CW: Living weapon tropes, humans being owned like property, bleeding, violence.
I read @deerslayer14's reply to @stalecabbage's Ask (here) and was inspired to write something based lightly on the mini-story.
Activation Phrase
GD1680 is conveniently drugged and unconscious when he is delivered, his chin sunk onto his chest, head lolling loosely when the delivery man stops his wheelchair in front of Cain.
Cain frowns, taking in the fact that his new acquisition is uncollared and unmuzzled, and the only restraints on him are the flimsy ones designed to keep him from slumping over.
Still, the delivery is accompanied by several heavily armed guards, all of them standing tall and silent surrounding the man in the chair. He takes in their goggled visages, their armour and suppression weapons. Despite being dressed like they about to breach enemy territory, their postures are relaxed.
Cain takes the delivery form from the delivery person and glances it over. In the space for "handover notes" is a scrawl in all caps: "NOT TO BE CONTAINED". It's underlined thrice, boldly.
He shows it to the delivery person.
"What does this mean?" he demands, tapping at the marker writing. The delivery man looks at him and shrugs.
"Dunno," he says. "I guess don't contain the subject?"
Cain makes a noise with his tongue.
He looks at the closest guard. "Do you know what this means?" he asks the man.
The guard pulls up his goggles, revealing shockingly blue eyes.
"Right," the man says, and his voice is deceptively soft for a man so big. "Don't lock him up, he doesn't like it."
Cain stares at him.
He glances down at his delivery invoice, then at the unconscious form in the wheelchair.
"Am I being told what to do with my property?"
The guard pulls his goggles down over his face again. "No sir," he says. "Do what you want."
Cain is not mollified. "Tell your employer," he grits out, "That his jurisdiction ended the moment I made payment."
"Yes sir," the man says, his voice as soft as ever, no sign of agitation or insult in his hulking frame. "I'll relay the message."
Cain signs the delivery chit, and the delivery man releases the handles of the wheelchair to take the receipt.
Before Cain's staff members take over the new acquisition, the guards walk past the man in the wheelchair, and each of them pats him. Some of them on the shoulder, a couple of them ruffle his hair.
Cain watches them, eyes narrowed. It's a strange way to treat a living weapon. Most of them are feared and isolated. Not patted like... something familiar.
But he doesn't say anything. He watches as they all leave, and more than one of them turns to glance back at the man in the wheelchair. He can't read any of their expressions behind their goggles.
When they're all gone and it's just him and his staff and GD1680, Cain turns to his people, handing over the documents he'd received from the delivery man.
"Right," he says briskly. "Give him the full medical run down and then put him in the quarantine pod."
++++++++++++++
Cain is in the middle of a meeting when one of his staff gestures urgently from beyond the glass wall. After a few moments, where Cain simply ignores him, the man dares to breach the sanctum of the meeting room, where all the people around the conference table pause their yelling to look at him.
Cain's staff approaches his boss, sweating, looking like it's the last thing he wants to be doing. He has a sleek comm bud in his outstretched hand.
"It's... Miss Sophia. She wants to speak to you," he says, and his voice breaks at the end of his sentence.
Cain looks at the tiny device and puts it in his ear. Sophia was the one who set up this meeting, the one she is interrupting, so if it falls through because--
Her voice snaps into his ear, "Just sign the fucking deal already and come down here."
Cain glances up. Making sure nobody heard her.
"Sophia, my dear," he says evenly. "This is the Yang-Corbo meeting. The one you spent two years setting up, don't you think I should--"
"Cain, don't talk down to me, you ass. I set it up, I know what it is. Why do you think it took two years? I set it up so you could just waltz in and sign it, so just do your fucking job, smile and sign it. And then come down NOW."
"Sophia, listen to me--"
"Cain," she says. Sophia's voice has gone sickly sweet. And cold.
"Darling," she says. "Why don't you sign the deal right now. And come right down. For me. Can you do that?"
Her ice-cream voice. His father told him to never ignore the Ice Cream Voice.
You could get either sweet or cold from Sophia and still ignore her at your peril... but sweet and cold together? No.
And if she says "do it for me"?
Disaster. Plague. Apocalypse.
Cain shudders.
He yanks the comm bud out of his ear and tosses it at his staff, who fumbles the catch.
Cain watches the group of representatives from Yang and Corbo. They are seconds from full out physical violence. One of them is waving a document in the air, another has the tie of an opponent wrapped in her fist and is drawing a hand to deliver an almighty slap--
Cain slams his hands on the table.
"Enough--" he roars.
Everyone freezes and stares at him.
It feels good.
"Bring me the contract," he says.
"Which one, sir?" his staff stammers. "I mean, which iteration--"
"The latest one!" Cain yells.
There is a flurry of activity from the representatives, and the document is brought to him. He signs it so hard that he almost tears through the paper. He tosses the pen on the table. It leaves a ding on the surface.
He leaves the room, bypassing the handshakes the representatives offer.
As he walks down the corridor, he chances a glance back at the room through the glass walls. The representatives are flipping through the document.
A few more steps, and another glance reveals them shaking hands. They look exhausted.
The staffer is ushering him into the elevator, and pressing the last button right at the bottom. He punches in the code, and as the elevator descends, Cain turns to him.
"If you ever interrupt a meeting like that again--"
"But sir," the mans stammers, "Miss Sophia, she sent me--"
"She's not your boss," Cain growls, "I am, you hear me? Not that witch, she's just my assistant--"
A teeny voice from the staff's breast pocket; "Excuse me-- not assistant. Personal assistant."
Cain freezes.
He glares at the man in the elevator with him. "I thought you ended the call," he says. He doesn't know why he's speaking in a hush.
The staff looks terrified. "I-- I-- I wouldn't dare, sir. Not a call between you and M-- M-- Miss Sophia--"
The teeny voice again. "Aaron, dear, stop stammering. Just say 'yes sir, it won't happen again.' He likes that."
The teeny voice from his pocket again: "Good. Now you can end the call. I'll see you, Cain."
Aaron's fumbling fingers find the button through his breast pocket and ends the call.
"It's... the call-- I've disconnected it, sir." Aaron says. He fishes the device out of his pocket and checks, to be sure. The tiny light is white, not blue.
They both stare at it. And then towards the elevator door, at the numbers flickering above it.
They are in the sub levels and still descending.
"Good," Cain says. "Good, good, good." He feels very calm, now that Sophia can no longer hear them.
He turns towards Aaron, and the young man blinks rapidly, leaning very slightly away from him.
Cain reaches out and tugs at the man's lapels, smooths down the fabric. Aaron shoulders are lifted up toward his ears, his face scrunched in a barely disguised grimace of terror.
"Aaron, was it?" Cain says. "Good name. Such a good name. I'm going to remember this name."
Aaron is looking up, beyond Cain's shoulder. His Adam's apple bobs desperately.
"Y-- y-- yes sir," he wheezes.
Cain grins.
Sophia's voice through the elevator's intercom. "Please do not threaten the staff," she says drily.
Cain's grin fades. "I wasn't," he says, feeling caught.
He tightens his hands over Aaron's collar, jerking his chin at the intercom, mouthing "tell her".
"I can see you through the camera," she says.
"Fuck," Cain says.
The elevator dings. Aaron steps out quickly, leading the way.
Cain finds Sophia in the observation room overlooking the room that GD1680 is held in. He steps up next to her, grousing.
"What was so important that it couldn't wait--"
Sophia doesn't turn to look at him. Simply points through the window.
Cain goes silent.
The living weapon is seated upright inside of the quarantine pod. The broken quarantine pod.
The glass cover is shattered, and there's blood on the tiny fragments of glass that now litter the floor and surroundings.
And the man himself is calm and upright within the pod, sat cross-legged on the bed of the pod. His arms are bloody, and spatters of blood speckle his face and chest, as if blood had dripped onto him as he punched his way out.
And only now Cain notices the bodies laying on the floor. Two security staff slumped against the wall near the door, and one medical staff near the pod.
"What happened to them?" Cain asks, pointing.
"They tried to tranquilise him," Sophia says.
"I don't--" Cain starts.
"He caught the darts and threw them back."
"What?"
Cain peers at the downed medic. "But what about the medical guy-- oh, okay, I see it now." And he does. The hypodermic sticking out of the man's shoulder.
"So... what do we do now?" Cain muses.
Sophia turns to look at him. "How should I know," she says. "I didn't even know you were buying a person until the medics triggered the panic button."
"He's not a person," Cain says. "Not really."
Now both Sophia and Aaron are looking at him.
"He's... he's like a protection unit. Kinda like a guard dog. Or, like, like... a guard person."
Cain feels like a child, trying to explain himself.
"Everyone is getting one," he says.
Aaron clears his throat. And speaks tentatively into the space between them.
"The... the unit needs to be told to stand down," Aaron says. "By his owner."
"How do you know that," Cain says, turning to look at him.
Sophia tilts her head in askance as well.
"I uh..." he tugs at his collar as if it's too tight. "I read a lot. And I wrote a dissertation on the ethics of the new class of consumer slaves that--"
"Skip to the important part," Sophia suggests.
"Mr Cain would have been asked to imprint on... on the unit. Usually it's done in person. But sometimes it can be done over video call. The unit would have needed to been primed for it, and the person whose face and voice he hears in that duration is the one he accepts as his commander."
Can remembers something vaguely. A call that the previous owner insisted was very important. It was short. He just had to look at the camera and say some words and--
"Okay, great," Cain says, clapping his hands once. "So what do I do? I tell him to stop fighting through the intercom?"
"Er... no." Aaron says. "The first time has to be in person," he says.
++++++++++++++
GD1680 looks up as the man comes through the door, stepping cautiously over the splayed legs of one of the downed security guards.
His hands are up, placating. "Good... um, good boy. Good person."
GD1680's head swivels as more people step into the room behind Cain. A small contingent of nervous security staff. All armed. Tazers, tranquilliser guns, rubber bullets. Cain made sure nothing lethal would be used.
Cain's voice is shaky. "Stay calm, okay? Good boy, good--"
"Maybe use his designated code..." Aaron says, in the back. There is a flutter of pages. "Uh, call him GD1680."
Cain glances back. Then toward the man in the pod again. "Right, uh, GD1680, be a good boy, and er... stay still while we... while... these nice men just..."
The security staff approach slowly, hand shackles stretched out. GD1680 turns his head, looking at all of them, one after another.
They pause, just outside of his reach.
"What are you waiting for," Cain snaps, "He's not going to move, I told him to stay still."
"Fuck," one of the man breathes out, and he steps forward and grabs GD1680's wrist. He presses the handcuffs onto the wrist and a click snaps out in the quiet of the room.
"Fantastic," Cain says. "Now do the other--"
The security staff turns. His face wears a puzzled look. The cuff is on his wrist. Not on GD1680.
"What?" Sophia says, her voice a surprised exhale.
GD1680 tilts his head in a strange birdlike movement. Someone else reaches out--
Another click. GD1680 remains unshackled.
"What the fuck," Cain says. "You're supposed to stay still. Stop moving."
GD1680 does not stay still.
When the rest of the security step forward, now all together, reaching for him, he leans back against the lip of the pod and swings his legs up casually, pivoting himself out of the quarantine unit.
There is a crunch of broken glass as the remnants of the shattered glass digs into his back. It crumbles, as it's supposed to, instead of remaining in shards. But still, the back of his shirt blooms with red before he flips over the lid, landing upright on the floor.
Cain hears Sophia hiss behind him.
GD1680 tilts his head again. That birdlike movement.
The security staff split, and start moving around the pod, trying to flank the man.
Cain wets his lips. "GD1680, stop moving. Stop. Stay still."
A security staff lunges forward trying to grab the man. He simply sidesteps, and the security guard flails into empty space.
Cain tries again. "GD1680! Pause. Down. Sit."
But still the man moves, leaving blood on the glass that's on the floor.
"Ah fuck," Cain exhales. "Just grab him, everyone just go for it."
And the group of security men yell and surge toward GD1680.
They pile on, and for a moment it looks like they will overcome him with their numbers... until one staggers out of the scrum with a bloody nose.
And then another flies out, like he's been flung.
Another one crawls out, clawing himself to safety.
And the quality of the yelling changes, from that of men confident in their numbers, to that of men realising that numbers do nothing to keep them safe.
One of them rises head and shoulders above everyone else, and is flung against a wall. And then another man, in another direction.
And all of a sudden, Cain himself is held up, rising effortlessly up into the air, and hands are wrapped around his expensive jacket. His feet are clean off the ground, sweeping vainly for purchase.
He looks down, and GD1680's face is looking up at him. And oh, the man is young. A kid. Shorter than him. But so strong.
He feels GD1680 rotating from the waist.
"Ah fuck," Cain says. The next thing he's going to feel is impact against the wall. He hopes he doesn't break his nose, he has a photoshoot next week--
Sophia is screaming. Clutching at his clothes trying to get him down.
"Stop!" her voice is high and hysterical. "Stop, don't hurt him!"
GD1680 turns his narrowed eyes at her. And Cain sees it when his eyes widen and his mouth parts.
"Let him go!" she screams. "Stop!"
And the hands holding Cain up in the air spring open, and he thumps ungracefully on the ground.
Shit. His tailbone.
A slim pair of hands wrap around the back of his collar and he's dragged bodily backward. Arms come around him, shielding him, and Sophia, Sophia is holding him down, her body, her slight person between him and the... the... weapon.
He can hear her panicked breaths, feel the pounding of her heart against her ribs. Her eyes are squeezed shut, like she's expecting pain, like she's expecting death. And to be honest, so is he.
But nothing happens.
Sophia's breathing slows, and she looks down at him. Two terrorised people looking at each other.
The room is quiet.
"Are you alright?" she asks him.
Cain feels a deep sense of shame that he isn't the one asking her.
"I'm... I..." he swallows hard. Nods. "Are you?"
Instead of answering, she rolls off him.
Now he can see GD1680. He's standing exactly where he had been when he dropped Cain. His hands are hanging by his sides, and he's just... standing still. He's looking around, and the security guards are cautiously surrounding him. But with no intent to attack. They've had enough of that.
"GD1680, sit down," Cain says. The weapon looks at him, inert.
"Shut up already," Sophia says. And now GD1680 is looking at her.
She takes a deep breath. "GD1680," she says.
He tilts his head, twitchy, like a bird.
"Sit down," Sophia says.
And GD1680 folds his legs and sinks straight down onto the floor, his legs crossed neatly under him.
"GD1680, put your hands on your knees and don't move," Sophia says. And the man obeys. Palms on knees. Seated on the floor obediently.
"How--" Cain says, incredulous. "How are you doing that?"
Sophia sighs. And pulls Cain upright.
"Aaron," she says. "What was that thing you showed me just now?"
Aaron emerges from behind the edge of the doorway, flipping the pages of the GD1680 document. "Um, the activation phrase."
Another deep sigh. Cain has heard this before, many times in fact, when Sophia wants to communicate to him that he's fucked up royally.
"GD1680," she says. "What is your activation phrase?"
And the man looks up, head still titled to the side. And he opens his mouth, and says, without inflection "Cain, the call is ready for you, just click on this phone icon, yes that's the one. Okay you're set."
Aaron looks at Cain. "Oh," he says.
The security guards look at Cain. "Oh," they say.
Sophia is rubbing between her eyes. Hard.
"What?" Cain says. "I don't get it."
"Cain," Sophia says. "Who sets up your calls for you?"
"You do..." he says slowly. He feels like a big revelation is coming. It's just round the corner.
"Who," Sophia continues. "Set up the call for you when you were supposed to do the activation protocol with GD1680?"
Cain frowns. He doesn't appreciate being treated like he's stupid.
"You did..." he says. "You always do..."
Aaron sighs.
"Oh," Cain says. "Oh!"
There's a tiny plastic clatter as the medic wakes up and pulls out the syringe from his shoulder and drops it on the floor.
"What happened?" he says slushily.
One of the security staff turns to him and says, in a stage whisper. "Mister Cain accidentally made Miss Sophia the living weapon's owner."
"Ooh. That was dumb," the man slurs. "But better her than him." And he lets out a woozy chuckle while the security man tries to shush him.
Excuse any weird pacing or misspellings or whatever. I hardly edited this! It’s meant to be a low-stakes exercise to get me primed to start writing again after being away for a while due to work.
At first this was going to be closer to @deerslayer's story, with the tattoo and the bent bars, and to have it be a whumpy action drama, but then somehow it became a comedy. How do these things happen? I don't know. My muse is feral and does whatever she wants.
Heard this song (Colors by HEALTH & The Soft Moon) and the sound and lyrics fit Bad Ending AU so well. Felt possessed so sat down and wrote this scene to it.
CW: domestic violence, abuse, non-con
It’s not him.
It’s his eyes though—warm brown. His hands, his arms, his wide, wide shoulders. His voice and accent, the long vowels and the dropped consonants. Y’all and might could and fixin to and reckon.
Not his smile though. Never his smile.
God it hurts to hear him, to see him, to feel him. The demon parades Hunter around like a trophy, like something to taunt him with. But cruelty from the demon makes sense to Travis, even when it’s coming from Hunter’s hands.
The way it grips Travis’s arm too tight and squeezes. The way it twists and tugs his hair hard because it knows exactly what that reminds him of. The way it manhandles him, using Hunter’s strength to subdue him, to pin him, to fuck him so rough that sometimes Travis nearly throws up.
That all makes sense.
It’s the mimicry that’s worse. Gentle moments. Rubbing Travis’s back up under his shirt like Hunter used to. Slipping a hand into his own like Hunter used to. Pulling him close at night, burying a nose in Travis’s hair like he used to. Moments of intimacy and sex that sometimes feel good, that feel so so good.
It’s not him.
The first morning after the demon brought Travis home from the hospital he’d woken up to the smell of eggs and bacon.
A brief, stupid moment of relief.
This fucking nightmare hadn’t been real, it never happened. Travis had never been committed at UNC for the last 4 months, Hunter was normal and things were fine. Hunter was making them breakfast like he always used to. Things were fine.
Stupid to hope for that. It shattered the moment he entered the kitchen.
Hunter’s face split into a too-wide smile. Not his smile.
“Mornin,” it said in his voice.
Hunter had always been so much stronger, had a good solid hundred pounds on Travis too, made sense for the demon to use that against him now.
Hand shot out, pulled him toward the stove; forced one of Travis’s arms down onto the hot burner and held it there—kissed his head while Travis screamed and cried, nuzzled into his neck while Travis begged, his skin starting to blister.
Force-fed him his eggs after it finally ended, Travis choking on most of them because his arm hurt—it hurt so bad.
IT'S NOT HIM
Except when it is. Brief heartbreaking moments.
The demon slapping Travis so hard that his teeth rattled, arm reared back for another when it froze. And it was Hunter then—Hunter’s eyes wide and wavering.
“Travis?—oh fuck—”
Nothing else mattered then, didn’t even notice that his ears were ringing still. He’d collapsed into Hunter’s chest and sobbed, felt Hunter pull him into a hug, so, so tight.
“I’m sorry—” Hunter wept into his hair. “I can’t stop it—I’m tryin baby but I can’t.”
And just last night, the demon pinning Travis flat on his back on the bathroom floor, choking him with both hands.
Travis’s vision started to tunnel, blackness intruding at the corners—he wondered if the demon actually killed him, would anyone tell his mama? Would the demon make Hunter take the rap for it? He didn’t want that.
Hunter’s body started spasming, his grip went loose suddenly and he recoiled from Travis, pulled his hands away.
“Oh god Travis—oh fuck”
All Travis could do was cough at first, inhale great big lungfuls of oxygen, sparks danced across his eyes. When his vision cleared Hunter looked stunned then pained. Hunter pushed his palms to his eyes, sat back against the wall, shoulders shaking.
“You gotta leave me baby, please,” Hunter cried. “I can’t protect you from it.”
But Travis just climbed into Hunter’s lap and buried his face in Hunter’s shirt, tucked his head under his chin.
“Not leaving you,” Travis told him. “I’m never leaving you.”
It’s not him.
It’s not him.
It’s not him.
But he’s still in there.
And Travis is never going to leave as long as Hunter’s still in there—no matter what the demon does to him.
Is that why the demon sometimes lets Hunter out? Bitterly, Travis thinks that it probably is.
"Why?" Whumpee finally asked, exasperated, exhausted from their days in captivity.
"Because it's fun," Whumper said with a smile.
"No. It's not."
"No? And if things were reversed? Don't tell me you aren't waiting for my downfall. I wouldn't catch you with a satisfied smile? Even if it's just seeing me in court... or behind bars? No?" He paused when he got no response. "Or watching me bleeding out on the street?"
"No. I wouldn't."
Whumper hummed a laugh. "Liar," he said, tone amused.
Content Warnings: mer whump, captivity, bound, pleading, threat of dismemberment, knives, cannibalism-ish (consumption of a partially humanoid species), implied noncon & abuse
Author's Notes: Did I watch a video on how to filet a fish while writing this? Maybe so. Anyway, happy whumpy Mermay - Nyma may be back if someone feels generous enough to take home the leftovers <3
Nyma had been lying on the wooden board, her body stretched out beneath burning bright lights, for only a few minutes, before humans started filtering into the room. For hours before that, she had been stuck in a small glass tank, not even long enough to accommodate the full length of her tail.
Cramped in that unerring darkness, the merfolk had been left with only her own thoughts to keep her company, each one taunting her with worse and worse scenarios about what would happen to her when those cutting nets and calloused hands came for her once again.
After all, she had been raised on horror stories from her people of what could happen when they were stolen away from their home waters.
Stories of merfolk put on display or used as living trophies to impress on others their captors' wealth and prestige.
Stories of merfolk kept for the personal company and satisfaction of humans, regardless of how incompatible they may be.
Stories of merfolk washing up shores, mangled and bound in human trash, left to slow and painful deaths at the hands of the elements as they begged the uncaring tides to take them home.
Nyma had considered all those possibilities and more, coupled with every warning her mother had ever given her about venturing too close to the surface ringing in her mind while she had awaited her fate.
And yet the reality she was confronted with was somehow worse than any of those.
"Welcome - come, sit, make yourselves at comfortable!"
Nyma stared up helplessly at the human who had addressed the arriving ones - a tall, broad man in pristine, white clothing. With the four, thick plastic bindings holding her in place on the board - one each for her tail, hips, and neck, and one pinning both her wrists above her head - she was limited even in how far she could look around, but she could see the knife in his hand, flashing against another blunt piece of metal as he spoke.
He was smiling too.
"Mostly returning faces here - I love that, it means we're doing our job right - but a few new ones too," the man said. As he did, a pair of other humans emerged from behind him, a small stack of white plates in each one's hands.
While they moved around the table deftly, setting a plate down in from of each of the arriving guests as they sat, the man in white continued on, "I suspect all of you have an idea of what you're here for - this isn't the kind of restaurant you wind up in by accident after all - but let me walk you through what exactly will be happening for dinner tonight, so everyone can enjoy the meal without any unpleasant surprises. And don't worry, if at any point you feel uncomfortable, you're free to step away and your portions will be reserved for you."
Nyma tried to speak then. She tried to beg, Please - please let me go, I don't want to be here, please, don't do this to me -
But above the water, all that came out of her were some high frequency shrieks that incited laughter and amused chatter from the humans sitting around the table. The closest one, a woman in a slip of a glittering golden dress, was bold enough to reach out and experimentally stroke the skin of her bound arm.
"Ah yes, a timely reminder - if your table would prefer not to hear from the entree over the course of your meal, we do have the equipment to gag her mouth," the man offered to his guests. "A personal choice, of course. Some prefer to dine with fewer interruptions, while others believe it heightens the experience to hear their cries."
Nyma's heart raced as the humans around the table discussed ("Trust me, you're not getting your money's worth unless you hear her." "Well, how loud does she get, exactly?") whether or not to silence her. Frightened by the woman's touch, she tried to wiggle her body, pull her arms away, thrash her tail, but there wasn't an inch of give to her efforts. She could have no way of knowing the absolute surety of her bindings was one of the selling points at this $10k a plate event.
"We'll let her 'talk' for now, and see how we're feeling after a few rounds," offered one of the diners eventually.
"Of course, happy to oblige," the man in white said, and Nyma's attention snapped back to him as he set down his blunt metal tool, and then began to point and gesture with his knife. "So, tonight, I have the honor of serving you fresh, wild-caught Atlantic merfolk. This is a female specimen, caught just this morning - "
Please! Please don't do this, Nyma tried to call to him, to any of the diners. The knife flashed over her head, and the man in white came to rest its tip over the top of her tail.
"I'll be performing a live filleting of your entree right before you, so you can enjoy your dinner at the absolute peak of freshness."
I'll go straight home - I won't tell any of my people what happened, Nyma cried, eliciting more chuckles from the crowd. Just let me go!
"You'll be served in one-ounce portions - without accompaniments at first, to encourage you to enjoy the natural flavors, then with sauces and additional preparation options made available as we progress."
You can't do this! You're monsters! Monsters, monsters, monsters! Please, I want to go home!
"I'll be serving you from the front-right flank of the subject, taking flesh in roughly one-pound increments. Of course, how much I cut tonight will depend on your appetites, but it's not unusual for a party of this size to go through 6-7 pounds."
Nyma simply started screaming, pitiful sounds without meaning - anything she could do to earn the sympathy of even one of these humans.
The man in white glided his knife down the center of her tail, rattling it against her scales. "There will be some amount of distress from the entree as we serve her, but as the research shows, mer have significantly fewer pain receptors in their tails - with some suggesting they don't even truly perceive pain the same as humans. And again - we do have the gags available if it does grow too distracting for anyone."
Her body was wracked with sobs as all the efforts seemed only to whet the appetites of the waiting diners and make them watch her even more intently. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't be happening. Seeing herself dismembered pound by pound, her living flesh prepared and consumed right before her eyes - to be made subject to such depravity and brutality -
How could even humans be so cruel?
"Obviously, there will be some amount of mer left over at the end of the night, and to avoid waste, there are two paths generally taken afterwards. We can either send her home with one of you, usually do the highest bidder if there are multiple interested parties, or we finish butchering her tonight, after which point you and others will be able to bid on the remaining flesh and have it shipped overnight. Now, before we begin, any questions?"
"Nope - just excited to see you at work again," one of the humans chimed in. "Your guys always bring in the best meat."
Meat, Nyma cried to herself. They've turned me into meat.
"That's very kind of you, sir," the man in white said with a smile. "So I won't keep you in suspense any longer. Let's all see that beautiful, red flesh."
And as he leaned over her body, and as the diners leaned in to witness his work, Nyma could only watch in horror and cry in unintelligible pain as he made the first expert decision, and the knife began to carve her apart.
I want to go on record and say I really love when fanfic writers self-promote. First of all, my dash is so chaotic that chances are I actually didn’t see your fic the first time you posted about it. If you reblog it a few times at different times of day (or over multiple days!) I’m much more likely to see it! Second of all, even if I did see your post the first time (or even if I’ve seen it multiple times!) if I was busy or not in the mood for that particular kind of fic at the moment, there’s a good chance I haven’t actually read it yet. So the more times you reblog it the more times you are reminding me that hey, I actually did want to read that at some point. It helps me! And I appreciate it! So please, keep self promoting and self-reblogging!
Whumpee gasped awake in bed, clutching his chest, sweat dripping from every pore. He scrambled off the bed, legs getting caught in the duvet and hit the floor with a heavy thump as he tried to get his breaths under control again.
“Whumpee?”
No, no, no. Friend couldn’t be here, they couldn’t! Whumper would find them and make them do all those— oh god the blood… Whumpee didn’t— he couldn’t stop himself he— oh god he was going to be sick.
“Whumpee!” A hand grabbed Whumpee’s wet shoulder and a face appeared in front of them, the night clinging to it like a veil. “Whumpee! Look at me, hey!”
Whumpee found Friend’s concerned eyes and his stomach dropped. Whumpee was covered in blood, and Friend was touching him. He didn’t want to stain Friend with the blood.
“Whumpee! It was just a nightmare, snap out of it. You’re safe. You’re in the Academy. You’re okay.”
No. No. No.
“Look,” Friend insisted, grabbing the front of their pyjama top. Wait… pyjama top? Why was Friend wearing pyjamas to battle? He would die— they… he should be…
Whumpee’s brain faltered, stumbled and he crashed down from dreaming to wakefulness. His breaths slowed as he looked at Friend’s shirt, focusing on the plainness of it. The perfect, clean white they always slept in. “That’s it. You’re safe.”
Whumpee took a few more deep breaths and nodded, embarrassment flooding him now as he put his head in his hands. His skin was wet with sweat and he grimaced.
“‘m sorry,” he mumbled as he rubbed his eye with his palm. His heart continued to beat a little faster than usual but he was okay, he was back on earth. Not with Whumper. Not committing atrocities to innocent people.
Friend chuckled. “Don’t be sorry, mate,” he said kindly, taking his hand off Whumpee’s shoulder and rubbing the sweat down his shirt. “You can’t help it.”
Whumpee sighed as Friend sat back onto his arse, looking at Whumpee with sympathetic eyes.
“Was it Whumper again?”
Whumpee nodded, loosing a breath through his mouth as the memory of the nightmare flooded back. A burning village, people screaming, and Whumpee at Whumper’s side, being praised for slaughtering so efficiently. Whumpee remembers being happy at the praise, and he wanted to be sick all over again.
“Yeah,” he croaked, his voice coming out weaker than he’d like. “It was him. Same one as always.”
“Whumpee… you know they’re just dreams, right?”
Whumpee didn’t answer. He didn’t want to look at Friend right now after all those— he swallowed, hands trembling before he curled his fingers into fists. If they’re just dreams, why did it feel so real? Why was every village he terrorise with Whumper different every time?
“Whumps, I’m serious. You would never do anything like that. You’re just overtired from training, and the briefs of Whumper’s raids get into your head and you dream you’re there. That’s all. It’s not— you’re not a bad person.”
Shivers wracked through Whumpee’s body as he nodded. “Yeah… yeah, I know, Friend. Thanks. Sorry for waking you again.”
He pushed himself to all fours, grabbing the edge of his bed frame before pushing himself to standing on wobbly legs.
“This is the third time this week, Whumps,” Friend said quietly, rubbing the nape of his neck. “They’re getting more frequent. I’m worried about you. I think we should tell—”
“N-no, don’t be daft, Friend.” Whumpee wrapped his arms around himself, grimacing at how wet the sweat clinging to his skin was. How disgusting he felt… but at least it wasn’t the ash and the smoke, or the blood in his dreams. “I’m fine. I promise.”
Friend’s mouth twisted, not convinced, but he didn’t even push the matter further.
“I b-bet- better change,” Whumpee added, teeth chattering. “And dry myself off. I’m okay, really. Go back to bed.”
Friend got to his feet as well, brows pinched with concern. “Okay. You’re sure you’re—”
“Of course,” Whumpee cut in, waving his concern away. “I’m good. Just freezing.”
Friend’s lips thinned. The darkness painting him in shades of pale blue and greys and black, like a disapproving portrait.
“Okay.”
Whumpee padded into their shared ensuite bathroom and closed the door. He pressed his head against the cool wood and took a breath.
It’s not real, Whumpee, he told himself. Friend’s right. It’s just your imagination. The briefs. Your subconscious.
But not everybody felt guilty about the briefs. Not everyone woke with night terrors like they lived the attacks on the villages; like it was the second time they heard about the massacres.
That thought stuck with him as Whumpee peeled his sopping clothes from his body and quickly rinsed his body in the shower.
***
One moment Whumpee was with Friend, sparring to work off some excess energy. It was a good idea, Friend’s idea, to tire his body so his mind quieted while he slept. So he was about to deal the next point against Friend, when his surroundings changed.
It happened within a blink.
The sparring grounds were replaced with the crackling of flames and blood curdling screams of grief stricken relatives. Whumpee jolted, stumbling back a step.
A warm, familiar hand clamped down on his shoulder stopping him. Whumpee froze. He knew that hand; recognised it.
Whumper.
Whumpee turned his head slowly to glance up at the hand’s owner and beside him, beaming down at him, was Whumper. His mouth stretched into a handsome grin that sent chills down Whumpee’s spine.
This is a nightmare.
The thought stole his breath from his lungs and Whumpee ducked away from Whumper’s hand, stumbling back and falling onto his arse.
Whumper tilted his head as he turned to Whumpee. “What’s wrong, Whumps? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Whumpee swallowed a whimper as he scrambled backwards. He had to wake up. Just wake up, Whumpee. Wake up.
He pinched his skin as Whumper approached, but nothing.
Whumper stepped even closer.
Whumpee slapped himself.
Another step and Whumpee grew frantic.
He went to bite down on his hand, that’ll wake him up, but Whumper caught his wrist before Whumpee could clamp his jaws around his thumb.
Whumpee stared frozen into two midnight blue eyes, his entire body trembling. Get off me, he wanted to say, but his voice box wouldn’t co-operate, his body froze like the eyes were an arctic tundra.
“Why are you hurting yourself?” he asked, genuinely puzzled. The midnight gaze roamed over Whumpee’s face, noting the reaction of his body, the stiffness of fear, the deer in headlights expression. When Whumper found Whumpee’s eyes again, recognition settled over his features. “Ah. I see. You’re awake, aren’t you? Well that just won’t do.”
Whumpee longed to swallow the lump in his throat. He wanted to scream at Whumper, to demand what the hell “awake” meant, but nothing.
Whumper nodded at someone behind Whumpee and footsteps crunched down a foothill. The smoke clogged Whumpee’s nostrils, filling his lungs. This was the man they were trying to stop, trying to destroy— this was the man who was terrorising innocents and Whumpee vowed he would stop him. He would be the one to stop him.
Now, faced with the villain, he froze.
Wait, footsteps?
That kicked Whumpee into his training. He lifted his leg and planted his boot on Whumper’s chest. Whumper tsked and batted Whumpee’s leg away before he yanked Whumpee closer, crossing his arms over his chest in an X. His resistance dominated so rapidly that he was embarrassed to have tried fight at all.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay. It will all be a bad dream,” Whumper cooed.
“Get off of me!” Whumpee demanded, bucking his hips after every word, but he might as well have been struggling against a wall. Whumper wasn’t moving. He held Whumpee so tightly — yet gentle enough to leave no bruises — that Whumpee may as well have not struggled for the lot of good it did him.
A voice hummed behind Whumpee. “He shouldn’t have. I made sure to double lock it between dreams and reality.”
Whumper smiled. His eyes flashed to Whumpee’s terror filled gaze, oozing pride, before looking at the person behind Whumpee.
“I told you he was naturally talented,” Whumper replied. “I just need you to make sure this one sticks a little longer.”
“No!” Whumpee cried, struggling hard against Whumper’s hold. “NO! Don’t touch me! GET OFF!”
“Shh, Whumps. I know you’re confused right now, but I only need you to like this for another while. Soon, we will be reunited and I’ll explain everything.”
One of Whumper’s men crouched behind Whumpee’s head, magic glowing on their fingertips. Whumpee’s brain cut short at that.
“No! No, nonono! Whumper! No! Please!” His screams and pleas sounded childish, joining the cacophony of screaming. “Don’t do this, please!”
“I’m sorry.”
Fingers touched Whumpee’s temples and —
He woke screaming.
***
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maybe it's a lycanthropic attack. whumpee is brought to the village healer with a series of bloody incisions that appear undoubtedly jaw-shaped. they're barely conscious, breathing erratically and producing little whines or groans as healer checks their wound. the healer bounds whumpee to a wooden table and presses silver to their skin for hours. it sizzles when it meets the flesh, causing them to shriek in pain. black, infected blood seeps from the open wounds. whumpee begs for it to stop, swears they won't hurt anyone if the transformation occurs. but the healer doesn't let up. they push more and more silver harder and harder into the skin, the wound, of whumpee until the infection is drained and their blood runs red...if they have any left.
Whumpers who continuously try and provide as much comfort for Whumpee as possible. They’re not trying to hurt them in the sense that this isn’t malicious. To them, the whump is necessary but they still want to make sure it’s not all bad for Whumpee.
Allowing them a comfort item that gets them through particularly brutal days.
Letting them live and sleep outside of their facility under the assumption that they return whenever they’re required and keep completely silent about this or else.
Having casual conversations about Whumpee’s interests to take their mind off of things.
Similarly, letting them listen to music or putting on a certain show/movie in the middle of a harsh session.
Giving them ‘rewards’ be it something nice bought for them or a trip out somewhere shockingly tasteful.
Convincing other whumpers to be nicer and more lenient to Whumpee whilst still letting the whump happen in the first place.
Whumpee always gets well cooked meals that Whumper knows they like, as well as proper medical care and a soft bed to sleep on. If they were unwell or unhealthy, Whumper’s work would be much harder and less fruitful.
Whumpers who are viewed as a Caretaker by Whumpee, because they struggle to visualise a life without the torment they go through. It’s only the people not in their shoes that look inwards at Whumper and see how cruel they actually are.
for the torture stuff: they told me during an ICU rotation that it's completely inhumane to administer paralytics but not sedatives. I've had fun applying that concept to my whumpees ever since. not technically a torture just big fat medical malpractice but I'd like to think paralyzed + sleep deprivation would be a brutal combo
Fun fact: well into the 80s, doctors were taught that newborns did not have developed-enough nervous systems to be able to feel 'pain' - only stimuli. So babies were given paralytics but not sedatives for even major surgeries. So. Babies were in such distress during surgury that they'd go into cardiac arrest and die incredibly often. When they finally figured it out, infants began surviving much much more often.
Horrible.
So yeah, not just a torture technique, it's incredibly dangerous to be in that much pain with no escape - even as an adult.
I wonder how paralysis drugs would tangle with the more heavy duty sleep inhibitors that you'd need to stay awake. The human body goes numb to pain after oh so long. Eg: the 'Devil's Mark' on 'witches' where an accused 'witch' on trial would be poked/stabbed again and again and again until they find a 'numb' spot that they deemed to be where the devil branded them. In reality, it was just the point where their flesh finally went numb to the repeated sensation / they were so exhausted they couldn't flinch and scream anymore.
So there very likely would have to be many different kinds of pain and stimuli to keep someone awake for a torturous amount of time when they can't move.
Horrifying, yes. But more medically tedious than you'd think.
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