo had finally been cleared to take his first contract, that would usually have been the end of Otto’s time with him. But, at least in some of his most challenging successes, he liked to keep an eye on them, if not just to see how they did. He would tell you he did this to improve his own methods, and to help him understand the longer term implications of his work. That wouldn't be the whole truth, though.

Leo was one of the select few that Otto found himself keeping an eye on. He had gotten through his first contract easily, and Otto recalled the feeling of immense relief as he read through Ms. Smith’s post-contract interview. Leo had been put in a short term holding site and almost immediately secured his second contract. That one wasn’t set to terminate for three months still, so when Otto got the notification that Leo’s file was being updated last night, he called in some favors with the intake department.

He stands here now, mostly frustrated, a little bit confused, and perhaps, maybe slightly sympathetic. Simmering beneath all that is anger, misplaced but a constant undertone that, he worries, may drive some of his decisions today. He buries it as deeply as he can. It serves neither him nor Leo.

Leo blinks hard toward the ceiling, but seems to clock his circumstances quickly. His head turns toward the mirror and for a moment, Otto thinks Leo can see him, right through him, right into the place Leo used to occasionally access and attempt to exploit.

Otto stares at his eyes, red, heavy, and unfocused, and wills Leo to remain calm. Leo swallows, and pulls again against the restraints.

Stop, Otto silently commands. But he doesn’t. Of course, he wouldn’t.

“What are the odds he’ll take it on his own?” Otto hears from next to him.

“What?” Otto responds, shifting his focus.

“The meds?” Handler Ford says as he holds up a small cup of pills in one hand, a syringe filled with an off-white liquid in the other.

“Oh,” Otto responds. The odds, he thinks, are nonexistent. The good news is this isn’t explicitly his problem anymore.

“Any pointers?” Handler Ford asks then. At Otto’s look, he says, “You worked with him, right?”

Otto nods, but doesn’t offer any pointer. Handler Ford stares at him intently, so, out of some misplaced desire to prove that he is not, in fact, completely incompetent with his trainees, he says, “A long time ago. I did his initial training after his first handler got canned.”

“What for?” Ford asks. He’s stalling, Otto thinks.

“Assault,” Otto supplies. He inclines his head toward the room, and turns away from Handler Ford, re-orienting himself toward the window.

“Wish me luck?”

“Good Luck,” Otto says, not unkindly, as the handler disappears behind the door. Moments later, he is in Leo’s room.

Leo’s demeanor immediately shifts, from alarmed and fighting to gain function to panicked, but he stills, he swallows, he forces his eyes on the handler, and takes a breath. Good boy, Otto thinks.

He’s whispering something, but Otto can’t make out the words. He thinks he’s heard Parker’s name, and Handler Ford shakes his head.

Leo nods, then, and takes one of those deep, shuddering breaths that usually mean he’s on the edge of some big feelings. Otto, once more, leans closer to the window.

Handler Ford begins listing out the things he needs Leo to do this morning, and Leo’s brow creases as he takes it in, nodding after each item, but seemingly oblivious to the actual requests.

Inside the observation room, the doctor joins Otto.

“Do you know what happened?” Otto asks the doctor. Otto, immediately realizing he could be asking any number of things, clarifies, “That led to this. He didn’t have an issue after his first contract.”

“Sometimes they get freaked out after spending some time with a particularly cozy buyer,” he replies.

Otto nods.

In the room, Handler Ford’s hand is on Leo’s neck, pressing under the collar. Leo stays still, but Otto can see the fear in his eyes, behind layers and layers of grief. It’s odd, seeing him like this.

“You didn’t last too long, did you?” Handler Ford is saying, dripping condescension, as Leo swallows, holding in a fresh wave of tears.

✥ ✥ ✥

“It’s nothing personal, Leo.” Parker’s driver waits for Leo just beyond the threshold. In his hand, Parker holds out a DLS-issued bag.

Leo nods.

Parker grabs his face between his hands and presses his lips to Leo’s forehead. “You have to understand I didn’t plan for this,” he’s saying, but Leo’s ears are ringing. “I would have waited to take on a worker if I had any inclination I would be called away.” His words are kind, Leo thinks, but there’s almost a note of condescension under them.

Leo feels a sort of emptiness spreading throughout him, a cold void that precedes what he could only describe as terror. For what’s next. For losing this thing, that he isn’t sure he should want, but he wants, so desperately. He clings to it.

“Parker, I– I can,” Leo starts, taking a step back. He can, what? fix this? do better? be better? “Please don’t do this…”

Parker’s thumbs glide across Leo’s cheeks.

“I thought they beat that out of you,” Parker says, his lips pulled into a half-smile. Leo falters, the words he has prepared are completely knocked out of him.

“I– I’m sorry,” is all he can now formulate. He can feel his circumstances changing as every second passes. He’s going to be sick. The feeling of bile rising wars against the knowledge that if he is sick at this moment, it will be unforgivable.

Parker’s hands drift down to Leo’s shoulders and he pulls him into a half-hug, pressing his forehead against Leo’s.

“Don’t worry about it,” Parker says. He wants to say more, Leo thinks.

Instead, Parker uses the grip he has on Leo’s shoulder to push him away and rakes his eyes slowly over Leo, from his head to his toes. He smiles and grabs the collar of Leo’s shirt, poking out from under a deep blue sweater. It’s Parker’s favorite.

He inclines his head briefly toward the door and Leo counts every breath he takes.

“They said not to send your books and clothes and things,” Parker explains as he pulls open the front door. “It’ll just go to waste. I can donate it, if you’d like?”

And Leo, in that moment, hesitates. Can he ask Parker to keep it, for when he gets back from his trip? Maybe, he thinks. Maybe Parker hasn’t considered that Leo could stay in the house and look after it, and he doesn’t need to send him away.

And then it occurs to Leo that maybe Parker is using this time to help figure out the gaps in his training, because they’ve been butting heads lately, and if that’s the case, he wants to tell Parker that he will take this time seriously, and will be better suited to be what Parker needs him to be when he returns.

Leo opens his mouth to say this, to say any of it, even just to tell Parker that he will try harder when he gets back from his trip.

But the panic wraps itself around Leo’s throat, and Leo says nothing.

✥ ✥ ✥

“Are you ready to behave?” The words distort around the edges and Leo blinks hard, willing himself to focus.

This handler, Leo thinks, is unfamiliar to him. There is a fuzziness to both his vision and his thoughts, compounded by blurry memories of the night before. The handler is standing just outside of his line of sight, offering terse reprimands each time he fails to respond. He is trying, though. He wants to tell them he’s trying, but his tongue feels too thick and his voice won’t work.

There’s an added danger that Leo tries not to acknowledge, even silently. They’ve put a training collar on him, but they haven’t gone so far as to shock the world into focus. Even if his limbs didn’t weigh a thousand pounds, he would not be able to lift them. Thick canvas straps wound tightly around each wrist and ankle keep him in place, and Leo blinks at the unexpected wave of terror: these people can and will hurt him with no regard for the fact that he is wholly unable to protect himself.

The drugs help him accept these facts, but do not help him to forget them.

Memories of the night before claw their way to the surface. Of the sound of his own screaming, of gloved hands pinning him down, of his clothing being pulled off of his body. Of Parker's favorite sweater, which he held tightly to his chest, as it was ripped from his arms. He flinches at the memory of himself, just [some?] hours earlier, as he begged them to let him keep it, as a needle digs its way deep into his thigh. The darkness was quick to swallow him up after that.

And then there are other memories, too, from later in the night. Distorted flashes of the handlers coming to visit him, of cold hands pulling off the thin blanket that had been draped over him. He wondered if the drugs might ease the pain. When they didn’t, he allowed himself a moment of relief in the hope that this might all just be written off as a drug-induced nightmare in the light of day.

And now, the drugs fading, and the light of day doing nothing to erase ache deep inside of him, he swallows, blinking slowly, and longs only for the reprieve that unconsciousness may bring. That maybe they will drug him again, before they touch him again. His stomach turns over, and he draws his focus to the lights on the ceiling.

“He’s lost some weight,” he hears the doctor say, but they aren’t speaking to him, so he closes his eyes and taps each finger on the pad beneath him, just to see if he can feel them all.

“His buyer kept him hungry,” the handler replies. He can, he thinks, feel them all. “My understanding is he kept him on a pretty strict eating plan.”

Leo recoils, hearing Parker’s voice in his head. The DLS has asked that you start out on a kind of strict meal plan for a little bit. He blinks back tears at the unwelcome memories. Of Parker, event after event, selecting everything he ate, everything he touched. Of the imperceptible nod Parker would give him when he reached for something at the dinner table. Or the terse shake of his head when he moved to something unacceptable.

Leo wants to tell these men that Parker didn’t keep him hungry. That he was just enacting the plan he had been given.

“I’ll need a copy of it,” the doctor responds, and Leo squeezes his eyes shut, forcing his mind blank.

“It’s in his file,” the handler says. Leo’s ears ring.

“Good.” The doctor presses his hands fingers into the back of Leo’s neck, the collar momentarily tightening as the fingers explore under it. “He’s dehydrated,” he says, and Leo can picture the handler typing his notes. “Are you going to tell me the buyer restricted his water intake too?”

From somewhere far away, the handler laughs, and Leo’s expression tightens, momentarily stunned by the mockery.

“It’s alright,” he thinks he hears, but the voices are so far away now. He doesn’t know that he’s crying until he feels a thumb wiping at his cheek, and Leo sucks in a breath. “You’re alright.”

The world stands still for what could be seconds or minutes or longer. When the doctor’s hand finally migrates upward, and a light is shined into each of Leo’s eyes, he is momentarily blinded, but immediately aware that he has lost time.

The doctor’s fingers, inches from his face, snap once. “Hi, Leo,” he says simply. And then, “I’m Dr. Grant. Are you with me?”

Leo swallows, which hurts, and other memories slide to the surface of the night before. He tries to nod. The movement makes his head pound. “Yes,” he whispers, but based on the doctor’s– what was his name?– grimace, he doesn’t think it came out right.

The doctor sighs and seemingly gives up on Leo’s active participation, instead pulling the blanket down to Leo’s waist and putting a stethoscope to Leo’s chest. It’s nothing, Leo thinks, but it’s never just this. He closes his eyes again and begins counting in his head. Every so often, he forgets where he left off, and he starts over.

The doctor explains what he’s doing as he works, and Leo wonders idly if it’s for his benefit or for some other reason. To pass the time, and maybe to distract himself, Leo imagines a new doctor in the adjacent observation room, learning this trade. He wonders if it’s a good doctor or a bad doctor, and opens his eyes just enough to glance toward the mirror, to see if he can spot him back there. There are no good doctors here, he decides, and starts counting again.

The doctor looks at Leo’s wrists and describes them to the handler, who writes it all down. He examines Leo’s arms and his shoulders and his chest and his stomach as he searches for signs that Parker hurt him beyond what would be considered reasonable, which he didn’t, Leo wants to say, and that Parker will come back for him after his trip, and that he needs to be ready to go home. Then he starts counting again, because the idea of telling this man that Parker will come back for him will be met with laughter, and Leo doesn’t know if he can handle it. He’s pretty sure he can’t.

Fingers prod at Leo’s stomach and he can’t suppress the accompanying flinch, and as the drugs start to wear thin, he feels himself less and less able to accept what is being done to him.

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says, and Leo opens his eyes and is met with mostly, he thinks, concern.

“I’ll be back.” The doctor shoots the handler a look, and Leo wants to close his eyes again, but as the handler approaches, Leo knows, acutely, that it’s a bad idea.

“Are you going to cause a scene?” the handler asks, before lifting the blanket from Leo’s lap. Leo shrinks back, an instant passing in which his entire body goes rigid, but shakes his head ‘no.’ He hopes it’s enough.

He holds his breath, waiting for it to be over, or, waiting for it to start, and feels the handler’s eyes sliding down his body.

He thinks he might be shaking, but he isn’t sure.

The doctor returns a moment later, and after a quick assessment of how things have evolved, issues a quick but gentle, “It’s alright.” It’s not, though, and Leo locks his jaw to keep from crying. He wants to ask if he can close his eyes again. Sometimes they would let him, when things were about to get really bad, in initial training. Sometimes, if he asked clearly, and if he caught them on a good day, they would let him.

“No wonder he was returned,” the handler says, leaning back against the wall.

“Can I close my eyes?” he whispers then, before he can catch the humor in the handler’s expression. The doctor looks at him once, and nods. Leo doesn’t hesitate to clamp his eyes shut, unwilling to chance opening them at all, maybe ever, and instead continues counting in his head.

“Continue working on your empathy,” the doctor says evenly, but Leo is pretty sure he isn’t speaking to him so he works on breathing and counting and nothing else.

He tries to block out the words. This is another moment in training, and it too will end eventually.

“They put him through hell in training. He has a right to be mistrustful.” And then, to Leo, he says, “I’m going to give you something to help balance you out,” and his touch disappears. “Just hang tight, Leo.”

Without warning, a hand clamps around his neck, pinning him in place. His eyes fly open, his arms pull instinctively against the restraints, as the tip of a syringe is pushed past his teeth and to the back of his throat.

He gags, his head knocking back against the thin pillow, but the handler’s grip is merciless, and in the next instant, a thick, bitter liquid is sliding down his throat. Tears well in his eyes, and he would swear the culprit was simply the bitterness of the medicine.

It’s mistaken for something else, though, and the handler releases him as the doctor runs a hand through his hair and says, “You’re alright.”

Leo’s shaking harder now, and his fingers grip into the pad he lays on and he urges himself to still. His chest aches as he tries to catch his breath, the taste of the medicine still heavy on his tongue. But still, almost immediately, he can feel his body lightening, the tension pulling back until the shaking eases, and the doctor nods, and approaches. Leo can’t feel the fear he knows he should feel.

He can feel nothing.

Even with the memories of the night before, even with the doctor and the handler so close to him, he can breathe again.

Still, Leo can’t contain the subconscious jerk of his body as a flash of sharp pain shoots through him. The doctor issues an apology, along with a soft, “almost done,” and turns the swab, over and over, as Leo’s legs fight against the hands that hold them in place. He tries to find a place in his mind to retreat into, but he hasn’t been there in months, if not longer, and in that moment, it offers no reprieve. He thinks he cries out, locking his teeth and pressing his head back into the pillow as hard as he can to distract himself from what goes on lower. When the doctor is finished, he wipes Leo down and drapes the blanket over his lap.

What he doesn’t say is ‘Good, Leo,’ because they would both know it to be untrue.

Still, in the next breath, the restraints are being unbuckled, and Leo is lifted at his shoulders until he is sitting, and his wrists are being examined, and there is a hand rubbing his back. He blinks slowly, willing the room back into focus, and he can hear voices but he isn’t able to follow their conversation.

“It doesn’t need to be this hard,” he thinks the handler is saying, and even though his head is hung low and his shoulders are scrunched to make him as small as possible, in his peripherals he can see the doctor shooting the handler a sharp look. “What?” he bites back. “It’s true.”

“Alright, Leo,” the doctor says then, ignoring the handler entirely. Leo keeps his eyes locked on the ground and he takes the blanket in a white-knuckled grip.

The doctor lets him catch his breath, rubbing his back every few seconds. Leo thinks he’s using it to get a read on his heart rate, but he doesn’t care just then. The doctor explains what’s next, and moves to ease Leo onto his side. Leo, for his part, cooperates, lowering himself slowly, watching as his fingers shake. He wraps his arms so tightly around his stomach he think he might leave bruises, but when the doctor touches him, he doesn’t flinch.

“There’s some bruising,” the doctor says neutrally, but Leo can’t look at the handler to see if he types it. It could be from the handlers, or it could be from Parker’s friends the night before. Leo chokes on his next breath, and in spite of the drugs, he can feel the panic rising.

“Leo?” the doctor says. “Are you doing alright?”

The handler takes a step forward.

“I don’t consent to this,” Leo whispers, so softly he isn’t sure anyone hears him. The look the handler levels on him is scathing. “I–I kn…know it doesn’t… I know it doesn’t matter.” His voice is soft, slurred around the edges, but clear enough. “But I… I j-just– I want to make sure you know.”

The doctor says nothing, and the handler frowns. Leo wants to ask him to type it into his chart, but the doctor moves behind him, and Leo’s vision is suddenly and immediately blurred by his tears.

By the time they finish, by the time the doctor drapes the blanket over his hips, letting his hand rest on Leo’s head briefly before retreating, Leo’s body is wracked with sobs. They leave him to calm himself down, and he finds himself, for a moment, grateful for the simple mercy.

But he cannot stop crying, as he stares into the mirror and thinks of all he’s lost. Of what, in spite of what he tried to convince himself he could have, he will never have. Of Parker, laughing with his friends as he picks out a new worker. Of the handler, and all those that came before him, smiling as they hurt him. The door opens with no warning and a familiar voice, a voice warm enough to burn Leo’s entire world down, issues a commanding, clear, “Stop this, Leo.”

And almost instantly, Leo stops.

FIGHTER TAG LIST:

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#Med Whump #Gratuitous Med Whump #Medical Restraints #Chemical Restraints #Noncon Touch #Referenced Noncon #Parker Destin #Institutionalized Slavery #Noncon Drugging #Conditioning #Referenced Food/Water Restriction #Referenced/Described STI testing #Referenced/Described Shock Collar #Whumper POV #literally over 4k words wtf #get leo a pet fish and warm hug when?

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whumpy-wyrms · 2 months

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The Last Lab Rat: choose your own adventure #1

tllr au masterlist | tllr masterlist

umm yes hi i was NOT planning on making this at all but here it is! cyoa thing where we get to meet Anton for REAL and i’m very excited. these will be shorter than my usual writing since you all get to make the big decisions, sooo maybe weekly updates? we’ll see (also i’ll definitely come up with a different name for this eventually)

also if you’re new, you don’t have to have read tllr in order to read this :3 this works as its own thing!

content: you being followed, general weird and creepy vibes from the man himself (Anton), and most likely eventual lab whump in future parts :)

—

It’s just like any other night. You’re mindlessly kicking a small rock down the dark and empty street you walk on, dodging the puddles in the concrete from the rain from earlier. The street lights glow dimly above you, giving you some light in the otherwise cloudy night.

You’re tired, and you would be listening to music through your earbuds during your nightly walk home from work, but your phone died. So, kicking a rock it is.

But not so much like any other night, you pretty quickly realize that you’re being followed.

You hear the pitter patter of footsteps coming from behind you, hurrying across pavement and rustling through dewy bushes. This had been going on for at least fifteen minutes by now, and at first you thought it was an animal, but it was becoming increasingly obvious that it wasn’t.

You stuff your hands in your pockets and try to just focus on getting home. Whoever was following you could have easily made a move by now if they were going to. But they hadn’t yet, so perhaps they were just messing with you? Some teenagers pulling a prank? You kick the rock harder, watching it fly farther down the street and give you an excuse to hurry your pace to catch up to it and kick it again.

You walk past another street light, and from the corner of your eye, the light behind you casts a shadow of a person, a lot closer behind you than you had thought.

Shit.

You are definitely being followed, and this person is definitely not going to just leave you alone.

Your heart speeds up, and you try to calm your breathing. Just keeping on walking won’t change anything, you have to do something.

Ready to face whoever it may be, you whirl around suddenly, apparently catching the stranger off guard as he freezes in place and looks at you with wide eyes.

“What are you doing?” You ask, taking a careful step away from him. He was closer than you realized. Dangerously close.

The stranger stands up straight and clears his throat, putting his hands behind his back casually. “Just going for a midnight stroll.” He laughs awkwardly and steps closer to you. There’s a strange glint in his eyes and a wide smile on his face. It’s unsettling.

You continue to back away from him, narrowing your eyes. Now that you’re both in the light, you can get a better look at the strange man who was following you. He’s tall, taller than you, and he’s wearing a baggy black hoodie. His hood is up, making it hard to get a good look at his face, but you can still make out the thin scar across his left eye, and his black hair with a white stripe in the middle. His eyes shine bright despite the darkness, almost glowing.

You think you might recognise him from somewhere, but… you can’t quite place it.

“You were following me,” you say, and he blinks.

“No I wasn’t.”

“What- yes you were.” You take another step back.

“What brings you out here anyway?” He changes the subject. “It’s pretty late. It’s not safe to be out alone.” He takes another fucking step closer.

“I’m walking home,” you say, and your voice starts to waver. “What do you want?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “You looked like you could use some company.”

“…Oh.”

The man seems to be subtly surveying his surroundings, as are you. You have a horrible feeling in your gut. You have to get away.

The street in front of you stretches on, and will eventually lead to your apartment. If you make a run for it, you might make it there before this guy inevitably catches you. You don’t wanna think about what would happen if he does.

Yes, it’s an if. This guy might be completely normal and innocent like he says. He genuinely might be going on a peaceful walk and just decided to chat with you for some reason. Weird, but you suppose we’re all a little weird at the end of the day. He might not have any devious plans for you at all.

But if he does… would leading him straight to your home really be the best idea? Maybe you should go a different route, run through the trees and try to lose him in the darkness.

The other option, of course, is to make sure he doesn’t follow you home. Now, this guy doesn’t look very strong, but it’s obviously impossible to tell under all that clothing. You don’t know if you could take him in a fight, and you’re not sure you want to try.

You swallow thickly. He’s just smiling at you. His hands are still behind his back. You fear that if you turn your back to him, you’ll soon find out exactly what he’s hiding.

—

this is very fun so i’m gonna try my best to do weekly updates :) i’m also doing a new taglist for this, so please let me know if you’d like to be added!

taglist: @creppersfunpalooza

#my writing #tllr cyoa #interactive whump #cyoa whump #whump #whump writing #whump community #lab whump #creepy whumper #whump blog #whump series #whumpblr #whump cyoa #whump poll #poll #2nd person whump #2nd person pov

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peachy-panic · 4 days

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Not sure if you’re still taking prompts but if you are Id die for a ‘has anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you cry?’ For Jaime 🙏🏼🙏🏼

For the record, I am always happy to take prompts. Thank you for this one! <3

WARNINGS: BBU/BBU Adjacent, noncon drugging, grieving for dead parents

Rowan Smith stands outside the two-way mirror to the observation room, studying his newest assignment.

The kid is flat on his back in the middle of the room, arms stretched out on either side of him. He’s high as a kite. His body appears to be completely relaxed, his breaths coming in an even rise and fall. You would think he’s in a state of complete euphoria, if it weren’t for the steady stream of silent tears sliding down his temples.

He clicks on his tablet and makes a note in his file.

110750 received final dose of diacetylmorphine at 17:09. Tox screen was completed at 22:31. He will be relocated to cell 34A today after his formal intake for the duration of his withdrawal and initial training.

Rowan saves his entry and clicks the screen to black. He watches for another minute, then, decisively, swipes his key card at the door to let himself into the room. He isn’t technically supposed to mess with him before he’s officially admitted into the system—officially, none of this operation beneath the basement level of the facility really even exists—but Rowan can be discreet.

He closes the door behind him and walks to the kid’s side, dropping into a crouch. His new trainee is so far gone that he doesn’t seem to be aware that anyone has even entered the room. He just keeps staring up at the ceiling while his tears drip into little pools on the concrete floor.

Jaime, the kid’s name is. For now, anyway. In less than an hour, that will be erased from his identity. Rowan will make him into the perfect blank slate, so that 110750 can become whoever he is required of him at any given moment.

Reaching forward, he takes a tuft of soft, blond hair between his fingers and lets it drop back against his forehead. Finally, a pair of heavy-lidded brown eyes roll in his direction. Rowan smiles. He wonders if he can even really see him. Almost certainly, he won’t remember this tomorrow.

“Why the long face, sweetheart?”

The boy blinks hard, like he’s trying to concentrate on something, then brings his hands down to pat the pockets of the jeans they haven’t yet taken from him.

“The picture,” he says, quiet and raspy.

Rowan tilts his head in feigned confusion. “What picture is that?”

His thin fingers shake as he turns his pockets inside out, a little more agitation slipping through the heavy fog of his high. “My parents,” he says. “My photo. It has… I can’t…”

“Oh.” Smith puts on a sympathetic frown. “That old thing? We had to get rid of it.”

Jaime, or the person that used to be him, turns back to Rowan with a look of slowly dawning horror. “What?”

“You won’t be needing that anymore. We already burned it.”

His face crumbles into true devastation. It’s almost impressive that such emotion can break through the drugs.

“It’s all I have left,” he whispers.

God, Rowan thinks. They really brought me a treasure with this one.

He reaches out again, this time to brush the hair off his forehead with a gentle hand. “Has anyone ever told you how pretty you are when you cry?”

#do no harm: jaime & sebastian #handler smith #handler smith pov #is this the first time i have written whumper pov in jaime's story? it might be

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honeycollectswhump · 5 months

Text

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

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whump-and-other-misfortunes · 10 months

Text

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.”

#whump #whump writing #tw age gap #implied kidnapping #implied torture #intimate whumper #power dynamics #whumpblr #young whumpee #requests open #whumper pov #snippet

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sacredwrath · 5 days

Text

P7. Hot Stuff

This part was supposed to come like directly after the last part. Planned to post em on the same day. But no, apparently, had to rewrite the whole thing. Better late than never i guess

Torture, burning, graphic burns, nausea, vomit mention, stress position, sexual innuendo, implied sexual sadism, taunting almost kinda entering self harm territory.

Sweat soaks Adrian's body, running across his skin in cooling rivulets. He breathes hard, forcing air in and out of straining lungs.

Each breath fights screams.

It's pointless, of course. Everyone screams. Eventually. But he fights it anyway, knowing all too well the helplessness waiting for him on the other side. Once the fight goes out of him, he'll scream. He’ll scream himself hoarse and then into helpless silence. His body will hang limp and lifeless, like the dead thing it is, able to do nothing but take it.

His tormenter paces, heating the knife to a molten glow before pressing the flat of it into Adrian's ribs again.

The blade sizzles and spits. Blood and fat charing to black ash before the man slowly pulls the blade away.

Adrian is sure he can feel each raw nerve tearing. He writhes against his chains, strangling wails, managing to compress them into a single gurgled whimper. Not quite stoic silence, but as good as he can manage

"Had enough yet?" The man asks

"Why? You getting tired?" It'll never be enough.

The man sets his knife and torch down, turning back to him with a raised brow. He moves to undo the tie on Adrian's sweatpants.

"Ooo" He taunts. "This is new, if you wanted to see me naked, you should've taken me to dinner first."

"I brought you dinner." He gestures to the cans strewn across the floor. "You didn't eat it"

"Hey, that was for you buddy. You want vomit all over you? Torture isn't easy on the digestion ya know." He watches the man stiffen slightly at the comment.

Still feeling guilty? He can't quite identify the emotion.

The man doesn't respond, pulling Adrian's sweatpants off over his feet.

He stops, taking in the scarring here too. Adrian fights the urge to recoil as he runs a thumb over a brutally ugly patch spreading up his thigh.

"Another hero did this?"

"Why does that surprise you? You think your knife won't leave scars?" Again, tension crosses the man's face. Too easy.

"I want it to leave scars" He growls

"Of course you do, so did they." He hesitates, "we get off on shit like this, ya know." He watches the man's face, surprise, disgust, anger, revulsion. He grins.

The man doesn't take the bait, instead grabbing his instruments from the floor and flicking the blowtorch on. Adrian let's his eyes drift closed.

For a fraction of a second the knife feels ice cold against his skin, but then the familiar sickening agony flashes up his leg, eating into him. He groans, fighting off sobs.

His rapid breathing drags in the acrid stench of his own burning. No matter how many times he's smelled it, the scent brings with it a bleak animal terror that turns his mind to panicked mush

When the knife pulls away he manages to contain everything but a whimper, vile, pathetic, disgusting-

Stop

"Another beginners mistake." He blurts, stalling, waiting for his head to clear, he opens his eyes, the man is heating the knife again "burning on top of scar tissue," he continues, "less nerve endings there. Doesn't hurt so bad."

"Well you're not exactly a blank canvas are you?"

Fair enough. He watches the blade turning slowly red "I did this to Jesse you know."

The man freezes, lips compressing to a thin line.

"Not very original. Thought you said something about ten times worse? You'll have to step up your game, 'm not even winded."

"Stop saying their name." The man's voice is hard and unamused

"Why?"

"Because I'm the one with the knife."

The metal presses against Adrian's knee and he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

The man drags the blade across his kneecap and down the front of his shin, leaving seared fleah and pain. He growls, long and low in his throat, he can't keep this up much longer

He doesn't open his eyes, focusing on breathing. He can't watch it coming. Each burn sends waves of fever radiating through him with sick, dizzying intensity. Even his sweat feels hot

The next burn explodes against the side of his knee. Blade digging its point deep into muscle, scraping against bone. His traitorous body finally shrieks, shattering his focus. Threads of panic race up his spine, a spider web of cracks in his control.

The blade twists away viciously, widening the cracks. He tastes the all too familiar ice seeping seeping through, grazing against him.

He waits for his breathing to steady enough to speak, patching over the cracks with random words, "It's these in between parts that's the worst... The anticipation, the fear. Can you feel it?" He opens his eyes, wanting to see the man's reaction. "Can you feel my fear?"

The man is watching him, face contorted in disgust. "I can" he snears, "I love it."

"I bet." Adrian means it as a taunt, but it comes out heavy with resignation

He burns the other knee worse even than the first. Adrian loses track of himself, screaming until he remembers he's trying to stay quiet. The cracks widen and he can taste cold, unreasoning panic waiting patiently on the other side. He fights it.

A long time passes, too long Adrian opens his eyes. The other man is standing back, watching him. He looks almost concerned. Pathetic, disgusting- he needs to kill this man, hurt him-

He licks his lips, "What's wrong baby? Where'd you go? I can last longer than that." He smirks, "come on back, finish me off."

The man's eyebrows shoot up, soothing him. He claws at the sense of control.

"To be honest, your inexperience is adorable. Don't let my screaming stop you we're just gettin to the good part."

"Who said anything about stopping?" The man scans him up and down “you said you did this to Jesse right?

"Ask them to show you their feet sometime." He winks.

"Their feet." The man repeats softly. It makes Adrian's lip curl back

"I made them walk on it." He snears "If they couldn't make it across the cell they'd get another. I kept going till they couldn't get up no matter how many times I-"

Not bothering with the knife the man storms across the cell igniting the torch. He holds it to Adrians knee and he starts screaming.

He loses track of himself again, the cold edges of panic bringing with it memories. Different burning, different pain entirely.

There are hands on him, he can't remember who's.

Something cold and flat pressed against his face, against his whole body, it feels good against the burning. Cold.

Ice.

But then the pain fluxes, twisting with new life

He remembers he can open his eyes,

There's polished wooden planks beneath his hands, dirty cement, white tile, clean cement. He flexes his fingers. Jesse, he's in Jesse's cell, no, Jesse's basement, relief floods him.

"Come on, up you get" and there's an arm around his waist, guiding him to kneel. He wants to cry out at the increased pressure, but bites his tongue.

The man reaches for his cuffed hands and Adrian offers them on instinct. The man raises them over his head then pulls him up so all his weight is resting on his burned knees.

"Fucking shit hell!" Adrian hollers, trying to pull his leg forward to get to his feet. It jerks against something solid. He looks over his shoulder, seeing his feet chained to one of the basement support beams. He groans in understanding.

"How's that for creative?"

Adrian tries not to cry, hoping his painful grimace looks like a defiant grin.

"Nicely done..."

"Wait, not yet. Who said I was done?" He shakes a bag in front of Adrian's face who only barely manages to suppress a sob.

"Thought you'd know what this is." He takes a pinch of the stuff and pops it in his mouth.

"Salt. Rock Salt to be specific. I thought table salt would be too... amature for you."

He dumps some on the floor at Adrian's knees and he closes his eyes to ward off tears.

The man's hand slides beneath his knee and lifts it off the ground, spreading the salt beneath. He lowers it slowly, almost gently and Adrian bites his tongue. The sharp pebbles cut into his open wounds as if kneeling on fresh burns wasn't bad enough. The man repeats the process with his other knee, hands too cautious, too gentle for this work Adrian tastes blood in his mouth.

"Good of you to help me with that." He spits blood. "I would've made them do it themselves."

He can't keep tears from welling in his eyes, so he squeezes them shut. He's been through worse, he reminds himself, but the thought does nothing to numb the pain.

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Tag list: @whumpacabra @turn-the-tables-on-them @kiichu @whatwhump

#first adrian pov i think :) bouta start gettin nasty #whump #whump writing #action and echo #oc whump #my writing #defiant whumpee #past torture #torture whump #revenge whump #new whumper #reluctant whumper

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avvail-whumps · 7 months

Text

‘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

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blackrosesandwhump · 2 months

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Augusnippets Day 1: Brainwashing

CW: 2nd pov from whumper's perspective, brainwashing (obvi), general Gothic whump

In the shadowy dining room, whumpee sits alone, candlelight flickering across his expressionless face. His folded hands lie motionless in his lap. His eyes stare at nothing, two blank windows that open into emptiness.

Perfection. Just what you always wanted. A beautiful, flawless doll of your own.

“My dear whumpee,” you murmur, “I see all our hard work has paid off. You look exquisite.” Gently, you brush the back of your hand against his collar and down his silk vest. Its embroidery glimmers like stars.

Whumpee remains statue-still at your touch. Just what you always wanted.

“Not a single thought in your head,” you muse aloud, walking around whumpee to examine him from all angles. “Of course I can always change that if I want. But for now, this emptiness is—”

With an echoing crash, the door to the dining room slams open. Caretaker. The ferocious glint in his eyes delights you. Such a contrast to the magnificent blankness sitting before you.

“You’re too late, as usual.” You stride forward, shielding your precious whumpee from view. “I’ve already completed the process. And only I can reverse it. If I choose.”

“Then do it,” caretaker growls, drawing his weapon, “or I’ll make you beg for death.”

How silly. Threats mean nothing to you now, in the wake of your triumph. You step aside, revealing whumpee’s seated form, frozen and lifeless as if made of porcelain. Caretaker gasps and rushes forward.

“And why would I undo this,” you ask, gesturing at whumpee, “when at last I’ve created the perfect living doll?”

@augusnippets

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forwhump · 2 months

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a/n; I’m back !! (sorry if you hate me & you didn’t want me to come back)

I’m back w something a little different this time & that is : point’s pov ! I wasn’t gonna post any of his stuff (there’s a lot)(there’s a lot of everything as a matter of fact) until I was posting more towards the end stuff but I figured he’s just FUCKED in this one & that’s a lot of fun so what the hell <3

tw/cw: captivity, forced imprisonment, psychological torture, mentions of rape, mentions of noncon, misgendering, transphobia, mentions of forced impregnation, mentions of execution, self harm, dehumanization

living weapon whumpee, military whump, creepy whumper (I think he’s creepy idk he’s just fucked)

The lowermost corridor has always reminded Point of something from a horror movie. He’s always loved it.

It had been constructed haphazardly, carved crudely out of rock. It extends for the better part of a mile, hardly lit and only then with flickering orange fluorescence. It’s cold as all hell. Point is always preceded by clouds of his breath. The weight of his boots make his footsteps echo, loud and ominous.

There’s a single cell carved into the wall at the very end. It’s closed with rusted bars, and it’s gimmicky. The bars are for show. The cell doesn’t even need to be closed, but the bars are there for the same reason there’s no light, no heat, not one other person. The same reason the ceiling of the cell was carved lower than anywhere in the corridor, and the inside of it was fitted with hooks and chains bolted into the floors and the walls and the ceilings.

Only one freak is ever kept in the lowermost level. It was constructed particularly for him.

For whatever reason, he was allowed to kneel this time, which is generous. He’s kneeling in the centre of the dark cell, arms splayed, shackled to the walls on either side of him. His throat is shackled both to the wall behind him and the floor and front of him. He looks up at Point with unmistakable hatred and Point couldn’t keep himself from grinning if it was his job.

He’d been gagged, at least, a bite bar, a small mercy Point would never admit to. He knows how to keep the freak under control, but he’d be lying if he said he enjoyed his time in biting distance. Too many of his own men had lost their lives to those teeth.

“Hey, big guy,” Point greets. “How’s it hanging?”

The freak’s lips pull back from his teeth in a snarl. He’s such an ugly creature. Hideous, Point would go so far as to say, and he would mean it. He’s a freak. He’s a monster. He looks it every bit, too, just as he’s meant to, a weapon designed to instill fear in every sense. He’s massive, patchwork, raised scars and ruined flesh, nothing human about him. Unnatural, inky hair. He’s disgusting, really, in a genuinely stomach churning, shock factor way.

The girl really loves him. It’s never made any fuckin’ sense to Point — it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth, in fact — but he knows it’s true. Somehow, the girl loves this.

It always makes the least sense when Point is looking at him directly. Kneeling in the dark, shackled by the throat, hair like a leaking shadow and a face like broken glass. The girl is beautiful; sometimes she gets a bit thin, sometimes a little filthy, and she’d hacked off her tits before Point had gotten his hands on her, which keeps her from perfect, but she’s beautiful. She’s beautiful in that really pale, white haired, porcelain doll kind of way. She’s a young thing and she looks even younger. She’s got a really delicate, sort of vulnerable thing about her, and she has a whore’s mouth, so she’s probably about as close to perfect as she can get. But for some reason, for reasons Point doesn’t think he’ll ever understand, she’s in love with Frankenstein’s monster.

Girls are weird. Point’s been married for seven years and he isn’t any closer to understanding women than he was at thirteen.

It makes him hate this fucking thing. He likes fighting the girl, and she’s beautiful when she cries. She’s beautiful when she begs him to stop. But she’s also beautiful when she’s drugged out of her mind and he can convince her to moan his name, and it makes something under his skin boil that this ugly sack of shit gets to hear her moan his name, too? For nothing. And she loves him? It makes him sick.

He sucls his teeth, and the rattle of the chains echoes eerily through the cell as the freak inhales, seething.

“We don’t think you’ve learned your lesson yet,” Point tells him finally, “so don’t get your hopes up. You’ve really started to become a pain in the ass, asset, so you should be lucky you’re here and we aren’t choosing to put you down. No,” he says, and reaches for his belt, “actually, I brought you something.”

A pair of panties. The girlish kind, cotton, white and dotted with little pink hearts. He’d been keeping them snug against his junk, but he fishes them free to make sure the freak can see exactly what he’s holding. “And a friendly reminder, that the whole time you’re down here,” he explains, for posterity, “I’m fucking her.”

The chains rattle a little more severely, echoes a little more creepily, and Point grins. If he weren’t such a helpless bastard, the freak would be one scary motherfucker.

Point flicks the panties into his face and says, “the whole time. Constantly. The only time I’m not inside her, in some way, is when I’m here with you. Gloating.”

The freak lunges and the iron pulls around his throat. He emits an involuntary sound, the whine of a dog.

“Dog fighting,” Point realizes, and snaps, pointing at the freak. “You’d be great for dog fighting.”

He snarls behind the bite bar, but there’s a break in his voice. A fresh sheen of red starts to shimmer across his chest, bright against the crust of many layers of already dried blood.

“Just like that,” Point tells him, but he isn’t smiling anymore. “You don’t know when to quit. You’d be perfect.” It doesn’t get the reaction Point is fishing for, so he tries again. “My dick probably still smells like her,” he says, “if you’d like to check before I go.”

A short, snarling sort of sound. A bark, Point would argue.

Almost.

Leisurely, he unbuckles his belt. He shoves his waistband down, not enough to free his junk, but enough that he knows the freak can see the red lipstick smudged across his skin. Lazy, he says, “I really love her in red lipstick.”

The freak roars like some kind of animal and Point grins again. There it is.

He pulls his pants back up. “I really don’t think you’d be this obsessed with her if you knew about half the things I’ve done to her,” he says, and the freak roars a little more feral, and Point grins a little wider. “She’s been pretty thoroughly used.”

The freak lunges with so much force that the rock of the furthest wall actually cracks. The sound is like lightning and Point jumps, recovering with a nervous laugh and a quick shake of his head. He doesn’t let the freak see in his face the way the nerve of him sparks exactly like rage under his skin. “Easy, big guy,” he says, and the creature snarls like some kind of beast. “I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Point says with a sneer, snatching the upper hand back from him, “and that’s that I wanna get your girl pregnant so bad,” and the beast chokes like he’s dying. “So bad. The higher ups won’t let me,” he assures him, “as of yet, just ‘cause it’s such a risk even having her here. But I make some good points, and I really want to, so I’m confident I’ll wear ‘em down.”

The beast lunges again and the rock doesn’t crack but his shoulder is pulled out of its socket with a sound that’s even louder.

Point grins again. “And then she’d be really thoroughly used, wouldn't she?” He asks. “Would this all still be worth it to you then?”

He looks down at the beast, who’s vibrating with hatred.

Point walks backwards as he stalks towards the grate of the bars. “Maybe if we’re lucky,” he says, “we’ll get to find out.”

The beast tries to lunge and screams behind the gag as his dislocated shoulder severs completely with a gross, wet sound.

“Ah,” Point says, delighted. “I’ll remember to tell Medic about that in a few days. First,” he reminds him, “I’m gonna spend those few days fucking your girl, and I’m gonna spend the nights in between fucking her, too. If I get any sleep, I’ll sleep still inside her, and I mean that. I want you to think about that.”

It tries to say something from behind its bite bar but it doesn’t matter what it is. It talks in threats and short sentences. It isn’t very bright. A lot of brain damage. A couple more bullets to the brain and it might not even recognize a pretty, pregnant blonde in its unit. Point might not have to keep fighting it for her.

“Hang in there, big guy,” he throws over his shoulder as he leaves, pulling the grate closed behind him.

He makes it half a mile down the horror corridor before he tips his head back and laughs, mean. “Fuck!” He shouts at the ceiling, and laughs again.

Point is known among men, superior and subordinate, as being mean. Cruel, some say. Crazy, others. Which is fair — Point would be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy cruelty, and he won’t ever apologize for that. He feels no guilt or remorse — only joy. The thing is that point gets no credit for his saintly, patronly self control.

He feels it now, serpentine in his hands, how hellishly he hates that thing. They never should’ve created it. It was a mistake, and it should have been put down the first time it killed one of Point’s men. The surgeons, the district’s fuckin’ babies, their precious fuckin’ surgeons, they love it. A lot of time and money and creation had gone into it, and they say it’s so close to being perfect. They just need to put an end to the violent outbursts. They’ll let Point kill it, but not permanently. Never permanently.

He wants to. More than anything, he wants to. It takes everything he has to keep from slaughtering it whenever he gets it alone. Not asking for permission, but begging for forgiveness later.

The effort of his restraint builds into a fury that he takes with him upstairs, into the barracks, and out on the beast’s girlfriend.

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