This blog is dedicated to the living weapon trope, and meant to be a space to share love towards it! Here you'll find, assembled in one place, reblogs, prompts, featured writing of other people and the like.
You are also free to submit prompts, send posts my way or even do some self-promo. I'd be more than happy to put them here! The more the merrier.
Want something to read? Check the catalogue! (Lw whump recs)
As a disclaimer, this blog aims to have no undescribed images. The mod will do its best to provide ALT text for any original posts, and add on descriptions for any reblogged images as well.
About the mod: Sami/Letho, he/it/they pronouns. (Main: @cepheusgalaxy)
A narrative parallel I love: Whumpee seeing themselves in other objects/animals/etc that Caretaker interacts with.
-Caretaker gently carrying a spider or other creepy crawly out into the garden instead of squashing it gives the Whumpee who was always considered expendable a lump in their throat.
-Caretaker having a âscaryâ dog breed like a Pitt bull or Rottweiler but treating it like a pet and lapdog, loving on it instead of training it to attack. Living Weapon Whumpee watches hopefully from their spot standing guard as the dog lays its head in Caretakers lap.
-Caretaker fixing their old beater of a car instead of getting a new one, even though they could afford it, and the Whumpee who was replaced after get hurt/making a mistake/getting too old/etc feels a sense of overwhelming relief.
-Caretaker feeding and watching over a feral stray cat from a distance, never trying to trap it or get too close, just making sure itâs okay. Stoic/defiant Whumpee not letting themselves think about how that makes them feel. Also, if/when Caretaker has to catch and treat the stray because itâs gotten injured or sick, realizing that thatâs what Caretaker had been doing for them. They just were too scared to understand.
-Caretaker oiling and polishing their tools, putting them away carefully, taking pains that they were well taken care of and would last forever. Mentioning offhandedly that if you take care of your tools, theyâll take care of you. Slave Whumpee nodding emphatically, hoping that mindset extends to them as well.
-Caretaker tending their garden, trimming buds from flowering plants to keep the plant healthy instead just pretty, and Whumpee whoâs only ever been valued for their appearance feels less shame and guilt for âletting themselves goâ in recovery.
also tagging @living-weapons-blr (let me know if you want me to remove the tag!)
[Transcript start.
"The vessel is in an active state of degradation. It has lived past its purpose." Marina tilted her head. "Thanks to you. Why?"
Sunny half-chuckled, taken aback. "'Why', what?"
"Why do you continue to service it?"
Taking the time to think, she ran her hand along an older braze joint â much older, her companion guessed, based on the patina the years had given it. And how it looked much sloppier.
The Kintsugi was the first of her kind. As time weathered her hull they patched it with scrap; the dissimilar metals brazed together, golden. (Though Sunny liked to joke otherwise, it wasn't pure gold â the alloy consisted mostly of nickel and copper.) It had been used for violence. It had done so under a different name.
A cosy quiet stretched comfortably between them. Both former weapons shared an idea of the answer â of why exactly one would look after something when it could no longer complete the objective for which it was created.
Marina, too, reached for the joint. Their hands met and the gold joined them both: they felt it spreading through them, something deep-rooted beginning to mend.
Saying it out loud was unnecessary. In the field. not a breath could be wasted; especially if the mutual understanding was already clear. But they were decommissioned. The war was distant and done with. They could afford the luxury of speech.
Handler caring for Living Weapon as if they were any other tool
Washing and braiding their hair. More intricate braids to show off how compliant LW is
Ending training early because Handler knows where LWs limits are better than LW does.
LW gets hurt, and Handler fights anyone trying to send them back out into the field before they're fully healed up
Manhandling LW, showing a colleague all their specialties, comparing it with someone elses LW
Finding a new bruise on LW that they didn't put there and demanding to know where it came from. Punishing LW for not taking better care of themselves, don't they know how valuable they are?
"My last one was bigger but this one is so much faster."
Buying new "accessories" to make LW more lethal, brass knuckles, new knives, etc
Some of those accessories are surgical enhancements.
Piercings as accessories or badges showing Handlers accomplishments
Living weapon whumpee struggling with exercise during recovery. Everything from weight lifting to cardio reminds them of training. Even boxing or swimming stresses them out. Ironically even yoga seems to make them think thereâs a hidden expectation.
Whumpee is frustrated. Maybe they want to keep their physique, or maybe they donât but still want something to release energy. Theyâre absolutely fed up because nothing is working, everything sets them back in their progress and leaves them more stressed than before. Honestly theyâre close to giving up.
That is, until caretaker invites them to a party. Low stakes, surrounded by friends and family, not even a dress code. Cordial, even welcoming. Itâs in quarters but in a way thatâs not oppressing. Whumpee has a good time, better than they expected. A friend invites them to join an impromptu and sporadic dance lesson, and despite their nerves, whumpee agrees.
Whumpee finds themselves working up a bit of a sweat, dancing is challenging, in a good way. No one is judging, everyone is laughing even if they mess up. And for once, whumpee finds a way to release energy without feeling ordered to, or silently expected to be flawless.
Wanna know what's fun? A character who fits all three main roles in whump.
They are a whumper. They hurt a Whumpee without hesitation or restraint when ordered. They cause harm. Their hands firm and fast.
They are a caretaker. After the whump, they treat the injuries they caused and hold whumpee when they cry. They take care of whumpee. Their hands gentle and slow.
They are a whumpee. A well conditioned one under their whumper, who takes the bearings and manipulation. They receive harm until they're covered in scars. Their hands shake with pain.
A character who is all three. A vicious cycle they can never leave.
If you're a transgender teen and you're reading this, whether you're out and proud or still in the closet, certain or questioning, align your gender within a binary or the stars, you deserve to have a safe space to exist and explore your identity. I know the world is scary right now, but there are bright shining beacons of light to look towards in the thousands of us fighting alongside you to show you its not too late, it'll never be too late for you. You deserve to live and be your true, authentic self and transition in any way you deem fit.
Please don't give up yet. It can always get better.
I need more living weapons having crazy reflexes. catching shit, adjusting, deflecting, etc without flinching or even seeming to process what is going on. and like, in mundane ways specifically ! catching someone from falling or slipping, deflecting things, etc.
idk I've just been watching a lot of compilations of people having good or weird reflexes and I need to see / hear about this more with living weapons because they probably would have really excellent, if not superhuman, reflexes.
thinking about kaey having excellent reflexes. thinking about him being a parent and a pet owner and having those reflexes translate really well into caring for living things.
I think there's a lot you can do with it too. is the living weapon surprised ? are they embarrassed ?
I love this!! the casual hypercompetence in mundane situations...
I raise you: living weapon is sincerely perplexed at how clumsy and distracted everyone else is.
People find it somewhere between endearing and annoyingly smug of them. Until living weapon reacts utterly baffled at the notion anyone could *not* constantly be hyperaware of their surroundings and primed to react to every possible incoming danger at all times.
Their cool, excellent reflexes were always fueled by hypervigilance.
Sabre crash moment </3 bit of a thing that's been plaguing my daydreams for a while now
-> Espada Masterlist
[CWs: Living weapon whumpee, guns, emotional distress, implied power dynamic?]
He straightened both his arms forward, eyes open. They hadnât been blinking for a while.
Again, he thought, and the sound was instant. Deafening inside the chamber, explosive. A hole was made in the target.
Sabre aimed. Again.
The shot echoed just as intense as the previous one. Two centimeters off from the center. He held the grip tighter.
They were loud, and it was as if they made the place rumble. Nobody else was down here at the shooting ground at this hour to listen. Nobody but him. Again. And again. And again. Theyâd make him shiver, flinch, a while ago. By now it was mostly white noise buzzing in his ears.
Again.
Again.
The weaponâs fingers pressed on the trigger, mind tunneled into piercing the same hole heâd made an hour ago. The click was met with silence. His brain still took a while to catch up to it.
Oh, yes. Heâd just forgotten to refill.
Sabreâs movements were practiced, quick. He wasnât wasting a minute. Two went off in the following moment, then the third. He barely took a breath between it and the next. He angled the barrel to his target, gaze not at all leaving the spot. Glaring holes into it. If his hands were just as precise as his eyes, he thought, if only heâ
He fired again. The shot overpowered everything else. The explosive pop made him tense in response, that time.
He found him like that.
He hadnât really noticed at first. He was distracted. Several bullet cases were splayed on the ground. They tinkled when he moved his feet to adjust a stance. The revolver went off. Again. Again. And again.
A hand laid on his shoulder.
Sabreâs fingers stopped a second before pressing on the trigger.
From somewhere in the back of his senses, he heard an impressed whistle. Then silence. His ears still werenât used to that. It was wrong. He itched to shoot again.
Again.
âYouâve done quite a number here,â Juste said. Sabre drew a breath, the voice cutting through his other thoughts as if a knife through butter. Mr. Juste looked down at him from where heâd been facing the thoroughly perforated target across the chamber. The hand didnât leave. Justeâs voice was casual when he asked, âHow long have you been down here for?â
Handlerâs queries were always meant to be answered.
The weapon unhinged his jaw. Tried drawing a breath to answer. He realized he was panting. His throat felt painfully dry. He swallowed. Juste waited.
When he realized his weapon couldnât actually answer, he just sighed. Crossed his arms. âYou know,â he pointed out. âYour sleep schedule will get all messed up if you keep it up.â
The silence. It was louder than the firing had been. He swallowed again. âSorry. Sir.â
âItâs one in the morning,â he informed. âLower your gun.â
It took a secondâs hesitation. A secondâs hesitation he wouldâve been whipped for, if it was anyone else. If it was him on a bad day. When Sabre let his arms drop, he almost winced. He hadnât realized they were sore.
He hugged them and looked away. The muzzle of the gun radiated warmth near his skin.
Under the handlerâs gaze, he felt smaller. The cold was seeping in now that he had nothing to do.
He could still hear the phantom of the shots. The weapon sent another glance at the target heâd been aiming at through the night. A large constellation of piercings crowned the center, strays accumulating nearer the borders. One was almost catching the edge. He felt a surge of loathing. Juste held him by the shoulders once again.
âSabre. Look at me. Stop shivering.â
He flinched.
âSorry.â
âLook. At. Me.â
He did. He couldnât. He needed to fix it. His hands had gone to his sides, tense. The gun hung useless from his hand. Juste was looking into his eyes. âWeâre going to sleep. Understand?â
He drew another breath. His ears buzzed. âYes, sir.â
âGood.â He released the weapon from his touch. Sabreâs eyes were quick to drop to the ground. He didnât ever move. Mr. Juste took another look at the ravished target. A long one. The pause hurt. He couldnât stand it. He needed to break it, to do something useful. He needed to be better, he neededâ
âYou did good in here,â he remarked. âFor the amount of shots, thereâs very little misses. Thatâs striking even for you.â He glanced down at him. Added, âIn your state.â
Sabre let out a breath he didnât know he had been holding. He felt his eyes burn.
The feedback rang in the room, replacing the revolver. Good.
You did good.
He barely noticed it as the weapon was scooped from his hand. The fingers were tense, knuckles white. They relented under the familiar grip, pliable as if theyâd never been closed.
Juste landed it on the balcony. There had still been three bullets in the magazine.
âItâs enough for today. You can take a shower,â he said, âthen bed. Weâre going.â
Sabre blinked. He faced his handler, fists closed at the lack of something to hold. To arm himself with. To do his job.
We all know and love Living Weapon Whumpees who are scared to hurt the people who accepted them, their team for example.
But what about Whumpees that do NOT care about that. They just see it as collateral damage, something that is either worth it or not. Who doesn't really mourn the teammate that died because of a decision they made or because of friendly fire.
Whumpee who's spent a very long timeâmaybe even their entire lifeâin an environment where insults and obsenities were so typical that they don't see anything wrong with them. Until they unintentionally offend Caretaker and are very confused by their reaction.
Living weapon put off leash for the first time and they just do as told. They think they could run, but their feet won't move. Handler gives them an order and they go. And then they come back. For all their telling themselves that they'd bolt the second they could, their flawed, damaged flesh only knows obedience now.
the thing that makes conditioning so lovely is how hard it is to get rid off. how terrible it feels for whumpee to want to act differently, to maybe one time manage to resist it kind of only to succumb to it again and again and again and again. even years after the fact, because they were having a bad day, or feeling a little too much or for no other reasons than it was been beaten into them.
being able to consciously go against their conditioning but whenever their attention wanes? it's back to what they were taught.
All right, hold on â is there anyone in this room who wasn't grown in a tube by a shadowy quasi-governmental conspiracy as a living weapon? Anyone at all?
Knight with a house crest carved into their backs. An order where all members have their tongues pierced with a jewel that burns should they lie. Body modifications that are not even possible outside of fantasy.
disability pride month starts in less than a week so here's an early reminder to write IDs (image descriptions) so your posts are accessible to many groups of disabled people, especially those who are blind and use screen readers. here are resources to help with writing them if you need them
