most things are sorted in alphabetical order; anything that isn't is sorted by preference
my ao3
table of contents
about me
writing hashtags i use
general hashtags i use
fandoms i’m in
ongoing ask games
my actual writing
1. about me
hi, welcome to my blog! here's my whump intro if you wanna check that out
my name is reed and i use he/xe pronouns, you can regard me as a gay man. i write primarily, big on whump, lots of original fiction but plenty of fanfiction too. some reblogs, some art (my own and others'), some personal musings. generally inactive; i tend to come back in short bursts lol.
2. writing hashtags i use
#drabble — my drabbles
#fanfic — my fanfiction
#one shot — my one shots
#original writing — my original writing
#unfinished writing — my wips and abandoned pieces
#writing — my general writing
#writing tips — tips and other shit i learn while doing research
3. general hashtags i use
#art (progress) — my art (i'm a beginner)
#ask game — ask games
#headcanons — headcanons
#misc — literally everything else lol
#whump — whumpy stuff (mine and others')
4. fandoms i’m in
this isn’t a full list of the things i'm into, these are just the things i’d be willing to write for. feel free to send me prompts for anything on this list! the ones i’ve already written for are in italics.
“ongoing” meaning i don’t care if it’s been 3 days or 3 years, i will cherish literally every ask i get for any of these so feel free to request any prompt from any of these ask games! asks (for ask games or not) and submissions are always open and welcome :)
r/fanfiction trope bingo
bad things happen bingo
summer of whump
6. my actual writing
masterdoc (OUTDATED) for all the writing i've posted bc tumblr doesn't like too many links in one post. i dabble in all things depressing, sad, and angsty so have a look if you dare!
The hero sat in the visitation room. All other tables were empty.
The villain was led in by two guards, hands cuffed together, and then to the table as they sat him down across from the hero.
“You know why I’m here?” the hero asked.
“Because you missed my pretty face?” the villain retorted, humor lacking in his voice. He kept his eyes on his hands. Dark rings clung under his eyes, and he had a nasty cut on his lip. The hero had given him that, but… shouldn’t it be more healed up by now?
“I have questions,” the hero said.
“What food would I recommend from the prison cafeteria? Well, I-”
The villain coughed and winced, drawing in a sharp breath. He flexed his fingers, and the hero looked at his hands for the first time. All of his fingernails were either blackened or covered in bandages. The hero reached out to take his hand and examine them.
The villain yanked back suddenly, as far as the handcuffs would allow. He breathed raggedly and eyed the guard standing behind the hero. With a pained gulp, he laid his hands flat on the table. The hero followed his gaze.
For a moment, the villain was silent. The hero couldn’t tell if it was because he was considering the offer or if he couldn’t believe it. Then the villain let out a sour scoff. “Sure you will.”
“What? Of course I—”
“No, I know what you’re trying to do here, and I’m not falling for it,” he said, taking a step back, though it didn’t take him much farther away in the small room. He was eyeing the hero like he physically couldn’t tear his eyes away, like if he did, the hero would pounce. “I know you know what happened last time I tried to escape. I’m not falling for that again.”
“…I know you attacked a guard and tried to make off with his key,” the hero said slowly. Was there more to the story? “I wasn’t told what happened after that. Just that the situation had been handled.”
More silence. This time, it had to be because he was debating whether he believed him.
“Look, I won’t ask, I just—”
“You just want to look good to the press, don’t you?” the villain finally said, though there didn’t seem to be any real venom in his voice. Not like there used to be. “You just— you just want to brag about how… how righteous, or, or honorable, or fucking good you are. Saving the poor villain who doesn’t deserve your kindness because not even the worst of the worst deserve this, huh?”
“No, I—”
“I’m not falling for it,” he scowled. “I’m not your fucking charity case. I’m here for a reason.” Then, for the first time since he put his guard up, he looked away and mumbled something almost incoherent. “I’m reminded of it every single fucking day.”
“That reason isn’t good enough.” The hero tried to meet the villain’s eyes, tried to show him he meant it, but the villain wouldn’t look at him. “Nobody deserves this. This”—he gestured to the villain’s body, though the damage was covered by his shirt—“this is fucked up.”
The villain’s response was so soft the hero almost couldn’t hear it. “So am I.”
The hero shook his head. “Not like this.” He sighed. “You want to be punished for what you did, fine, I’ll beat your ass in front of the city again when you’re strong enough to take it. But only when you’re strong enough.”
recovering addict gets roofied and assaulted and has to call someone for help and convince them that no, they don't sound like this because they've relapsed, it's not like that, please believe them. while dancing around what actually happened bc they're so ashamed. and then the guilt of the person who they called once it becomes clear what actually happened
"Fuck!" he spits, and the jerky motion sends the world spinning around him. "Ah—" He reaches out blindly for something stable and finds the rough brick wall of the building next to him. One hand keeping him steady, the other clutching the phone to his ear, he lets the voicemail message run until it beeps. He sucks in a breath. "Hey—hey, hey, shit, um... C-Caretaker, can you, uh, you think you can come get me, right now? Or, you know, when—whenever you get this. I'm at, uh..."
"Are you on that shit again?"
He's squinting at the too-bright lights around him, still trying to find a street sign before he registers Caretaker's voice. "Uh... huh? What? On—on w..."
A loud groan comes through the phone and Whumpee's brain is too scrambled to figure out what he did wrong this time. "Are you serious man? I can't trust you to be out by yourself for one night without relapsing? Don't play dumb with me, what are you using this time—"
"No!" He blurts it out the moment he realizes what Caretaker thinks he's done. "No, no, 'm not, I didn't, this isn't—it's not that, this time, I'm not using again I swear! You gotta, b-believe me—"
"What is it then? What the hell happened?"
"I... I was..." No, he can't tell him that. He couldn't live with himself if Caretaker knew what he let happen to himself. "Can you jus'... come get me, please? I don't, I don't know where I... am..."
He sees them now, the green of the street signs, but he can't... can't read them. He can see the white lettering but it all blurs and jumbles together into an incomprehensible mush he can't make out. He can't focus his eyes, can't decipher the symbols and shapes.
He wants to cry. Maybe he'll be left here to die alone, disoriented and dazed on the ground. No one would come looking for him. "I don't know where I, where I am, please, can you—"
"Yes," Caretaker huffs through the phone, "okay, fine, I'm coming, I'm coming. You still have your location turned on?"
"I sh-should," he says, and shudders softly with relief. "I never, n-never would've t-turned it off, I know I do... dumb s-shit, I'm, I'm trying to..."
"Yeah." A few taps on a phone screen come through the line. "I see you. You're... Jesus, how'd you get all the way over there?"
He doesn't know. He doesn't know. He doesn't remember. "I don't, I don't know, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
"No, it's... it's okay. It's just gonna take me some time to get there. Twenty-five minutes, is that okay?"
"Yes," he nearly wails. Why is he so emotional? "Yes. Please. Jus'... I just wanna come ho-ome."
"Okay. Okay." He hears keys jingle, shoes shuffling, a door open and shut. Caretaker's car engine clicks, turns over, and roars to life. "Hang in there for twenty-five minutes, okay?"
"...Okay. Um. Can you—" He bites his tongue, hates the request he's about to make, but... "Can you, uhm... s-stay on the, the phone? Just... 'til you get here?"
The car idles. Amidst the rumbling of the engine, Caretaker exhales, a slow, heavy sigh. "Yeah. Just don't wander off. Stay right there. I'm coming."
hi y'all sorry i haven't been posting anything i'm still here
i recently finished breaking bad and watched el camino which had some INCREDIBLE jesse pinkman whump and that got me thinkin about dogs
CONTENT WARNINGS: man treated as a dog, brief choking + mention of choking, dehumanization, restraints
“He’s like… feral, or som’n. Rabid, even.”
Rabid? Feral? That's a human being. Stone still, expression blank, hunched in on himself—he looks docile. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, he’s on standby right now,” the man says. “But get ‘im riled up and, whoo! The bitch goes off like a firework. You got a cage for him, yeah? Wouldn’t trust ‘im around me while I’m asleep, that’s for sure.”
“Um. Yeah. I have a cage.” He has a dog cage. For dogs. He signed up for a dog. A human could fit in it, and he can’t just leave this guy here, but… he really doesn’t want to do that. “He has to be caged?”
“If ya like breathin’,” he says. He smacks the ‘dog’ on his back like the roof of a car he’s selling. “Believe me. Week into trynna train him off-leash, no cage at night or nothin’, the mutt tried to strangle me in my sleep. Ain’t that right boy?”
For the first time since being brought out, the boy speaks. “Yes sir.” His voice is low and rough, dry and brittle. His owner doesn’t so much as blink.
“Woke up to his grubby hands ‘round m’neck. That’s why I had to put this on ‘im.”
He hooks a finger under the collar around his neck and yanks it just enough to make him stumble and pull a choked noise from the back of his throat. The chain jangles, connecting the collar to the cuffs on his wrists, and he jerks his hands forward as if to catch himself but they only allow about a foot of movement and the chain pulls taut.
The man flashes a smile at Caretaker. “Don’t worry. Comes free with the purchase.”
He can't. He can't, he's trying, he's fucking trying. "I can't if you keep fucking spraying me!"
The hose is relentless, water hammering into him and filling all of his senses as he tries and tries to turn and keep his bound hands on the wall. Hoots and hollers rise above the white noise. "What was that, mutt?"
Shut up, Whumpee hisses at himself. Don't make this harder than it has to be, just keep your hands on the fucking wall.
The water stops. The sudden pressure change throws him off balance and he stumbles but he throws himself at the wall and puts his hands against it.
"I said, what did you just say, mutt?"
Fuck. Fuck, man, he's trying.
"I—I said—" Whumper walks up to him from behind, grabs him by the hair and yanks his head back so he's forced to look at him. "I—I s-said I, I couldn't, if you kept s-spraying me." His teeth are chattering, he's shaking so hard. The water is cold and he's fucking terrified. His hands, bound to his waist, pull their chains as taut as they go.
"That's not what you said," Whumper snarls, and his grip on Whumpee's hair gets tighter. "What were the fucking words you said to me, mutt?"
Fuck. Fuck. "I s-said, I said..." He has to say it. "I-I said 'I can't if you keep f-f... fucking s-spraying me'."
In one quick, confident motion, Whumper smashes Whumpee's face into the wall, and lets his head bounce off of it.
Whumpee sees black. His world goes upside down for a moment, stars in the corners of his vision.
“You don't talk to me like that.” Whumper's voice is all he can process. “Understand?”
“Yeah,” he pants breathlessly, clinging to the words like a lifeline, “yes, I understand. I-I won't, w-won’t do it again.”
“Good.”
Mercifully, he lets go of Whumpee's hair. His scalp aches where the hair’s been yanked too hard. With big eyes, a deer in headlights, he watches as Whumper backs up and looks back at his crew. There’s an inexplicable tension in the air now.
“Oh, look at what you've done. Ruined all the fun,” Whumper snaps at him.
Whumpee doesn't have it in him to say anything. “S-sorry.”
listened to some twenty one pilots i hadn't heard before and felt inspired ehehe
this isn't super finished nor polished but i wanted to get it out there!! so here it is, for your enjoyment :)
CONTENT WARNINGS: hero bad caretaker/villain whumpee, power tripping, reluctantly defiant whumpee, minor physical violence/fight, threat of restraints, gun, near suicide attempt, suicidal ideation
"you have no plans for me
i will set my soul on fire
what have i become?"
ode to sleep - twenty øne piløts
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
Villain’s heart pounds in his chest. He stands firm. “I-I’m not—I'm not going downstairs. Not all night. No.”
Hero looks like he actually isn't quite sure how to respond. His eyes widen just a little in surprise and it scares Villain just a bit. He scoffs, amused. “Huh. Ballsy today, are you?”
“No,” Villain denies uselessly. This isn't fucking funny anymore. “No, I just… I'm supposed to be kept in my room, I don't wanna… be outside of it overnight.”
It's a transparent lie. He’s Villain, he doesn't care about the rules he's supposed to follow. He just really, really doesn't want to spend the night shackled in the basement.
“You don't need to be in your room, you just need to be secured, and that's what the cuffs are for.” He’s grossly flippant about it; it makes Villain shudder, how little he seems to care. “I'll chain you to a pipe and it'll be perfectly legal.”
“I-I don't… want to do that,” he tries.
“What makes you think you have a say in the matter?”
Villain cringes. Hero is establishing his dominance.
Hero is disgustingly smug about Villain’s silence. “This is a punishment, Villain. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you this is what you get for acting up. You're going down there and spending the night.”
“No,” Villain says, and he starts scanning for an exit route.
“Are we really gonna do this the hard way?”
Alarm bells ring in his head. This is about to get violent.
Villain makes a run for the door.
He makes it two steps out of the room before Hero tackles him. They crash to the floor—Hero reacts to the impact before Villain does and panic washes over him as Hero grabs at his wrists to cuff them together. Villain puts up a fight even behind his back, wrenching away and trying to buck Hero off, but facedown his bad angle makes the struggle futile still.
Until he throws a blind punch and his knuckles collide with cold, weighted metal.
This time he reacts first—he tears it from Hero’s belt and swings it into him as hard as he can manage.
It’s weighted and it’s solid. Hero is knocked back enough to ease his weight off of Villain and Villain takes the opportunity to scramble away. Then he registers the gun in his hands and by pure instinct, points it.
“Whoa,” Hero says and his eyes are wide now. “Shit, man. Don’t—don’t do that.”
Villain’s hands are shaking so hard they can hear the gunmetal rattling in the tense silence. He's in so much trouble. He’s in so much trouble. The more he thinks about it, he can hardly breathe… he can’t, he can’t—
He turns the gun toward himself and switches off the safety.
“Whoa, hey! No. Don’t, do not, Villain, I swear,” Hero says, and this time there’s real panic in his voice. “Don’t fucking do that. I didn’t… it doesn't have to be this way. Breathe.”
“Don’t put me in the basement,” Villain tries his very best not to plead, but it comes out that way anyway.
Fuck.
Fuck. Damn.
He's so scared of that basement. He would rather die than let Hero put him down there. He would rather be dead.
“Okay. Okay, no basement tonight,” Hero concedes. “Just put the fucking gun down, would you?”
Villain cringes at the swear, thinks that if he pulls the trigger now he won't have to face Hero’s anger later.
“Sorry. My bad. Just… put the gun down, please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing, praying that he finds a way out of this. Then he sets the gun on the floor and slides it away and braces himself. “Sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry.”
Hero is Hero. He's a hero. He'll be merciful, whatever he does. Heroes are too soft to be anything but.
Hero stands up and starts walking toward him and Villain cringes, turns away, and shuts his eyes.
His footsteps stop. Metal drags on the floor and clinks in Hero’s hand. Then the footsteps approach him.
Please. Please. “I'm sorry—”
He can't catch his breath. Is the gun still in his hand? Is Hero about to execute him? He can't bring himself to look—just stays there on the floor with his eyes shut, braced for whatever Hero is going to do to him.
“Villain. Calm down.”
He can't. He can't. The fear tastes sour, bubbling in the back of his throat. He chokes on his despair and a sob escapes him. Fuck. He's crying.
“Villain. Hey. Come on.” His voice gets closer now and Villain hears him shuffling onto the floor in front of him. “Listen to me. I'm not gonna hurt you. Calm down. There's… there's nothing to be scared about. I’m not putting you in the basement. Okay? You hear me?”
It's humiliating, crying on the floor, being talked down to like a child, but the reassurance helps. He sniffles and exhales and wills open his watery eyes. Hero does not look mad. He looks worried. Villain looks away.
“...Sorry,” he manages to rasp out. “Sorry I… did that. I wasn't thinking, I, I just… fuck.”
“Yeah,” is all Hero says to that. “Sorry I, uh, did that too.”
beginnings of a suicidal ideation sambucky (marvel) one shot? dunno i was just on a bit of a suicidal ideation kick for a bit lol, felt inspiring? wip, readable fandom-blind
Sometimes he wonders if someone should take away his gun.
His fingers are itching for it. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull drawing his hand to the metal. He does not move. He worries what he’ll do if he does.
There’s a knock at the door. He jumps, just a little, hackles raised. He doesn’t respond though, and wills them to go away.
Another knock. Then, “Buck, you in there?”
It’s Sam. His stomach sinks. He doesn’t really know why. Sam is good to him. But Sam has also been messaging his phone every day, and Bucky has been watching the screen light up and then turning it off.
“I know you're in there, Barnes. I can hear the fan.”
He forgot that thing was even running; that it was not, in fact, just noise in his head.
“Look, I'll give you space if you want it. I just gotta make sure you're alive,” Sam says, and there's a tinge of something sad in his voice. When Bucky doesn't answer—just sits there, eyes rested upon the gun on the table—Sam follows up. “Just like, yell back, or text me, or something. Otherwise I’m picking the lock. Cool?”
On the other side of the door, Sam digs in his pocket for his pick and tension wrench, because Bucky is a stubborn motherfucker and he’s not gonna respond. The lock clicks sooner than he expects—Bucky has a shitty, pickable lock?
“Hey, man, you really gotta get better locks on this door,” Sam says and pushes the door in.
It catches on the chain, and comes to a dead stop with 2 inches of leeway.
“Try and pick that,” Bucky says.
Sam scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Touché. Let me in, would ya?”
Bucky sits and sighs at the mere prospect of getting up. Then he sighs again, loud and dramatic, and grunts as he stands and makes his way to the door.
“Thank you,” Sam says curtly, after Bucky undoes the latch.
He walks in, past Bucky, into his shitty little studio apartment, and the first thing that stands out to him is the gun on the table.
Neither of them say a word. Sam does not comment. He looks around, pretending to take in the familiar surroundings.
“Like what you've done with the place,” Sam says.
“Thanks,” Bucky says, with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.
recently experienced detroit: become human again and man, hk400's story was so whumpy. here's a snippet of my rendition of one of his memories, written with a few personal headcanons of mine lol
p.s. perfectly readable fandom-blind!
content warnings: explicit physical and verbal abuse, beating with an object, android/machine whumpee, light begging
Head down. Hands down.
"Eyes up."
It's funny. It's the one thing he can never force himself to do.
"Look at me. Look me in the eye right fucking now."
Sir orders it with danger in his tone and HK400 knows better than absolutely anything else that orders are not optional, but while he can mechanically lock his joints in place, he can't ever overcome the terror of looking up.
Sir smacks him left, then right. "Look me in the fucking eye or I swear to god—"
He can't bear to have to see what's coming next. He just can't. The anticipation kills him.
Sir grabs him by his synthetic hair and yanks his head back. Then, his proprioceptors and accelerometers register being abruptly slammed into the hard table he's sat at, but for some reason his optical units don't register a thing. When he comes back up, he can feel the magnets in his plastic cranium shifted loose.
"Get up."
He's... dizzy, that's what humans call it. When they're disoriented and unbalanced and can't see straight. His sensors need a second to recalibrate but he needs to... he needs to get up.
He operates his limbs blindly and manages to rise to his feet without tipping over. Once up, he assumes his position—straight up 'like a man,' hands down by his sides—and the momentary relief from being hit allows his hardware to reset into place. He can read the information his optical units are sending him again.
Sir picks something up. He recognizes the sound immediately, and then he looks up for the first time with a new kind of fear and Sir starts toward him with the bat.
"Now c'mere, you piece of shit," he growls and winds up the first swing. "I'll teach you to look me in the fucking eye."
"No. Please. Please—"
It's all he can say. The bat knocks him backward a step, two, and then he's smacked into the counter.
whump community leaves the most excited and sweet comments in the tags, always tickles me when an old post suddenly makes the rounds again and I get an unexpected dose of other people's joy in my notes
aarghrg wow remembered i have this three year old birthday series and only posted part 3 (i wrote this series backwards) so here is part 2 of 3! part one still pending lol
A shoe lands in his ribs and he yelps. “Tell me. What day is it?”
“Please,” he whimpers. “Please, sir, not today.”
“Still so disobedient.” He nudges Whumpee’s side with his foot to roll him onto his stomach. “But it’s okay. I’ll let it slide just for today. It’s your birthday, after all.”
Rolling over twists the rope around his wrists so it has no give but his wrists are already rubbed raw and red. The stone floor is cold against his bare stomach and he shivers.
“Let’s see. What will my birthday gift to you be? Birthday punches are a little outdated, don’t you think?” Whumper asks, but he doesn’t want an answer. “Lashes are overdone. Today’s a special occasion; I want to switch it up.”
“No, please,” he whines and doesn’t even care how pathetic he sounds. He just wants a day of peace, just one day. “Please don’t, please, I-I just— I just want a break, please.”
“Keep complaining and you’re getting whipped anyway,” Whumper snaps.
He kicks him in the side for emphasis and Whumpee cries out. “I’m s-sorry! I’m sorry!”
“Shut it.”
Whumper thinks for a bit. And then, just because he can, he kneels down and tangles a fist in Whumpee’s hair and yanks his head up from where he’s facedown on the floor.
“Maybe I’ll mark up your pretty little face,” he says, “write a digit on each cheek.” He traces the numbers on Whumpee’s face like he’s imagining them there already. Whumpee twitches uncomfortably. “I like that idea, don’t you?”
“No!” He shakes his head as hard as he can with the weight of his upper body suspended by Whumper’s hand. “No, no, don’t, please!” He doesn’t know how deep Whumper could cut before stabbing through his cheek into his mouth, or if Whumper would do that intentionally. He doesn’t want to find out. It would hurt to eat or drink or talk or beg and those are all the things he has left.
“...Hm. You’re right,” he frowns and lets Whumpee’s head drop harshly to the floor, chin knocking on the concrete. “Just a carving wouldn’t be enough. Not for the way you’ve been behaving.” He stands. “Let’s do shocks with the cattle prod, one for each year, and finish it off with a carving in your back. I do know how much you love the cattle prod. You’ve had long enough to heal from your last whipping.”
“No! No, no, please! Please!” He tries to twist his head over his shoulder, eyes locked on Whumper making his way to the instrument table, but his neck aches already and of course Whumper would choose the one punishment he hates the most, of course he’d be this determined to make him hurt today. He should’ve shut up from the start. He should’ve just begged for a beating instead.
Somewhere behind him the cattle prod switches on and he jumps though it's nowhere near him yet. But it stays on and he can hear it coming closer, Whumper’s footsteps advancing.
“Please! Please, please, no!” Whumper kicks him onto his back again. Now he can see the electrified cattle prod in his hand as he lowers it to Whumpee’s skin. “No, nonono—!”
“Count.”
The prongs connect with his flesh and rip a scream from his throat, cutting off his incoherent pleads for mercy. He writhes desperately, trying to buck it off or pull his hands down to protect his bare body, but he only manages to flop on the floor uselessly as he twists in his bonds. The cattle prod is taken away but his fingers won't stop twitching and his insides burn with electricity.
“I said count.”
“One! One! Please, I-I'll do anything! Please, sir, please, anything but the cattle prod, anything! Please!” There's a buzz in his ears; he can't tell if it's from the mental shock or the physical one. He can't endure this all the way through. He'll pass out first, he's sure of it.
“You're in no position to negotiate with me, not with the way you've been acting,” Whumper snaps and hits him with the deactivated prod. He winces and fails to curl in on himself. “You’re lucky it's your birthday. Otherwise I'd give you a separate punishment for your disobedience. But let's consider this to be your punishment, hm?”
As much as he hates the cattle prod, hates how it pokes his flesh and fries his nerves, he'd rather only be shocked and cut into than also get whipped. He'd be getting whipped over the fresh carving and Whumper would delight in his terror at that fact. “Y-yes sir. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.”
“Let's see how sorry you really are. Can’t just listen to me until I have to beat the disobedience out of you.”
The electrified cattle prod digs sharply into his side and he screams. “A-ah! Two! I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I-I won't ask again, please, I swear, I swear!”
Whumper leaves it on for a little bit longer, then shuts it off. “Mm. That's better. But I want to hear some more ‘sir’s. You're getting too comfortable asking me for things. Mercy isn't given to disrespectful pets, you know.”
It comes back on without warning and he yelps in surprise, then cries out as his veins burn inside him. “S-sir! Sir! I m-meant— I meant sir! Please, please sir it's too much, I c-can’t, I can't—”
“I told you to count.”
The cattle prod is lifted, only to stab at his stomach instead and now the pain radiates out from his center. “T-three, four! Four, sir, th-that was, was four—”
“Three,” he snaps. “Moving it didn't count. You should've counted from the start.”
“I'm sorry,” he sobs as it's turned off. “I'm sorry, sir, please, please…”
“Please what? What could you possibly want from me this time?”
“Mercy, please, sir, mercy...” He can’t do this anymore, he just can't. He’s going to die. Whumper will fry his brain for daring to beg to be allowed to live.
“You forfeited any mercy I might've had when you decided to be a brat today,” he says. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you happy I'm with you on your birthday? Not like anyone else would want to be.”
He turns the cattle prod back on. “No, no, please, sir, I am! I am happy!”
“What did I say?”
He racks his brain between screams— what did he do wrong?— before realizing. “F-four, four!
“That's better.” It turns off. But never for long enough.
And the cycle repeats, Whumpee’s voice growing more and more hoarse with every desperate scream for mercy until it dissolves into incoherent babbling. His mouth forms the right numbers but his mind lost track hours, days, months ago.
He doesn't fully register when the pain stops. His insides still vibrate with shock. Only Whumper’s voice brings him back to reality with the instinctive need to listen and obey before he makes things worse. “And now what do you say?”
“...Th-th-tha… thank you, s-sir,” he breathes.
“Good.” He sets the cattle prod down on the floor. “And now for the finishing touch.”
What?
Whumper rolls him into his back and sits on top of him. He thought he was done. Wasn’t he?
In the corner of his eye he catches a glint of metal.
He forgot. He forgot. “No— no, please, please!”
The knife stabs into his back and he swears he’s going to lose his voice, he can feel the blood oozing out of the crevice and old whip and stab wounds being torn open again. And then Whumper drags it around and down his back and he can’t fucking take it anymore but bucking and wriggling and struggling does nothing— Whumper’s weight on him is too much and he’s too weak, too starved to fight in any meaningful way. He’s just digging the blade further into his flesh.
For a moment, the knife is pulled out. Whumper clicks his tongue in satisfaction. “There’s one.” Then he shifts on top of him. “Now for the other.”
His vision goes white with agony and he’s just too tired to fight anymore, his screams breaking off into pure desperate sobs. His face is streaked with tears as he goes limp and lets his forehead hit the ground. He wishes he could just pass out but his body doesn’t grant him that mercy and Whumper wouldn’t allow it regardless.
He doesn’t realize it’s over until Whumper’s weight lifts off of him and he cries harder when he wipes the blood off to admire his work.
“Look at that. Now you’ll never forget which birthday you spent with me,” he says. He kneels down and lifts Whumpee’s head by his hair, forces him to look at Whumper. “Happy birthday, pet.”
“Th…” He chokes on a sob but he has to get the words out. “...ank you. Th-thank you, s-sir.”
recently experienced detroit: become human again and man, hk400's story was so whumpy. here's a snippet of my rendition of one of his memories, written with a few personal headcanons of mine lol
p.s. perfectly readable fandom-blind!
content warnings: explicit physical and verbal abuse, beating with an object, android/machine whumpee, light begging
Head down. Hands down.
"Eyes up."
It's funny. It's the one thing he can never force himself to do.
"Look at me. Look me in the eye right fucking now."
Sir orders it with danger in his tone and HK400 knows better than absolutely anything else that orders are not optional, but while he can mechanically lock his joints in place, he can't ever overcome the terror of looking up.
Sir smacks him left, then right. "Look me in the fucking eye or I swear to god—"
He can't bear to have to see what's coming next. He just can't. The anticipation kills him.
Sir grabs him by his synthetic hair and yanks his head back. Then, his proprioceptors and accelerometers register being abruptly slammed into the hard table he's sat at, but for some reason his optical units don't register a thing. When he comes back up, he can feel the magnets in his plastic cranium shifted loose.
"Get up."
He's... dizzy, that's what humans call it. When they're disoriented and unbalanced and can't see straight. His sensors need a second to recalibrate but he needs to... he needs to get up.
He operates his limbs blindly and manages to rise to his feet without tipping over. Once up, he assumes his position—straight up 'like a man,' hands down by his sides—and the momentary relief from being hit allows his hardware to reset into place. He can read the information his optical units are sending him again.
Sir picks something up. He recognizes the sound immediately, and then he looks up for the first time with a new kind of fear and Sir starts toward him with the bat.
"Now c'mere, you piece of shit," he growls and winds up the first swing. "I'll teach you to look me in the fucking eye."
"No. Please. Please—"
It's all he can say. The bat knocks him backward a step, two, and then he's smacked into the counter.
watched el camino, which is a movie entirely about jesse pinkman's whump-filled life in slavery and captivity, and really loved this flashback scene... so i wrote it out from jesse's perspective >:)
He stares. Like he doesn’t believe it’s real. Like it can’t be there.
He takes a breath, and when he sways the sunlight glints off the metal.
Take it. Take it, you bitch, fucking run!
He can’t. Can he? That gun is freedom, freedom from this hell, but… he’s not allowed.
“You find ‘em?”
Todd’s voice calls from the back of the car. The smokes. The box is next to the gun. Jesse’s heart pounds.
Fuck it.
His dirty callused fingers grasp the cool gunmetal and he pulls back out of the passenger side window, letting the weight drop to his side. He can put an end to this.
Todd stands and turns toward him. Jesse holds his gaze on the ground, submissive, defensive, but he can feel the way Todd’s eyebrows furrow when his eyes lock onto the gun and it makes his heart jump with terror. He grips the gun harder.
Todd holds a hand out. “I’ll be taking that, Jesse.”
Do it.
No. No, don’t. Todd can’t make him hand it over. Jesse holds the power. This gun is power. He won’t let it go.
Todd steps toward him. Jesse steps back. Next to the fear, his rage bubbles up like lava, its angry tendrils snaking around him and tingling in his fingertips. He breathes; in, out. Steady grip. He’ll have one shot, and he'll make it count.
“Jesse, I’ll… I’ll take that,” Todd tries again, and it feels powerful to move away when he steps closer a second time.
Now, Todd’s face falls. Anxiety swirls in his chest knowing how bad he's being, how disobedient, saying no. Refusing. But that won't matter once Todd is dead.
Todd closes his empty hand. Then he starts another one of his stupid, awkward, clumsy rambles, and Jesse knows he’s about to get played.
It's over.
“Pepperoni,” he rasps, and admits defeat.
His arms fall weak to his sides, and his fingers go lax. Slowly, numbly, he holds out the gun and surrenders his freedom. His watery eyes remain locked on the ground as he chokes down his sobs. Todd’s fingers gently nudge his and then take the gun away.
He feels so stupid. So fucking stupid.
Shame burns his cheeks and he hides his face as Todd tucks the gun away. He doesn’t want Todd to see him. He just stands there, frozen with horror and despair, and sobs quietly to himself like a fucking idiot. It's all he can do.
Todd shifts his weight and turns to Jesse, then steps forward.
Jesse’s breath catches and he steps back. His feet move on their own, without a thought for anything more than the fear wracking his body. Then he’s suddenly viscerally aware that he must be in so much trouble and he forces his feet still as Todd nears him. “S-sorry,” he chokes out between sniffles and hunches in on himself. He feels like a turtle receding into his shell. Todd doesn’t hit him.
Todd never really hits him, anyway. He touches and directs. It's his Uncle Jack who's gonna beat the shit out of him.
Todd puts his hand on Jesse’s back and his entire body feels like jello as he trembles and allows himself to be maneuvered. Todd talks about something or other and Jesse nods and agrees through tears that won't stop trickling out. He thinks about that pepperoni pizza. A six pack, couple of cold beers. If he's lucky Todd will let him have most of them out of pity. He’s so fucking hungry, he could probably devour at least one whole pizza.
“Alright. Come on,” Todd says, and it snaps him out of his thoughts because it registers as a command. “Close the trunk. Funeral’s over. Gotta get back.”
Todd rounds the car to the driver’s door and gets in. Through blurry eyes Jesse shuffles to the trunk, shuts it, and gets in the passenger seat.
beginnings of a suicidal ideation sambucky (marvel) one shot? dunno i was just on a bit of a suicidal ideation kick for a bit lol, felt inspiring? wip, readable fandom-blind
Sometimes he wonders if someone should take away his gun.
His fingers are itching for it. It’s like there’s a magnetic pull drawing his hand to the metal. He does not move. He worries what he’ll do if he does.
There’s a knock at the door. He jumps, just a little, hackles raised. He doesn’t respond though, and wills them to go away.
Another knock. Then, “Buck, you in there?”
It’s Sam. His stomach sinks. He doesn’t really know why. Sam is good to him. But Sam has also been messaging his phone every day, and Bucky has been watching the screen light up and then turning it off.
“I know you're in there, Barnes. I can hear the fan.”
He forgot that thing was even running; that it was not, in fact, just noise in his head.
“Look, I'll give you space if you want it. I just gotta make sure you're alive,” Sam says, and there's a tinge of something sad in his voice. When Bucky doesn't answer—just sits there, eyes rested upon the gun on the table—Sam follows up. “Just like, yell back, or text me, or something. Otherwise I’m picking the lock. Cool?”
On the other side of the door, Sam digs in his pocket for his pick and tension wrench, because Bucky is a stubborn motherfucker and he’s not gonna respond. The lock clicks sooner than he expects—Bucky has a shitty, pickable lock?
“Hey, man, you really gotta get better locks on this door,” Sam says and pushes the door in.
It catches on the chain, and comes to a dead stop with 2 inches of leeway.
“Try and pick that,” Bucky says.
Sam scoffs. “Yeah, okay. Touché. Let me in, would ya?”
Bucky sits and sighs at the mere prospect of getting up. Then he sighs again, loud and dramatic, and grunts as he stands and makes his way to the door.
“Thank you,” Sam says curtly, after Bucky undoes the latch.
He walks in, past Bucky, into his shitty little studio apartment, and the first thing that stands out to him is the gun on the table.
Neither of them say a word. Sam does not comment. He looks around, pretending to take in the familiar surroundings.
“Like what you've done with the place,” Sam says.
“Thanks,” Bucky says, with the enthusiasm of a dead fish.
hmm. been rather into boys getting beaten lately. here's a little snippet of a boy getting lightly beaten from a wip i'm still working on
content warnings: dubcon (compliant whumpee), switching/caning, vague bdsm undertones (but not explicitly nsfw), punishment, fear i guess? lol
"Fuck... fuck."
Whumpee breathes out his terror in sharp, quiet gasps. Just the fucking sound of the switch, the swooshing in the air and the tapping in Whumper's palm, sends a paralyzing fear down his spine. When he hears that sound he knows all too well the pain that comes after.
"Twenty," Whumper says, and Whumpee's breath hitches because oh god but sickening gratitude bubbles in his chest that it isn't worse. He remembers getting worse. Whumper is reasonable sometimes, even merciful sometimes, and Whumpee is learning to be grateful that it just isn't going to be worse. "You're going to count each strike and address me as Sir."
"Yes sir," Whumpee grits out. This is okay. He'll survive it. It won't kill him no matter how bad it hurts. He tenses his muscles anxiously.
The switch whooshes through the air and he whimpers. It doesn't land.
Then it whooshes again, and it strikes him across the thighs. He yelps and twitches but it's not so bad. His heart pounds anyway. He exhales.
listened to some twenty one pilots i hadn't heard before and felt inspired ehehe
this isn't super finished nor polished but i wanted to get it out there!! so here it is, for your enjoyment :)
CONTENT WARNINGS: hero bad caretaker/villain whumpee, power tripping, reluctantly defiant whumpee, minor physical violence/fight, threat of restraints, gun, near suicide attempt, suicidal ideation
"you have no plans for me
i will set my soul on fire
what have i become?"
ode to sleep - twenty øne piløts
“No.”
“What?”
“No.”
Villain’s heart pounds in his chest. He stands firm. “I-I’m not—I'm not going downstairs. Not all night. No.”
Hero looks like he actually isn't quite sure how to respond. His eyes widen just a little in surprise and it scares Villain just a bit. He scoffs, amused. “Huh. Ballsy today, are you?”
“No,” Villain denies uselessly. This isn't fucking funny anymore. “No, I just… I'm supposed to be kept in my room, I don't wanna… be outside of it overnight.”
It's a transparent lie. He’s Villain, he doesn't care about the rules he's supposed to follow. He just really, really doesn't want to spend the night shackled in the basement.
“You don't need to be in your room, you just need to be secured, and that's what the cuffs are for.” He’s grossly flippant about it; it makes Villain shudder, how little he seems to care. “I'll chain you to a pipe and it'll be perfectly legal.”
“I-I don't… want to do that,” he tries.
“What makes you think you have a say in the matter?”
Villain cringes. Hero is establishing his dominance.
Hero is disgustingly smug about Villain’s silence. “This is a punishment, Villain. I'm not asking you, I'm telling you this is what you get for acting up. You're going down there and spending the night.”
“No,” Villain says, and he starts scanning for an exit route.
“Are we really gonna do this the hard way?”
Alarm bells ring in his head. This is about to get violent.
Villain makes a run for the door.
He makes it two steps out of the room before Hero tackles him. They crash to the floor—Hero reacts to the impact before Villain does and panic washes over him as Hero grabs at his wrists to cuff them together. Villain puts up a fight even behind his back, wrenching away and trying to buck Hero off, but facedown his bad angle makes the struggle futile still.
Until he throws a blind punch and his knuckles collide with cold, weighted metal.
This time he reacts first—he tears it from Hero’s belt and swings it into him as hard as he can manage.
It’s weighted and it’s solid. Hero is knocked back enough to ease his weight off of Villain and Villain takes the opportunity to scramble away. Then he registers the gun in his hands and by pure instinct, points it.
“Whoa,” Hero says and his eyes are wide now. “Shit, man. Don’t—don’t do that.”
Villain’s hands are shaking so hard they can hear the gunmetal rattling in the tense silence. He's in so much trouble. He’s in so much trouble. The more he thinks about it, he can hardly breathe… he can’t, he can’t—
He turns the gun toward himself and switches off the safety.
“Whoa, hey! No. Don’t, do not, Villain, I swear,” Hero says, and this time there’s real panic in his voice. “Don’t fucking do that. I didn’t… it doesn't have to be this way. Breathe.”
“Don’t put me in the basement,” Villain tries his very best not to plead, but it comes out that way anyway.
Fuck.
Fuck. Damn.
He's so scared of that basement. He would rather die than let Hero put him down there. He would rather be dead.
“Okay. Okay, no basement tonight,” Hero concedes. “Just put the fucking gun down, would you?”
Villain cringes at the swear, thinks that if he pulls the trigger now he won't have to face Hero’s anger later.
“Sorry. My bad. Just… put the gun down, please.”
He squeezes his eyes shut, wishing, praying that he finds a way out of this. Then he sets the gun on the floor and slides it away and braces himself. “Sorry. Fuck. I'm sorry.”
Hero is Hero. He's a hero. He'll be merciful, whatever he does. Heroes are too soft to be anything but.
Hero stands up and starts walking toward him and Villain cringes, turns away, and shuts his eyes.
His footsteps stop. Metal drags on the floor and clinks in Hero’s hand. Then the footsteps approach him.
Please. Please. “I'm sorry—”
He can't catch his breath. Is the gun still in his hand? Is Hero about to execute him? He can't bring himself to look—just stays there on the floor with his eyes shut, braced for whatever Hero is going to do to him.
“Villain. Calm down.”
He can't. He can't. The fear tastes sour, bubbling in the back of his throat. He chokes on his despair and a sob escapes him. Fuck. He's crying.
“Villain. Hey. Come on.” His voice gets closer now and Villain hears him shuffling onto the floor in front of him. “Listen to me. I'm not gonna hurt you. Calm down. There's… there's nothing to be scared about. I’m not putting you in the basement. Okay? You hear me?”
It's humiliating, crying on the floor, being talked down to like a child, but the reassurance helps. He sniffles and exhales and wills open his watery eyes. Hero does not look mad. He looks worried. Villain looks away.
“...Sorry,” he manages to rasp out. “Sorry I… did that. I wasn't thinking, I, I just… fuck.”
“Yeah,” is all Hero says to that. “Sorry I, uh, did that too.”
