Jigglycrow

Love whump! Love writing! Whumplover's Collaborate Discord - Click to come and join us! Outpost Twenty Three - My Military Fantasy Roleplay Server! Click to come and join us!

[jigglycrow]

Jiggly's Whump Masterpost

Blackmere Rising

A forbidden M/M romance between the spoiled heir to crime dynasty and his rough and ready bodyguard from the streets of Northern England. Set against a back drop of murder, violence and homophobia this novel explores classism, sexuality, power imbalance and a great deal of whump! * AO3 Collection * Tumblr Masterpost

Asset!Verse

Military fiction set in an alternate world with a nation at constant war. Follows the journey of Asset E-0823 Evan Forrester, a human living weapon, part of the underclass of citizens bred only to assist the war effort. Follow his journey as he is taken from the sterile military facility he was raised in as he is assigned to a squadron of misfit soldiers who may end up fighting not just the war, but the entire system itself. If you like: Living weapons, found family, rehabilitation, trauma reveals, military action, institutional abuse and whump of all flavours. * AO3 Collection * Tumblr Masterpost

[jigglycrow]

Whumptrope #6

Whumpee is given the task to write down a list of positive qualities about themselves and end up just staring at the blank page for hours. Or maybe they come up with some depressing, whump filled bullet points:

Don't eat much

Don't need much sleep

Can take a beating without making much noise

Don't complain

Good at first-aid

Can sleep anywhere

Know how to work around injuries while healing

Always try to follow orders

Add yours in the comments!!

[whumpology]

"Don't try and save me. I'm already dead."

[jigglycrow]

Whump prompt #5

Opportunities for casual/pointless/petty violence.

Shoving / dragging whumpee every time they need to start moving.

Slamming the whumpee's head down into the desk/table they're sitting at.

Throwing an item at whumpee to get their attention (preferably something fast, hard and heavy)

Whumper kicking/slapping/shaking whumpee awake as they walk past

Whumper grabbing whumpee's jaw every time they want whumpee to look at them,

Knocking whatever they're holding/carrying out of their hands.

Shoulder-barging/shoving whumpee into a wall every time whumper walks past them.

Dragging them upright by their collar/throat

Thumping 'playfully' on the shoulder/thigh at every opportunity.

And imagine this is whumpee's life. Constantly. All day, every day. I wonder what their state of mind would be like? Bonus points if this is so normalised that no-one reacts to it when it happens.

[alittlebitofwhump]

Best ways to transport whumpee

Pull at their hair. Even better if they are bruised up and standing up hurts. "ah, wait, no, ah!" as you pull them up and drag them along without mercy. To ease the pain at their scalp they have to push themselves to comply and feel the pain in their legs/back/chest/wherever.

Grab their upper arm, hard enough to bruise, and roughly guide them wherever you want them to go.

When whumpee is hiding under a bed or laying on the ground, grab them by their ankles and pull them away. They will desperately try to grasp at anything with their hands, but it's no use.

History whump. Tie their hands together and tie the end of the rope to the back of your cart. Comfortably ride your horse as whumpee is forced to walk along in the sun. Don't give them water. Let them almost collapse from exhaustion. If they fall and trip the cart will pull them along and their wrists will be bleeding.

Wrestle them down, tie their hands behind their back, blindfold them, and force them to walk with you, tripping and disoriented. Maybe you can let them fall on their face a time or two.

Forcefully carry them with you between two people. Let them struggle and fight, but it's no use. They are not strong enough.

Threaten them with a gun. Make them come "willingly". Make sure they know that if they don't do what you tell them, they are dead. Whumpee complies with slow and careful movements, not wanting to, but also knowing they have no choice.

Throw them tied up in the back of your truck. They try so hard not to hyperventilate, but the claustrophobia is making them panic. Every turn and bump is throwing them around. It is dark and hot. They try to follow the road, but quickly become completely disoriented.

Put a shock collar around them and zap them if they don't do what you say.

Once you have sufficiently broken whumpee, you don't have to force them anymore. A simple tilt with your head or squeeze of their hand will make them comply. Eyes down, defeated, pathetic. Make whumpee follow you in public, just to prove to both of you that you are completely in control of them.

[painwithoutplot]

Apprentice!Whumpee with strict but fair Mentor!Caretaker, who expects Mentor to "punish" them the way their past whumper did for mistakes, getting frustrated and yelling "Stop going easy on me!"

to which Mentor responds something to the effect of "You think I'd let you off easy?"

and Whumpee, who, idk, just ran a hundred laps at 5 a.m. on Mentor's command, and knows Mentor has a legendary reputation for their high standards, is like. "...no. >:c"

[jigglycrow]

Whumpers nudging the unconscious whumpee's body with the toe of their boot.

(Bonus points if they use their foot to roll whumpee from their side onto their back)

[jigglycrow]

Whump Prompt #4

Helpless Caretakers. Forced to watch Whumpee suffering and unable to intervene because:

They're separated by a physical barrier (cell bars / reinforced window / forcefield)

Doing so would mean breaking their cover and putting whumpee/the rest of the team/the mission at greater risk

Societal structures/laws don't allow them to.

They're held back by restraints / whumper's henchmen.

They're too injured/weak/otherwise disabled to be able to effectively intervene

They know that any efforts to intervene will make things worse for the whumpee long term.

They're watching a recording/live-stream.

Whumpee's suffering is necessary in some way (Ritual, activation of powers, powers)

They don't have the medical training / equipment / resources to treat whumpee

Their communication is impeded in some way (Gag/language barrier/tied hands)

[jigglycrow]

Scars on the Sand - (Original M/M whump oneshot) -

Summary: Written for the Writing Angstily prompt challenge: 'Scars' + 'Sand' + 'Abuse' Vibe: M/M relationship, power imbalance, whump, trauma reveal, trauma minimisation, denial, sexual tension.

'It's just a few dots....Not worth making a fuss over, right?'

This is a oneshot from the Universe of my WIP original novel Blackmere Rising, a forbidden gay romance between Connor (the son of crime lord) and his bodyguard Mickey (a boy from the backstreets) set against the backdrop of a violent gang war: in a rare moment of downtime, Connor notices some of Mickey's scars that he's never seen before. Warnings: Mentions of past child abuse, burning, whipping, caning, minimisation of abuse, gang violence, internal justification. AO3 link: Here

Mickey Miller Masterpost: Here

Chapter 1

Connor wasn’t sure what was more uncomfortable; the sand which was creeping into his jeans every time he moved? The rough drystone wall digging into his back? Or the muscle cramps brought on from keeping himself rigidly still so as not to jostle Mickey’s head which was currently resting on Connor’s thigh.  

This had been a tactical placement at first - Mickey had needed to lie horizontal in the shade when the sun had been high and the shadows short. Mickey’s tolerance to sun exposure was somewhere between vampire and ice cube, and neither of them had come dressed or prepared for a day at the beach.  They weren’t here for a day at the beach. They were here because Connor had been the McKenna representative at a meeting to discuss new proposals around domestic maritime travel on the North West coast and the route home had happened to take them along a coastal road with a car park and an ice cream van.  

So they’d stopped for an ice-cream and then Mickey had smelled a burger van and the ice cream stop became a lunch stop which was probably for the best because Mickey was straight off a job and hadn’t eaten or slept in over thirty-six hours. They ate on the sand, next to the stone wall, stripped off to the waist. Mickey was squashed into the thin horizontal strip of the wall’s shadow while Connor had rolled up his jeans and let the sun hit his shins. And then Connor had felt too full to move and Mickey had just lain down to stay out of the sun and now... 

Now they were sat on the beach and Mickey’s head was in Connor’s lap and they were shirtless and that was okay because it was a ‘tactical position’ and neither of them were mentioning the fact that the shadows were long enough now that Mickey could sit up if he wanted to. He wasn’t moving, so Connor didn’t either. Even though his leg was cramping and his back was sore and the sand was itchy. If he moved, that meant acknowledging the position and acknowledging it meant that staying there became a choice.  

So Connor didn’t acknowledge it and just stared down into Mickey’s tired, barely open eyes instead. 

“You can sleep if you want to,” he suggested gently. 

“Sleep?” Mickey’s brow furrowed softly, his voice drowsy but quietly defensive “’M workin’...” 

“Working?” Connor laughed through his nose, staring down at Mickey’s prone form “You sure about that?”  

“’M with you, aren’t I?” Mickey grumbled quietly. “That means I’m working.”  

The words were light and Mickey had meant them as...well...as nothing - just a tired little joke based on the facts of their situation. They weren’t cruel – they were true. But the truth hurt in ways Connor couldn’t articulate. He tried to ignore it. Tried to match Mickey’s quiet banter as he replied. 

“Don’t think I need a bodyguard right now, Mickey.”  

Mickey blinked once, slowly, his eyes opening just enough that Connor could see the glint in them.  

“Course you do. Gotta be safe.”  

Connor laughed quietly, looking up and out towards the sea. Off to the left somewhere a group of children were building a legitimately impressive sandcastle complete with moat and shell decorations. Away to their right a group of students were laying out a picnic spread and down by the shore a group of boys were playing a ball game that seemed to be either volleyball or water polo depending on how far into the sea the ball went. Connor drank it all in and then looked back at Mickey. 

“Safe from what?”  

“Threats.” 

“What threats?”  

Mickey paused for a moment, his head jostling a little as Connor’s body shook with quiet laughter. He seemed to consider the question seriously, looking out to the sea and thinking for at least ten seconds before answering.  

“Sharks.”  

“Sharks?” Connor laughed again. “We’re on land.” 

“Snipers then,” Mickey answered, quicker this time, his mouth turning up at the corners. 

“Snipers?” Connor played along, enjoying the rare opportunity to be playful with Mickey. “I don’t think there’s going to be any snipers on Blackpool Beach on a Wednesday afternoon.”  

Mickey arched his eyebrows smugly. “Exactly. You wouldn’t think that. That’s why you need a bodyguard.” 

Connor snorted a laugh and swatted at Mickey’s shoulder. “Prick,” he said fondly, the word almost drowned out by the sound of the waves. 

 Mickey grinned, lazy and amused, and shuffled his position a little. Connor’s hand stayed on his shoulder. In the sea, the volleyball game had turned into a wrestling match while the students had opened a bottle of champagne. Connor watched it all and then realised, in a panic, that his thumb was stroking Mickey's shoulder. He froze, hand paused mid-movement. Mickey’s eyes were closed again and at first, when he didn’t react, Connor thought that maybe he hadn’t noticed or maybe he’d fallen asleep. But then Mickey spoke, his voice sleepy and quiet.  

“You can...keep doing that...if you want to.” 

Connor swallowed hard, a quiet hum of surprise and excitement escaping his lips despite his attempts to stifle it. His thumb moved again, purposefully this time, stroking the firm, round muscle of Mickey’s shoulder. He’d spent a lot of time looking at this shoulder: He’d seen it trembling when Mickey was lifting weights, watched it tense when Mickey was throwing punches in the ring. He’d seen it stitched up and bleeding when Mickey had been shot, strapped up more times than he could count. But he’d never quite seen it like this, looking from above, close enough to touch. The summer sunshine illuminated every sparse ginger hair, casting a soft, white-golden glow over Mickey’s chest and arms. Connor continued to stroke Mickey’s shoulder until he noticed something else.  

Something about this angle, this unusual proximity, this light, meant Connor could see for the first time, light reflecting off small, shiny marks that dotted Mickey’s skin The first one he noticed was on the top of Mickey’s shoulder, a small, blotchy scar a little smaller than a five pence piece. Connor brushed it with his thumb feeling the slight dip in Mickey’s skin where the scar indented. Mickey moved again, turning slightly and Connor noticed more of the same marks – a cluster on Mickey’s side near his spine, another on his stomach, a line of three down his forearm... 

“Mickey...” Connor started quietly, sensing how close Mickey was to falling sleep.  

“Hm?”  

“What’re these marks? On your back?” Connor asked the question gently. 

Mickey frowned again as if slightly annoyed by the fact he was being made to engage his brain in active thinking. “Cane. Belt,” he answered simply, mildly irritated as though Connor should know that already. 

And Connor did know that. He knew the thin silvery lines that criss-crossed Mickey’s back all too well, he’d watched them amass over the years of their shared childhood and adolescence. 

“Not those. These dots...” He pressed the one on Mickey’s shoulder lightly with his thumb.  

“Oh, them? Cigarettes.” Mickey answered casually, almost relieved that it was another easy answer. 

But, if it was easy for Mickey to say, it wasn’t easy for Connor to hear. The older man’s thumb froze again as he tried to process what he’d just heard. The shape made sense now, the small, circular end of a lit cigarette, pushed into Mickey’s skin. Repeatedly. 

“All these dots a-are...cigarette burns?” Connor stammered as he tried to match up the horror of what he was seeing and what Mickey was saying with the flat, conversational tone it was being said in. “Wh-How?”  

Something in Connor’s tone must have bothered Mickey enough for him to open his eyes as he answered. 

 “Murphy,” he replied flatly, as if this, too, was obvious. “Well, a couple are from before....Mam...the flat but...yeah....” he trailed off and shuffled again. “Most of them were Murphy.” 

Connor went very still. Mickey tilted his head slightly to look up at him, as if sensing his unease. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Connor couldn’t reply at first. The sand in his jeans had changed from tickly to coarse, the children were starting to squabble near the sandcastle.  A seagull circled overhead, screeching and cawing so loud Connor was struggling to think. He blurted out the first stupid thought that came to his head.  

“You never told me Murphy did that to you...” 

Mickey’s eyebrows raised again, mouth quirking up in the same way it had when he was joking about the sharks. 

“Was I supposed to?”   

He was grinning. He was actually grinning... Connor wanted to shake him.  

“It’s not funny!” 

“I never said it was.” 

“You’re laughing!” 

“I’m laughing at you” Mickey sounded equally exasperated and amused. “I were, what?  Six? Seven? What was I supposed to do, go crying to you every time Murphy hurt me during training?” 

Connor’s pulse was rushing in his ears, roaring louder even than the waves breaking shore. 

“You were six?!”  

“First time?  Yeah. I think it-“  

“Burning a six-year-old isn’t training!” Connor’s voice had grown so loud that a few of the students looked over. He clenched his teeth and lowered his voice, though the anger was every bit as present.  

 “He were training me how to keep still,” Mickey explained. “Sometimes being still and quiet is what keeps you alive. That’s what he were teaching me. Don’t scream. Don’t flinch...Even when it hurts.”  

Mickey offered up the explanation as though he was expecting Connor to calm down which was somehow making everything worse.  

“Mickey, that’s...it’s abuse. Can you not see how messed up that is?” 

Mickey’s brow was furrowed, his eyes tracking some invisible memory that Connor could only imagine.  

“I don’t know what you’re so upset about...” Mickey mumbled eventually. “S’hardly the worst pain in the world. Hot, sharp, but it’s over quick. Few seconds max. It’s not like he were doing it on my face or my hands. It’s just...just something he used to do sometimes. He liked that I could handle it without crying, used to do it in front of his mates to show them. Used to take bets on it, he’d always win. None of them ever thought a kid would be able to...you know? ...Without flinching. It were like...it were good. After, he’d give me a fiver from the winnings, call me Proper Little Hard Man. It were like a game, that’s not ‘abuse’.” 

Mickey snorted on the final word like the notion was ridiculous. Connor looked down at the scars dotting Mickey’s upper body and tried to imagine a child of six, learning to keep still and quiet when an adult stubbed a lit cigarette out on his flesh. Of a crowd of men taking bets and not one of them stepping in to help.  

He thought about what it meant that that little boy was now a fully grown man, lying in his arms on the beach, confused about why these ideas were upsetting.  

“Con...”  

Mickey was smiling. He was actually smiling with the same tired, indulgent firmness of a parent trying to reassure a child there are no monsters under the bed.  

“Con, you’re acting like he was burning me at the stake every night or something. S’just a few dots, yeah? Not worth getting upset over.”    Connor wanted to scream. He wanted Mickey to scream. He wanted Mickey to cry and sob and rage about how unfair it all was. But Mickey was grinning and rolling his eyes and smiling at the memory of being called a ‘proper little hard man’...  

Mickey shifted again. Connor’s thumb started moving. The seagull finally finished screeching overhead. Connor sighed, long and slow and looked down at the scars he’d never be able to unsee. He looked at Mickey, content and peaceful and still in Connor’s lap. 

Connor made his choice.  

“Alright, Mick. I’m sorry.” 

There was a silence for a moment as Mickey heard Connor’s apology and came to his own satisfactory conclusion about what the apology was for. He blinked then smiled, settling himself down properly.  

“S’alright. No need for a fuss is all.” 

“No need for a fuss,” Connor agreed, feeling his heart twist in his chest. “Take a nap now. I’ll look out for the snipers and sharks.” 

END A/N: if you'd like to see any more from this universe, please let me know! (I have lots!)

[jigglycrow]

Whump Prompt #3

Whumpee whose been kept in restraints for an extended period of time and it's affecting their movement even though they're free now:

Walks with short, shuffling steps because their ankles were chained together

Keeps their wrists close together because they're used to wearing handcuffs

Only reaches for things as far as their chains would have let them

Panics when people walk too far ahead because they're used to be dragged on a leash

Sleeps sitting up because they never had enough slack to lie down

Does Caretaker realise why whumpee is behaving like this or do they need it spelling out?

[jigglycrow]

Asset E-0823 Evan Forrester

Living Weapon

Evan Masterpost: https://www.tumblr.com/jigglycrow/820229196660047872/post-by-jigglycrow

[jigglycrow]

These Five Gentlemen - Chapter 3/3 (Living Weapon original fiction)

Chapter 3

AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87254566/chapters/233059056

Chapter One here: https://www.tumblr.com/jigglycrow/820233566815469568/these-five-gentlemen-living-weapon-original?source=share

Evan masterpost here: https://www.tumblr.com/jigglycrow/820229196660047872/post-by-jigglycrow?source=share

Chapter 3 

Commander Korvan Lancaster was waiting for them when they arrived, a tall silhouette against the white canvas of the billet tents. Valen gave the report he’d rehearsed a hundred times on the route here and it came out sounding nothing like any version of anything he’d practiced – a garbled, stuttering mess that his father would have been ashamed of. 

Korvan was mostly silent. The only sound and movement came from the flapping of his heavy, sleeveless trench coat around his calves. His muscular arms remained folded across his chest as he stood still as a glacier while Valen, with several unhelpful interruptions from Rogan, made their case.  

His tone was every bit as cold and rigid as his posture. “Four civilians with broken-” 

“Bandits,” Rogan dared to interrupt. “Bandits trying to extor-” 

“Civilians. Now hospitalised.” Korvan interrupted the interruption. “In a town that hates military. In a public house you had no business being in.” 

Korvan’s dark brown eyes rested on Valen and Rogan in turn as if daring them to challenge any further. This time, even Rogan had the sense to leave it be.  

“Zero four hundred hours,” Korvan finally said. “The flat ground by the river. All three of you.”  

It was the first time he’d even acknowledged Evan was there. Valen thought perhaps that meant the Commander was going to be lenient with him. Of all of them, despite being the one who’d done the actual fighting, Evan was surely the most blameless? The Commander knew that and so Valen expected some degree of mercy for the asset.  

He could not have been more wrong.  

0400 came after too few hours of sleep. The flat ground by the river was hard with frost and Korvan was already standing on it. Evan was there too, stood at parade rest, hands clasped in the small of his back, eyes forward, posture still and ready. Rogan staggered in at 0358, rubbing his eyes and barely stifling his yawns. They began at exactly 0400. 

The squad had run Korvan’s circuits before. Not in this weather, this early and with the Commander this aggrieved, but they had done it. Valen was quietly confident they could survive it and put the episode behind them.  

His confidence lasted almost twenty minutes.  

Very quickly, Valen realised this was no ordinary Academy circuit. It was worse than anything they’d endured, even on punishment detail. This wasn’t an Academy circuit at all. This was Facility doctrine, the conditioning circuits of Evan’s own childhood. Bear crawls and weighted carries, and wet immersion in the ice-cold river. Stress positions, endless repetitions, no rest, no breaks, no rhythm to it that could be predicted and braced for, just one painful station onto the next. Korvan ran it on all three of them identically, without raising his voice, without encouragement, without explanation, just drill after drill after drill. And within that first hour, Valen understood with his whole burning body what he had only known in words before: People do this to children. This. To children. Daily. For years. They did it to Evan.  

Rogan suffered it worst and loudest. An enormous man built for force, not duration, gasping like a bellows, staggering between stations like a drunk. He was sick, once, behind a tree which Korvan watched and did not comment on. When Rogan staggered back to the group, Korvan just gestured to the ground - Continue - and out of pride or stubbornness or some other compulsion Valen didn’t understand, Rogan got back in position. 

Valen suffered too - more than he thought possible from a simple exercise circuit. As he staggered to the next station, every muscle screaming, Valen found himself staring pleadingly towards the Commander but Korvan’s eyes held only steel.  

Evan did not seem to be suffering at all. Not in the way that Valen and Rogan were. He was sweating, breathing heavy but controlled and he moved the same way he had in the bar –  fluid, economical, calm, as though this situation were nothing out of the ordinary. And Valen thought then that he understood the lesson - Last night you wielded a weapon. Now see what it took to make it.  

As Valen struggled to drag himself upright, his knees buckling twice underneath him before he managed to stand, he realised one unbearable truth - he could not do this anymore. His father’s voice, always present in his thoughts, which told him a strong mind could conquer anything, had been silent for the last hour, drowned out by the constant roar of his own inner monologue. Give up. You can’t do this. This is too much. Too much for anyone. Give up now. 

And just as Valen opened his mouth to surrender, Rogan staggered towards him.  

“Lovely...day for it...eh chaps?” the mercenary wheezed, flashing Valen and Evan a grin that rapidly turned to a grimace. “Hey, Commander...when does...the punishment start?” 

Valen nearly fell over again. He was milliseconds away from giving up and Rogan, who had already been sick and looked like every exercise was going to give him a heart attack, was cracking jokes. On his other side, Evan was already pumping out the next set of exercises, body rising and lowering in a steady, easy rhythm, eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance where it seemed that pain and exhaustion could not touch him. Valen looked at them both and then up to the Commander and his solemn, watchful expression. One look like that would have sent the bandits in the pub packing without so much as a comment. Valen looked away, stared down at his own trembling hands as he realised his position - the middle of the formation, the place you put the weakest man.  

It was on that realisation that Korvan’s voice finally came at the end of two awful hours. “Stand down.”  

Valen collapsed, his legs buckling under him like a baby deer. Rogan fell to his hands and knees, gulping in huge lungfuls of air and, for a blissful moment, Valen dared to believe it was over.  

“Caldwell, Kincaid. On the bank. Sit.”  

Valen staggered and Rogan crawled to the small embankment. They sat, bodies steaming in the cold air, waiting for Korvan’s lecture. 

It didn’t come. 

Instead – “Forrester. Position one. Again.” 

Valen’s head came up. Beside him, Rogan’s entire being tensed.  

Evan who had done everything they’d done, likely carrying an injury to his ribs he’d not reported on and who should have earned exactly the same rest as his squadmates – said “Yes, Sir,” and took position one and began again. 

And if Valen thought Korvan had been ruthless before, the man he was watching now was three levels beyond that. The intervals shortened almost out of existence. The corrections sharpened and stopped being corrections at all and became demands - Lower. Faster. Again. Again. 

And Evan obeyed, even as the weighted carry made his knees buckle and the river immersion turned his lips pale and the stress position held until his arms gave out and dropped him face down in the frost.  

“Up.” 

Evan got up with technique. A controlled series of movements designed to get an exhausted body back upright and Evan did it automatically which meant he had been in this exact scenario so many times that the technique had stopped being a technique and just became how he moved.  

It went on. It kept going on. The sun came up and warmed nothing. Rogan was leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees, his hands clenching and unclenching as he murmured under his breath. “That’s it lad, you’ve got this, don’t give him a fucking inch.” Valen was sure Rogan didn’t pray, but that near-silent litany felt almost close enough to count.  

It felt like watching an execution. Somewhere close to the three hour mark, Evan started to miss. His feet began to stumble, his hands going wide of the mark, posture listing to the side. He corrected, every time, without prompting but each correction cost him. He never made a sound that wasn’t his breathing or a grunt of exertion.  

“Position Four.”  

Evan went down into position four - the long static hold, plank position, back straight, elbows in the frost, nose inches from the cold earth. His arms were shaking from the start but he held it. And, as the asset trembled, Korvan finally moved position, crossing the ground slowly. When he was stood over Evan’s body, he raised his right leg and planted his boot on Evan’s back. Not a kick or a stomp, just resting it there with a slow, heavy pressure that Evan absored, or tried to, his breath juddering, his entire body trembling and- 

“That’s enough!”  

Rogan was on his feet, moving quicker than he had at any point in the circuit. Rogan who took nothing seriously and had joked his way through every skirmish and never let anything touch him was on his feet, fists clenched at his side.  

“Enough,” he repeated, eyes blazing at Korvan. “I ordered him. Valen told you that. I ordered him to fight those men and you know...you know he’s going to do what we order him to. You know he can’t say no. Whatever your issue is with last night, that’s on me, and him-” Rogan jerked his thumb towards Valen who had got to his feet as well because this didn’t feel like a situation for sitting in anymore.  

“If you still need to punish someone,” Rogan continued. “Then punish us. Not him. He didn’t have a choice.”  

Korvan turned his head slowly. Just his head. The boot stayed where it was, slowly bearing down on Evan’s back. And finally Korvan spoke, his voice quiet and calm.  

“Then perhaps next time you’ll remember that. And perhaps you’ll remember this next time it’s convenient to have a weapon that can’t refuse you.” Korvan paused and looked down at Evan under his boot and, when he looked up again, his voice came out somehow calm and furious at the same time.  

“You think this morning is the punishment? Three hours isn’t a punishment for him. Three hours is a kindness. Three hours is a rest day. Three hours is the gentlest his life has ever been. This-” His boot pressed Evan down another half an inch. “-is a Tuesday where he comes from. This is what was done every day, to the man and the boy, to make the thing that you flicked at five men so you didn’t have to put down your pint.” His eyes moved from Rogan to Valen. “Because you thought it would be easier to go along with the plan than use your authority and handle things correctly.” Korvan’s voice dropped in volume as he surveyed the two of them, “You enjoyed owning him for the evening. So you can sit there and see what owning it is. All of it. The hard parts. The ugly parts. You can watch what it takes to make the thing that you enjoyed showing off with.”  

Valen’s was shaking and it was nothing to do with the cold or the exercise. He felt Korvan’s eyes boring into him and, when he worked up the courage to meet them, there was nothing of the man he thought he knew. He wanted to cry, or plead for mercy, but he was somehow sure that would only make things worse.  

Korvan’s gaze didn’t waver, not in the face of Rogan’s quiet fury or Valen’s anguished guilt. “You do two hours.” he told them both coldly. “He does four.” His eyes hardened, though Valen wouldn’t have thought that was possible. “And you both watch.”  

 Rogan sat with a thud, the heavy man putting himself down quickly and deliberately. He had made the choice between sitting or fighting, understanding that there was nothing in the Commander to fight. There was no circumstance in which they did not watch Evan suffer for the next sixty minutes. Valen sat too, closer than before, their shoulders touching as the lesson dawned on them both.  

You watched while you used him as a weapon and you liked it. Now watch while I show you how it was forged.  

Because it was one thing to read the manuals and imagine. It was another thing to see it in person, to watch a man being taken to the limits of endurance and beyond and know that this wasn’t the worst of it. And wasn’t that the painful truth. This wasn’t even the worst of it.  

And Evan. Evan performed. He obeyed. If he thought it was unfair, he didn’t show it. If he felt betrayed, he didn’t show it. If he felt anything at all, he didn’t show it. He took the positions, he redid the repetitions, he fell and he got back up and finally...Finally-  

“Asset. End of session.”  

And Evan got to his feet and stood at parade rest, waiting for the next order, even as his body swayed and his hands trembled and his eyes staring forward were glazed and bloodshot. He stood, as if nothing particularly out of the ordinary had just happened to him. Because it hadn’t. 

That – Valen realised – was the lesson.  

Korvan walked to Evan and Valen sensed Rogan tense beside him. Korvan gave Evan a long look and, finally, something moved behind the glacier. Some flicker of humanity, like the Commander was returning to himself. His eyes softened into the particular look that Valen had only ever seen directed towards Evan.  

“Asset. Report,” Korvan said quietly.  

It took Evan a few moments to manage to speak. “Functional, Sir. Ready for orders.” 

Korvan nodded. “Your orders are to hydrate and to rest. Caldwell carries your kit.”  

And Valen, who two months ago would have felt physically sick at the thought of serving an asset, moved forward gladly.  

Rogan moved too, looping Evan’s arm over his shoulder. “Easy lad. We’ve got you now. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”  

Korvan watched silently, and Valen caught his eyes, realisation dawning as he saw the guilt and regret in the shadows of the Commander’s expression. The lesson had been taught at the expense of Evan’s body and Korvan’s conscience and the lesson was clear. 

The lesson had not been - Don’t use him. The lesson had been – Respect what you’re holding when you do.   END

Thank you very much for reading! if you enjoyed this story and would like to see any more of these characters, please let me know! I'd also love any feedback on how to improve!

I love to write whump fiction - if you enjoy it too, you'd love our Whumplover's Collaborate Discord! We'd love to see you there! https://discord.gg/kk9PdmXG9 Taglist: @painwithoutplot

[jigglycrow]

Whump Prompt #2

Whumpee and Caretaker working long-term deep undercover in a power-imbalance dynamic:

* Slave and Owner

* Servant and Noble

* Drug Runner and Crime Lord

* Living Weapon and Handler

The longer they stay in role, the blurrier the lines become.

Maybe you have whumpee struggling to separate Caretaker from the role, even when it's just them two:

- Flinching when Caretaker moves

- Using rank/title/honorifics even in private

- Waiting for permission before acting

- Defaulting to submissive body language

Maybe Caretaker's behaviour is starting to change too:

- Waiting expectantly for whumpee to serve them even when in private

- No longer apologising for the things they have to do to keep cover

- Using violence/verbal abuse in role with increasing frequency.

- Accidentally using the degrading names for whumpee in normal conversation

Bonus points if this dynamic carries on after the operation finishes and they get back to their team.

[jigglycrow]

When whumpees give that tiny, shaky, singular, little nod:

* Because they're scared to say yes

* Because they've desperately wanted to say yes and are finally able to

* Because they're ashamed of what they're agreeing to

* Because they're frightened of the reaction they're going to get

* Because they're too injured / out of it to do anything else.

* Because they don't really mean it but feel like they have to agree anyway

* Because that's all they can manage to do without breaking down completely.

* Because they can't communicate any other way

Anything else??

[jigglycrow]

These Five Gentlemen - Chapter 2 (Living Weapon original fiction)

Chapter 2

Summary:

Valen and Rogan argue the ethics of using Evan to win the bar fight.

AO3 here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/87254566/chapters/232151026

Chapter One here: https://www.tumblr.com/jigglycrow/820233566815469568/these-five-gentlemen-living-weapon-original?source=share

Evan masterpost here: https://www.tumblr.com/jigglycrow/820229196660047872/post-by-jigglycrow?source=share

Chapter 2

Evan sat, of course he did, and his bum had barely touched the seat before Rogan was clapping him on the back. Valen counted three slaps, each one hard enough that Evan had to brace to avoid being planted into the table. After the third, Rogan’s huge, meaty hand came up to grip Evan’s shoulder.

“That was beautiful, lad,” he crowed and, for once, he wasn’t being sarcastic. “Five men. Didn’t even spill my pint. Bloody glorious! Knew you could handle it.”

Evan’s reaction was instant. He didn’t exactly smile, not in the traditional sense, but his mouth turned up at the corners and his whole being glowed under the praise. His shoulders came back, chin up, piercing blue eyes sparkling with something as close to pride as Valen had ever seen in him.Praised. Trusted. Knew you could handle it. Somewhere in Facility 15 they had carved a channel in him just for this. The only channel through which positive feelings were ever allowed to flow. You performed. You have achieved your objective. You are valued for it. And Rogan had opened the tap to full and Evan was happy. There were four men collapsed on the floor and Evan was happy because Rogan had told him ‘Good job’.

Valen didn’t realise he was shaking until he saw the ripples in his pint. Something must have shown in his expression because Rogan met his eyes over the rim of a fresh beer he’d acquired from somewhere, expression shrewd and curious.

“Say it, Lordling.”

Valen’s childhood had prepared him for court etiquette and public engagements. It had prepared him for speaking to military officials and visiting dignitaries. It had not prepared him for men like Rogan Kincaid who spoke straight. Men who said what they meant and meant what they said and didn’t dress it up in courtesy and manners.

“You shouldn’t have-” Valen swallowed heavily and tried to stop his voice from shaking. It didn’t work “You shouldn’t have used him like that.”

Rogan raised an eyebrow, his tone carefully curious. “And why’s that?”

Valen took a sharp inhale, trying to force calm into his voice that he didn’t feel. “Why?! Rogan look at them!” he gestured at the bodies around them.

“I’m looking,” Rogan replied. “I see five men injured but alive, which is more than would be said if I’d pulled a pistol in here and made someone a widow. More than would be said if you’d tried your Academy fencing and ended up in hospital with the Commander burning down the town looking for the ones who did it.”

Rogan took a slow sip of his drink and let his words sink in, then nodded to Evan. “Or we let him do what he does best and settle it. No killing. No fuss.”

Valen followed Rogan’s line of sight and saw the truth in the older man’s words. Evan was quietly checking the edge of the bandit’s discarded knife with a professional thumb. He was settled, calm, easier in his skin than Valen had seen him in a while. As if those few minutes of total violence had been the most logical thing that had happened in weeks. An order given and executed. Wanted. Trusted. Good at it.

“It’s what he is, Valen,” Rogan said, softer now. “You’re bred for your court and your title. Men like me are bred for coin and adventure. And him? Him and his kind are bred for violence. That’s the truth of it. You’re an idiot if you don’t take advantage of that.”

Valen swallowed the last of his pint and it tasted like ash.

The men were still down when the trio left the pub, which was probably for the best. They left with minimal fuss, but every eye in the place still watched them go.

“Nestlen Street, Ostris,” Rogan said to the fifth man, who flinched as they walked by. “Best dentist this side of the river. Tell her Rogan Kincaid sent you. You won’t be the first!”

And then they were out into the Exerton streets, heading towards the East Gate and back to camp. The route took them along the river, beyond the reach of Exerton’s streetlamps, and into the countryside where Commander Korvan Lancaster had insisted they camp rather than picking an inn in the town. ‘Exerton is no place to bring a princess,’ he’d told them, and tonight had, of course, proved him entirely right.

While Valen’s thoughts dwelled on the Commander and his reaction, Rogan was loudly and enthusiastically retelling every moment of the night. The fact that his entire audience had been active participants in the story he was telling didn’t seem to dim his enthusiasm for telling it in the slightest.

“-second one’s swinging and he’s smiling. He’s fucking smiling! Thinks he’s got it and the lad just - swoosh - into him. Bam! Bam! He’s gone. He’s fucking gone! Two minutes to ruin five men, I’ve taken longer shits!

“It should have been quicker,” Evan answered quietly. “I took the third guy’s punch too square on, it caught me harder than it should have.”

Rogan tossed his head back. “He’s critiquing it! He’s writing a bloody dissertation on it!”

The mercenary dropped a hand onto the back of Evan’s neck and shook him once. Fond and rough, just the right side of violence to be considered brotherly. He grinned as he looked down at Evan with genuine fondness.

“Enjoyed that, didn’t you, lad?”

Evan seemed to consider the question. It likely wasn’t one he’d been asked much before, if at all. He was probably running the usual calculation of whether enjoying something like that was permitted. After a moment he answered with one quick, honest nod.

“Aye,” Rogan nodded sagely with the deep satisfaction of a man being proved right. “Course you did.”

Valen was silent. Not because he had nothing to say but because he wanted to say too much. He needed to tell Evan that he was wrong to enjoy it, that he should feel pity or remorse or shame or something but he couldn’t organise his thoughts. Rogan’s words echoed in his mind - Him and his kind are bred for violence – and the screams of the men and the sound of snapping bone. I didn’t stop him. I could have stopped him and I didn’t because I needed those men dealt with and-

“Captain?”

It took Valen a moment to realise he was being addressed. The brevet rank still hung on him like a borrowed coat. A rank afforded him through his father’s persuasion, Korvan’s field order and royal agreement that a mere Recruit could not be issuing orders to a Princess. That, and the fact that it was Evan addressing him and Evan never addressed him first outside of mission conditions meant it took a moment to register the word as belonging to him.

Evan had his head tilted, angled slightly up and towards Valen. He was still walking with that steady, surefooted stride, even though he didn’t seem to be watching where he was going, his vision fixed on his Captain. And in his eyes, there was something. Something Valen had seen directed at others, at Korvan mostly, Rogan too, even the princess from time to time. But not him. Not until now.

Seeking.

“Were you pleased, Sir?” Evan asked. A small pause as if he was grappling with the words. “With my...performance?”

Evan was searching for his approval. The thing Valen had been waiting months for, and Valen...couldn’t answer. Because the answer was no. He was horrified and disgusted and ashamed. With Evan, with Rogan, with himself most of all. He was not pleased and he didn’t know how to explain that in a way that Evan wouldn’t interpret as failure or rejection. In the end, his silence did that anyway. Evan read the quiet and came up with the only explanation his conditioning could supply: deficiency.

“I know he got one in. On the ribs.” The seeking expression was gone now, replaced by something closer to panic. Damage control. “My positioning was off by a few degrees. The second guy fell into my approach line but I- it won’t happen again. I’ll adjust faster next time and it won’t-”

"Of course he’s proud.” Rogan’s voice rolled over the top, cutting off the spiral before it reached crisis point. “Look at his face, he’s not upset with you, lad. He’s worried about Korvan is all. Five civilians, public house, doesn’t look good to the top brass. He’s thinking about his paperwork.”

Rogan’s hand landed on Valen’s shoulder now in a flagrantly overfamiliar breach of etiquette, squeezed once, and the message was clear. Say it now, Captain. Or he closes down forever. You will not get another chance like this.

"He’s very proud, aren’t you, Captain?”

Valen looked at Evan again. At those eyes. At the scar on his forehead just above the right eyebrow that cut into his hairline and crested his scalp. He watched him brace for Valen’s judgement - Inadequate. And Valen had about two seconds to say something to convince him otherwise because the silence was a judgment of its own.

He could not lie and say he was proud. He would not be honest and say he was horrified. With moments to spare and Rogan’s hand heavy on his shoulder, Valen managed to find one word that was true enough.

“You were very...efficient.”

It came out stiff as a salute. Barely a compliment at all. A meagre offering to the man who had quite possibly saved his life. But Evan beamed. Not the half-smile and the ducked head that normally followed any attempt at praise. Evan smiled and nodded sharply. Efficient. The word settled on him like a crown. Efficient - from the Captain himself.

Evan’s smile faded just enough for him to speak.

“Thank you, Captain,” he said and faced forward, carrying the word like a trophy into the night. Rogan’s hand patted Valen’s shoulder once, softer than before, and followed.

In the distance, the campfire of the billet camp was waiting, and so was the Commander.

[writingphoenix]

“And then things got a little unpleasant for a few years.”

“Dude, you were literally kidnapped and locked in a basement.”

“Yeah, and that was unpleasant.”

[jigglycrow]

Whump prompt #1

In a world where ownership over people is legal and commonplace, caretaker is happy that their family have never engaged in the practice.

Or so they thought…

Called to the reading of a beloved family member's will. Caretaker inherits whumpee who was owned, abused and hidden from the family by that family member. Now caretaker must deal with not only owning another person, but trying to reconcile the family member they knew and loved (or thought they did) and the horrors that have been done to whumpee.