What kind of whump I'm into and what you'll find in my blog
If you're new to this, whump is a sub genre with close focus on suffering and how the character processeses it. Be warned.
I like:
Stoic whumpee. Never truly breaks. Could be defiant, could be compliant, but always unbreakable. Spirit, will, bravery, endurance, determination.
Mostly physical whump. Comfort is optional. Caretaking is optional. The only emotional whump I like is guilt whump, when Whumpee is going through the redemption arc.
Male whumpee. Other genders just don't do it for me.
Morally superior whumpee. He always have some kind of a moral high ground over the Whumper. Honorable purpose, inner moral code, protecting others. If it's a guilt arc, then the moral high ground comes from full ownership and accepting the consequences. No excuses, no mercy for himself.
Unhumiliateable. If put in a humiliating position, he acts with grace and dignity—more to respect him for. Or pretends to be humiliated to trick the Whumper.
Genitals, piss, feces, vomit, spitting on whumpee. Just my personal ew.
MASTERLIST
Artwork
1 2 3 4
Writing
June 31st
Finished. SWAT operative surrenders to a criminal gang, sacrificing himself for the hostages. Sci-fi, futuristic setting. Stoic, defiant, unbroken whumpee. Whumpee in the beginning Whumpee being tortured
Whumper livestreams the torture for like-minded sadists. For each donation they must get a sound out of whumpee. Unfortunately, this new guy is truly stoic. Donations keep coming for a while, Whumper struggles to deliver. Then the money flow slows down and eventually stops. Then the viewers one by one log out.
And then Whumper, enraged, quits the elaborate torture and resorts to plain and stupid beating
Content: unbroken whumpee, resque, recovery, torture aftermath, a little bit of team dynamics, happy ending.
“I’m waiting!” 31st hears Muzzle yell. The asshole raises his arm and looks around for the hostage.
Domenic’s heart lights up with hope. He has an idea, brilliant and ridiculous—just right for an idealistic baby. He didn’t see anyone in the corridors on their way back to the platform. Wherever the nearest motherfucker is, they couldn’t get to the hostage woman before the SWAT arrives. He has a shot. He actually has a shot!
31st puts his head through the collar, facing the inner chest plates. The neurosensitive field of the suit links to his neck at the spine. Hardly anyone did this upside down, but why should the field care?
He can’t see Muzzle. He can’t aim, but… The suit has some recognition systems.
Domenic sends a non-verbal command—as these are the fastest—find and destroy the nearest firearm.
A distinct sound of a paralyzer shot to the concrete—its last one—followed by a scream. Some weapons have a nasty habit of shooting when they get shot. Muzzle should’ve kept the hostage at a gunpoint.
Find and destroy two nearest radio signal sources.
The tracker and the pocket radio are gone. Bye-bye, birdie. You served me well. Screams turn into screeches: “My fucking arms!” Domenic laughs and finally falls to his side. He doesn’t even bother to get his head out of the suit.
Muzzle vomits profanities. Then heavy boots start thundering all around, and the platform vibrates under 31st. Shooting and screaming quickly moves somewhere underground, away from him.
“That’s some way to wear a suit!” he hears a familiar chuckle as the footsteps approach him. “Why’d you even…” Bert takes the suit off Domenic’s head and gasps quietly. “Holy fuck, dude.”
31st smiles and gets another “Holy fuck” out of 30th.
“Don’t look at me, papi, I have a bad makeup day.” The immense relief intoxicates him like alcohol and he bursts in a painful hoarse laughter. Bert slices the cuffs’ chain and butterflies his partner’s shoulders with his fingertips. He knows how to fix dislocated joints. They all do. He also knows when not to.
“I won’t even try fixing that. Shit, and your hands! Let’s get you to the medics.”
“Hostages?”
“We got them. I got you, man. Good job.”
31st tilts his head to look behind Bert. He sees a small black crater where his tracker used to be. He sees his team, walking out Muzzle's puppies—some beaten, some wounded, all cuffed. He sees Muzzle, both arms blown off and now covered in med gel.
He sees 14th carrying the unconscious hostage woman in his arms, so big that he looks like her father.
30th fetches the first aid pack from Domenic's suit and applies the med gel to his burned head.
Domenic takes a deep breath and blissfully sighs out of consciousness.
A small portable table at the side of his bed is covered with drawings of little dicks with googly eyes. Domenic chuckles. He always thought this tradition was immature, but now he gets it. Whoever wakes up in a SWAT intensive care unit deserves to see something silly and lively. Something completely different from whatever got them here.
“Fucking idiots…” he says. His voice is weak, but at least it's back. He faints again.
Next time he wakes up, there's a green velvet box on the table, and doc Kiegan is with him.
“Heya, doctor.”
“Good evening, Domenic. How are we feeling?”
31st has to deliberately think about each of his body parts, one by one. They all feel weird. The entire body feels alien, and his mind rejects it.
“Good I guess? As good as it gets.”
A patch on his eye. A thick layer of bandages between the pillow and his head. A firm fixation system on his shoulders. A weird stinging buzz where his fingers once were. His hands are under the blanket and he doesn't want to see them. His jaws—numb and full. Apparently they did his teeth when he was out in Wonderland, but these things don't feel like his teeth. Their size and placement, the path that his tongue followed every day when he'd check if he brushed them good—everything is not the same. One side of his head bandage is wet.
“Ah fuck… Am I crying?”
“Yes, and it's absolutely normal!” Kiegan reassures him.
Domenic doesn't think there's anything normal about him now, but he nods. Keigan is a good man, he doesn't want to upset him.
“I didn't know we had dental work covered in MPD health insurance,” he says, just to fill in the silence.
“Oh, no we don't. Mrs. Leerman paid.”
“What? Mom knows? Who told her?” Domenic feels panic growing.
“Everyone knows. You've made news, kiddo. The hostages gave a… very descriptive interview. By the way, this is for you,” the doctor points at the green box. “It's—”
“I know what that is. I'm not sure I want to look at it…”
“Your team brought it here before the official ceremony to honor you while you're healing. They stole it from the office, you know. Nobody said a word. You earned the medal, Domenic.” Kiegan stops smiling, his voice loses its usual soft and nurturing undertones.
“I know. I sure bloody did. I just… I don't want to see it. It's like… I don't know.” It's like admitting that everything really happened.
Doc Kiegan, a sensitive man he is, taps the corner of Domenic's bed frame and leaves.
Next time 31st wakes up, he sees 30th darting out of his room.
“It's alive!” Bert shouts and soon comes back with half the team. The room is packed top to bottom, thick with sweat, laughter and cross-talking. They don't ask him questions, they just waterboard him in overwhelming normalcy, and it's… Overwhelming.
“Shut the fuck up for a moment!” Bert yells. “Babes, if you meet a magical whore, what's the color of her pussy?”
“What the fuck, you doofus?” Domenic smiles, more genuine than he expected.
“Just answer, it's important.”
“I don't know. Purple?”
“Noted!” Bert's voice rumbles with menace.
“What are you up to, man?”
“Shhh!” 30th presses his giant tattooed finger on his lips.
“Fuck off,” Domenic spits and smiles again.
After stuffing him with chocolate bars and chips, they leave. He's drained, can't even focus his vision. He stares at the ceiling and distantly registers his bandage getting soaked on the temple again. The other temple is dry.
They let him out of the hospital as soon as his bones stabilize. His hands and head still have a long way to complete scarring. The buzz in his missing fingers never leaves. Simplest daily activities are a whole new challenge. Domenic learns everything anew. He’s taking disciplined walks and doing supervised exercises.
Domenic doesn’t know what to do with his rehab leave. Visitors come and go, he’s hospitable and marketable, grateful and cheerful, he gives lots of smiles, hugs and interviews. Until the door shuts. As soon as he’s alone, he feels like he has no life outside of the suit. At least he’s still helping the MPD. Sergeant says their approval rates skyrocket.
One time the entire team comes over.
“Who’s on duty?” Domenic asks.
“We won’t be long. Here, try these on.”
A pair of thin gloves. They’re as empty and lifeless as they should be.
“Guys… You didn’t have to.”
“Yep,” Bert says and hands him a small box. “Now this.”
Domenic opens the box, still fighting with his fingers, and sees an aggressively purple sphere. “What’s that? Looks very high-tech.”
“That’s your new eye. You gotta put it on… er… in.”
“Why is it…”
“I know nothing, you’ve picked purple!”
“Bertie. I picked a magical whore’s pussy color, not my fucking eye color!” Domenic finds himself actually laughing. “Alright.” He breathes in and out before facing the mirror. The gaping eye socket stares at him and he shrugs involuntarily. He puts the sphere in.
Immediately, it lights up. And as soon as it does, he feels his gloves getting firmer. He looks at his hands. They move. The buzzing stops.
“Bert… What is this?”
30th grins like a straight-F-student who got an A. “Neurocontrolled prosthetics! With a neurosensitive field center in the eye. You’ve made our suit company quite the advertisement, it’s a gift from them.”
Domenic looks in the mirror, touches his new eye with his new finger. He tears up, and this time these are good tears.
“I kind of like it…” he says quietly. Bert laughs and crushes him in a bear hug, the rest of the team joins in, slamming his back like he’s a dusty carpet. Most of them soon go—duty awaits. 30th stays.
“Bertie.”
“Yeah?”
“I need the contacts of your tattoo artist. I wanna do some badass coverup for my head when it scars. I need to… I need…”
“Reclaim it.” Bert is unusually serious. “The word you’re looking for is ‘reclaim’.”
“Reclaim. Yes. And you know… I think I need to see another therapist.”
The End.
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Whumpee who had just gotten saved/rescued by their group or Caretaker, but their boundaries are so oddly specific and detailed that they decide to make an entire PowerPoint presentation specifically for Caretaker on how to properly take care of them without them getting upset, hurt (physically or mentally) or getting flashbacks to their torture.
“Yes-yes, I’ll do it! I’ll do it. Get them out the room, please. The explosion range is thirty feet, not ten. I lied.”
Muzzle looks nervous again. “And leave you here with it? What if it’s an actual override and you start operating the fucking suit again? Nah, I’m not buying it.”
Damn it… 31st tricked him too many times and lost all credibility. Play smarter.
“Operate it? Like this?”
The gangster kicks the male hostage. “You said it's neurocontrolled.”
“No, please! I'd still have to put it on and raise my arm to aim. Please don’t hurt him. I’ll do it, Muzzle. I give up. I won't be risking them.”
Domenic manages to get on his knees. He lowers his head. It looks archaic, like a bow. As it should. “Listen. I was planning to blow you up, or blow myself up with you. But not anymore. Not like this. I swore it, you know? To protect the citizens by any means I have. And if these are my means tohight—” 31st tries to make his consonants loud enough to compensate for his absent vowels. His whole face hurts. “Walk me out. You can’t explode it here, this building’s made of shit and sticks. Ya’ll die. Which is fine with me. But not the hostages. Or maybe you want an apology for—” he digs in his memory. “For Onion, and Princess, and Tommy Lowe, and everyone? I’ll do that too. Restore your authority. Consider it an execution, broadcast it, do whatever you want with me.”
“Or I just kill you here and now and hack the suit.”
“In a destruction protocol pre-set, no, you can’t. Even our tech team couldn’t. It’s supposed to go to the manufacturer to reset.”
31st raises his head. Scars and doubts distort Muzzle’s face—a mosaic that won’t settle.
“Check the suit. My badge is in there.”
Muzzle squints in suspicion, looks inside the suit and picks out a badge.
“So? SWAT operative, number 31. Your name. What does it have to do with—”
“Read, please.”
His eyes zigzag on the badge and turn back to 31st.
“See? It says I’m level D.”
“That doesn’t mean you don’t know the manufacturer.”
“And what does it fuking matter? You think you can just roll in with a stolen SWAT suit and kindly ask for a reset? It's a dead end, Muz. I planted a time bomb by letting you take the suit, cus they’ll be hunting you for it. It’s worth more than me, and I'm a district attorney's son, mind you. It’s a dead end. But I’m willing to save even you, if it means I get to protect the innocent. You have to let me destroy it.”
“Why should I even believe anything you say?”
Domenic lets out a voiceless moan, preparing for another long speech. His throat is sore from trying to talk so much.
“When was the last time you had the actual power? The last time I did what you told me? Think, Muzzle. It was when you had hostages. You’ve untied my hands the moment you let them go. Well, you have hostages now, and I’m willing to go to great lengths to save them. And this time… this time I ask you, please, keep them here until I die.”
Hostages moan in protest.
“What the fuck is this request, bitch? Another mind game?”
“No! No. I just want you to believe me, cus their lives depend on it. Muzzle, I’m begging you to keep your leverage over me.”
“You’re bonkers, June. Did I fry your brains too hard?”
Domenic sighs and tries again.
“You’ve asked me, why should you believe me? Well, because I fucking lose the hostages if I lie! I kicked the previous ones off the board so that I could feed you bullshit. So please, keep these ones here to ensure I'm not lying.” 31st sees hesitation in the gangster and keeps pressing. “How can I prove myself to you? Can I do anything else that you’ll believe in? Come on, just tell me. Anything.”
Muzzle’s fingers tap on the paralyzer. He steps forward and slides Domenic’s eyeball in front of him with the tip of his boot.
“Eat.”
The hostage woman gags and faints.
“Muzzle, fucking hell…” The horror of what he has to do hits Domenic like dynamite. It was hard enough to offer to do anything; it’s harder now to do it. “I will put myself,” his lips murmur, his remaining eye stinging with tears again. “Fuck… I will… I will put myself…” How easy it was to step between criminals and civilians, having an impenetrable high-tech armor between criminals and him. “Put myself between… those who mean harm…” Now there’s nothing shielding him in the worst battle of his life. And he can’t afford a retreat.
Domenic drops his forehead on the floor, squeezes his eye shut and whimpers. Then finds the blob of flesh and grabs it with his lips. He straightens up—Muzzle needs to see it—and starts chewing. A shard of a tooth splits off and clinks on the other teeth. The pain is terrible, and he anchors his mind on it, trying to think of nothing else, but it doesn’t work. This is my eye. MY fucking eye! He’s nauseous.
31st opens his eye and locks it on the hostages. They’re alive. Worth it. Worth it. Worth it, beats the mantra in his head. The male hostage looks at him with round eyes full of terror. They’re alive.
He swallows, his whole body shaking with disgust.
It’s done.
He thought he’d feel destroyed. He feels powerful instead. As if he just unlocked his new self. You belong in a mental facility, buddy. Could anyone else in the whole world have done this? I’ll never fucking doubt myself ever again. His mind clears up. “Done,” he reports, his face blank.
“Holy shit…” Muzzle whispers. He looks disoriented.
“Now take the suit and walk me out. To the landing platform. The hostages stay at least 30 feet away from me.”
Hypnotized, Muzzle pulls him up by the elbow. His legs barely hold him, and the gangster has to drag him. Pain now feels so distant, Domenic can brush it off.
“And your apology,” the gang leader grumbles.
31st just nods.
Fresh air meets him with a violent embrace, rubs his burning scalp with its cold hand. It feels nice. Muzzle places the suit in the middle of a platform and throws Domenic to his knees near it.
“The radio.” Domenic commands.
Muzzle switches on the pocket radio, holds it to his mouth and cups with his palm, shielding from the wind.
“This is Domenic Leerman Junior, MPD,” 31st speaks. Everything feels clear and easy. “To the members of Black Hounds gang. I offer you my humble apologies for your every brother and sister that I helped to arrest, arrested, killed or harmed in any other way. I am on my knees before your leader, paying for this with my life.”
Muzzle quickly snatches the radio away from him, as if still expecting a trick. Then repositions the suit so that the keypad was at his face level. The code is still there, with only two digits left to type in.
“Step back.” 31st says.
Muzzle silently obeys, still in disbelief. Yeah, asshat… It’s really happening. The hostage backs away without Muzzle even noticing. The woman stayed in the room unconscious. Good for her.
Domenic takes a deep breath, bracing himself. Muzzle guessed it right, there were two options all along. 1-2 for self-destruction. 1-5 for override and operate normally. He fought so hard to trap Muzzle into letting him back into the suit. And how he must go for 1-2.
“I’m ready,” he whispers, lowers his head and taps the keypad with his nose.
1.
He sees the blue dot blipping on the collar. An incoming call!
The adrenaline kicks like a ram. Thoughts race through Domenic’s head, he tries to calculate the next five seconds. He can pick up. And if it’s not a helpful call, he can re-enter the self-destruction code without triggering Muzzle. He glances at the gang’s base entrance. The hostage seems to be afraid of the explosion more than of the gangsters, he hides inside. Atta boy! Muzzle’s eyes are glued to Domenic; he’d have to turn around and re-aim if he wanted to shoot a hostage.
5.
Mute. We don’t need the unlock announcement.
Answer.
“Code grey,” he whispers immediately as the beeping switches to the steady blue of a stable connection. Grey means be quiet.
“We tracked you,” The volume is minimal, it barely breaks through the howling wind.
“Countdown?”
“Half a minute.”
“Hostage at the entrance, at least one more inside.”
“You?”
“Right at the tracker.”
“Roger. Hang on, babes, papa’s coming.”
Blue dot dims. Domenic forbids himself to relax. The call took 10 seconds, 20 more left.
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Living weapons in training compete in archery. Each pair is given one arrow, they shoot back and fourth at each other, and they have to rip the arrow out of their own body to shoot it back. Last one to land an arrow in the opponent wins.
Inspired by the previous post that I reblogged by @defire.
Riot broke into the palace. The king—killed. The queen and the infant heir escape through the secret passage.
The last surviving royal guard shoves them in, hides the entrance, rushes to the other side of the corridor and stands at the completely insignificant door. As he hears footsteps approach, he slams it loudly and shouts: "Run, your Majesty! I'll hold them!“
Then he defends this door like he means it, till his hand can't even grip the weapon. He falls, wounded, bleeding, exhausted. The rebels step over and open the door...
Only to find a mop closet.
They almost beat the life out of him. He doesn't resist. He spits blood and laughs—he won.
The leader of the rebellion stops the beating and orders to get him medical help. They still need him—he knows where the royals are.
Whumpee being defiant towards Whumper. Snarling at them and throwing insults. Being difficult and laughing whenever Whumper gets frustrated.
Then Whumper shows that they captured Caretaker too. "If you're not going to comply when I hurt you, then I'll hurt Caretaker instead."
All of a sudden Whumpee goes quiet and immediately start complying with Whumper. They put the collar on their own and kneels in front of Whumper. They now obey every command perfectly.
Content: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE!!! be careful if you are squeamish, it gets intense from the very first sentence. Captivity, torture, interrogation, beating, teeth crushing, eye scooped out, pain, kneeling, begging, crying. Whumpee is defiant but also compliant, stoic, strategic, self sacrificial.
Muzzle curses and kicks the suit, then rushes back to 31st, forces his mouth open, and hammers his teeth with pliers, crushing them into sharp shards. If 31st had his voice, he'd be howling. A relentless pulse beats through his jaw, and his own breath feels like liquid nitrogen on his bare nerves. He tries to clear his nostrils of blood clots and revert to nose breathing, but his nose is swollen and it doesn't help.
And then there are his ribs. And his hands. And his scalp. And his ear. And his shoulders. He smiles at Muzzle anyway. His teeth are bloody spikes of a well-fed shark—a smile that doesn't belong on his wrecked body. Gotcha, motherfucker. The triumphant adrenaline flow feels strangely similar to a med stim shot.
"Now you have… something to lose too." Domenic sobs hysterically and pretends it's laughter. "Perhaps it's time t… to get nicer with me."
"I'm gonna fucking torture you to death," Muzzle says quietly.
"Can't wait."
The gangster picks up the spoon and heats it on the blowtorch. "You asked if I was gonna spoon-feed you? Well, yes. I'll scoop your eyes out and make you chew them."
Muzzle called him out on hiding behind bravado. Bloody damn right. "You can't make me do shit," 31st says.
The spoon is red and radiant. Muzzle holds him by the back of the head, and it feels like sandpaper on his burns. Looking at the spoon is terrifying, and 31st looks into Muzzle's eyes instead. I, Domenic Leerman Junior, he thinks, take the duty of a Police Officer of the City of Moreany. Muzzle brings the spoon so close to his left eye that he can feel his tears evaporating. I swear to protect its citizens and to serve the law with all means I have. Muzzle bares his teeth, his eyes hot and glaring.
He presses the spoon to Domenic's lower eyelid; it steams and hisses. 31st shakes so hard that Muzzle loses the grip on his lymph-sticky scalp. The spoon leaves a deep burn under Domenic's eye socket. He can't see the mark, but the pain tells him it looks like a blazing moon.
31st drops his head. Squeaks and wheezes come out of his bloody mouth.
"Ah, dammit… Hang on." Muzzle pulls him up and gets him off the hook. Domenic collapses on the floor, still cuffed. After showering him generously with kicks, Muzzle turns him face-up and sits on his chest. 31st thought he had become familiar with the pain in his dislocated joints, but they are now being reintroduced.
"Oh, I almost forgot." Muzzle snaps his fingers and reaches for the pliers. 31st feels his weight distributing into his screaming shoulders. Then the gangster rips out his piercings. One from the eyebrow, two from the ear. 31st trembles beneath him, but there's no pulling away now. Good call, buddy, he thinks to himself as he remembers the tracker.
Does it even work? the voice of doubt adds.
Muzzle lights the torch again and locks his target between his knees. Domenic's chest, weak with fear, feels like a hollow basket.
"Alright, stop-stop-stop. Stop! I'll give you the code."
"Been there, heard that," Muzzle says, his tone a mix of threat and boredom.
"This one works, I promise!"
"You promise, huh?"
"Yes! This time, a real code! I've kept my promises so far!"
Muzzle shuts the blowtorch down, turns to the side, and sits on Domenic in silence for a long minute. When he speaks, he measures every sound. "Give me your word that this is the real override code, and that it will undo the stasis mode."
31st holds an even longer pause, tears cutting paths across his temples and down into the wounds on his ears.
"I hate you so fucking much," he finally says, so quietly that Muzzle leans closer.
"Goooood."
Domenic sighs. "927-273-012"
"All digits?"
"Yes. This is the real one. You have my word."
Muzzle gets up, and 31st notices how unsteady his hands are. He makes Domenic repeat the code several times. Then he walks to the suit again and opens the keypad.
"9. 2. 7. 2. 7. 3. 0."
"One more thing, Muz." Domenic hopes Muzzle can hear him.
The gangster's finger freezes.
"Please… move ten feet away from me. Out the door, preferably."
Muzzle slowly turns his face to 31st.
31st meets it with a shark smile.
"What is this supposed to mean? You gave me your fucking word!"
"I did. Go on, two more digits," he coughs.
Muzzle's lips move soundlessly.
"Oh, you little bitch! This code… Maybe it overrides the stasis mode, but you never said what happens next. Is this a self-destruction protocol or something?"
The gangster turns back to the keypad. "Where's the fucking backspace?"
"It's disabled." A light chuckle starts an avalanche of shivers rolling through all his muscles. "It gets disabled… the moment you put a digit… instead of a letter. I gave you a very real and a very special c…code."
Muzzle locks his head between his knees before Domenic even finishes the sentence. The spoon quickly turns from red to white. 31st thought he had made peace with it, but the prospect isn't any less frightening. Worth it. Still worth it.
This time Muzzle acts fast. "Told you," he hisses and digs into Domenic's eye socket.
Unbelievable pain drills into his head. His legs kick uncontrollably. He opens his mouth in a silent scream, and then everything goes black.
31st wakes up from another shot of med stim. Muzzle squats over him.
The picture looks flat and incomplete. The pain… The pain doesn't even make sense anymore.
"Good morning, asshole. Breakfast is ready." He drops an eyeball into Domenic's mouth and punches his jaw shut. "Now chew."
31st locks his gaze on the enemy. He can feel every nerve in every tooth. He spits the eye into Muzzle's face. "Can't make me… do shit… can you?"
Muzzle gets up, grabs the suit, and walks out the door without a word, leaving 31st with his pain. The lock clacks. Domenic cries again. The loss of an eye feels so vast, he almost forgets about his fingers.
He carefully rolls over and lies face down, giving his shoulders a rest. It's not ideal—they're still dislocated—but it's better. Then he drags his legs and tries to get on his knees. Maybe he can even stand, and then… Then what, you stupid useless punching bag? Karate your way out?
He laughs to himself. How much time does he need to buy? How much more? Still, he gets up, walks to the stool, and sits.
Muzzle comes back, bringing two people with him.
"No, you motherf—" Words die halfway out of 31st.
The two people, a young couple, both cuffed, their mouths taped. The asshole brought new hostages.
"How about this, June? Convincing enough?"
"It's between you and me, you filthy son of a—"
Muzzle punches the woman in the stomach. She's sobbing; the duct tape doesn't really block her moans. Her boyfriend is yelling something illegible.
There is another vow 31st swore. I will put myself between those who mean harm and those who don't. Domenic throws himself up off the stool and steps toward Muzzle.
"Bitch, please." The gangster rolls his eyes.
A single kick throws Domenic back to the floor, and he can't get up. He can barely grasp the scale of his exhaustion.
"I am sorry, Muz," he whispers. "I truly am. It's irreversible. You can only proceed or deliver the suit to the manufacturer."
Muzzle thinks. Then he turns the switch to minimal mode and fires at both hostages. Both collapse with muted screams.
I will put myself between those who mean harm and those who don't.
"Please! It's really irreversible! You're right, it's a self-destruction protocol. You've lost the suit, it's over. Now please, I beg of you. Let me pay for this. Let them go. I'll eat the fucking eye. I'll eat the second one. I'll do anything."
"Now we're talking! Finally, some real begging. You know what? If the suit is gone—"
Muzzle switches his paralyzer to lethal mode and throws Domenic the suit. "Get in. Step back, into that corner. Blow yourself up. Do anything—anything!—suspicious, and the bitch is dead."
More time. More time. Just a little more.
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Content warning: GRAPHIC VIOLENCE. Defiant stoic whumpee, sadistic Whumper, torture, interrogation, captivity, blood, burns, beating, fingers cut off, ear cut off, begging and crying but still unbroken.
31st thinks in pieces. I'm an ugly mofo now. Wire cutters. The smell of his burnt hair accumulates under the ceiling. They cut things. Pain accumulates in his body, even where he wasn't hurt. He's gonna cut something. He's delirious, but not delirious enough to give up.
“Got you good, eh?” he breathes out.
Dumbest self-defence mechanism, utterly suicidal. Sergeant would have beaten his ass for being so reckless. Sergeant never got anywhere near Muzzle's lair. The spoon. What the fuck is the spoon for?
“You? You got me good?” Muzzle shakes his head in disbelief. He spins 31st over, grabs his hands and clips off a pinky without warning.
After everything, the pain isn't even that bad. 31st doesn't quite understand why he's shaking so hard. Maybe Muzzle's right about the sense of loss.
“This was an introduction.” Muzzle throws the finger away, and only then does Domenic register how thickly the floor’s painted with his blood. “Next I'll chop your thumb off, try holding a gun then.”
Domenic coughs. “Moron. I use neurocontrolled gauntlets.”
Muzzle does as he said. A terrifying sense of emptiness hits hard. It's irreversible, and it makes 31st want to mourn. He trembles and it takes him a few seconds to realize he's tearing up again. Doesn't matter. 31st uses the remains of his hand to give Muzzle a middle finger.
The asshole clips it too and walks out without saying anything. Domenic hangs kneeling, listening to blood droplets tapping quietly on the floor behind his back. He can't stop shaking. He can't tell if he's sobbing or not.
Muzzle comes back with a suit and a bowl of ice. “I can put them in the ice, you know. They can still be sewn back if you don't waste much time. Give me the override code, and I'll let you walk away with your fingers.”
“God, I want to…” 31st can barely hear himself, and what he's hearing sounds pitiful. “But you know I can't.”
Muzzle cuts off the other thumb, making both of Domenic's hands dysfunctional now. Pain grows slowly, merging from cut to cut. He can feel his pulse in the wounds.
He stands up again. “Make it even,” he dares Muzzle and gives him another middle finger.
Instead, Muzzle cuts off the tip of his ear. This stings more and he hisses. Blood comes running down his neck. The tool is so quick and efficient, 31st begins truly fearing it. He thought he was afraid before, now he really is. He flinches when Muzzle clanks it in the air behind his back. He tenses when Muzzle touches his hand. Muzzle seems to notice the shift.
“Well-well, who would’ve thought. You're OK with getting burned, but this little thing suddenly works?”
“Come on,” Domenic begs soundlessly, “Get it over with, just fucking chop them all and end this.”
“Are you asking? I can’t hear you asking.”
31st fights himself in silence.
“The code, and we call it a night.” Muzzle presses. I'll let you go, for real.”
“Ah, fucking hell…” it was easier when he thought he'd die here. Putting the tracker, locking the suit, telling himself he needs to hold, all this time the bug at the back of his mind was whispering that he dies today.
And now, with the prospect of actually getting away?
31st stands silently for ten long seconds, mourning his hands’ capability and then replies: “No.”
Muzzle doesn’t hesitate. One by one he cuts off all the remaining fingers and drops them on the dirty floor. By the end of it Domenic is ugly crying. Why? Why the fuck, of all things today, this one got to me?
Muzzle takes the blow torch and fries one of the pinkies. The smell pulls a voiceless wheezing moan out of 31st.
“So. What do I do with the rest of them? The code and I ice them. No code and I fry them. And don’t fucking feed me the false code, I’ll be testing it right in front of you.”
“Please,” he squeezes out of his throat. “I can’t do this anymore.”
Muzzle’s face lights up as he grabs another pinky. He pauses for a moment, unclips the radio off of Domenic’s cheek and turns it off.
“This seems to be the right moment to stop our little live stream. You were saying?”
“I’m so fucking tired Muzzle…”
“Good. Good! The code then?”
Tears run down his face freely. “No.”
“No? Again? Bitch, I thought you found some common sense?”
“S… sike…” it took him so much strength to say this word.
Muzzle sighs. “That’s alright. The uglier your corpse arrives at your daddy’s, the better.”
“You were going to… let me go.”
“You were going to give me the code.” Muzzle’s voice hardens as he fries the pinky.
“No, please, please.”
“Code.”
“Please!”
“Code.”
Finger after finger gets destroyed forever. Time after time Domenic keeps the code. A sinkhole of grief in the middle of his chest soaks up all his hopes, leaving only duty and loyalty afloat. He swore his oaths when joining law enforcement. Everyone did, but he thinks he’s the only one who still believes in them. They wouldn't be calling him an idealistic baby if it wasn’t for his loyalty to the oaths.
If it wasn’t for his loyalty, Muzzle would have been breaking into MPD wearing the suit.
The last finger dies in fire. Domenic feels crushed but surprisingly clear-headed. “What now?” he asks. His words are soundless and Muzzle leans forward to read his lips. “Nothing more to th…reaten me with.”
“You know what else won't grow back, June?“
“Your…authority.”
A lazy slap comes.
“Your teeth.” Muzzle says, playing with the pliers.
This is scary. 31st expects it to hurt more than fingers. “Get this one first, it’s broken.” he whispers with a crooked smile and opens his mouth. Another tiny claw of desperate wit that he uses to drag out his courage.
Loss, and pain, and fear, all come together screaming inside him, as he cannot scream himself. The tooth clacks on the floor. This new pain feels so close to Domenic’s brain. His whole head aches inside and out.
“The code?”
He has to hold. He must. Yes, his team is eventually coming here. And yes, he probably won’t get to see them. But where's the guarantee the gang won’t relocate the suit? They’ll wanna try to crack it, and this place doesn’t look like it has a proper lab. The suit stays close to the tracker as long as Muzzle thinks he can get the code from 31st.
“No.”
Muzzle reaches for a molar. 31st realizes just how firmly human teeth can sit in the bone. He wants to cry it out, but a long, hoarse breath is all he’s got. Gangster’s sleeve is wet and red.
“Hey, Muz.” Consonants whistle in a weird new way. “How am I to tell you the code if I can't articulate it?”
Muzzle grabs him by the jaw and clips the pliers on another tooth. “You’ll figure it out,” he says and pulls.
An aching gap in his gum tastes like metal. Another wave of violent shivers sends a stabbing pain in Domenic’s shoulders. Each time you bother a dislocated joint, you complicate the healing, he remembers from the first aid lecture. He kicks his legs in a bloody puddle, searching for balance. Muzzle elbows him in the back and laughs, watching him drop. What healing, you idiot. You’re dead.
Muzzle yanks him up by the jaw again, pliers open like a hungry crocodile.
“Alright… Okay… The code…” 31st lets out.
“Finally! See? I told you, everyone breaks.”
Domenic holds a long pause before speaking. “401-223-ypu.”
Muzzle taps him on the top of the head, then wipes his hand on Domenic’s clothes. He rushes to the suit, happy as a kid unwrapping a birthday gift. “Four… Ow-One…Two-Two-Three…Y-P-U… Aaaand…”
“Stasis mode: active. Insert the override code to unlock. Two attempts left.”
“What the fuck is this?” Muzzle kicks 31st in the chest with full force. 31st swings away, spinning, and back to Muzzle. Back to another brutal bootkick. The gangster takes the knife again, catches Domenic by the chopped ear and slices it off, leaving it attached by a small strand of skin. Then he pulls it downward, tearing it through the skin of Domenic's neck, and rips it off.
The pain is unbearable. The pain is everywhere. The pain is… too much. Just too fucking much.
“No, no, no, sorry… please no… It’s 233, not 223…”
“You know what happens if you lie again?” Muzzle waves Domenic’s ear in front of his eyes, a long tail of skin still attached to it. The ear looks like a newborn mouse.
“It’s 233! Please! I just wanna die, ok? I want it to be over!” Domenic sobs and rushes out his words. “Just take the fucking suit and end me, please!”
Muzzle measures him with a long, attentive gaze. 31st is a teary mess.
Muzzle gets back to the suit and slowly taps in the digits.
“Stasis mode: active. Insert the override code to unlock. One attempt left.”
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Defiant Whumpee is slouching against the concrete wall, covered in fresh bruises and blood. They don't have the energy to move at all and everything hurts. Still, they didn't break. They didn't give a kick during the beating. Didn't scream. Didn't cry. Didn't beg. Didn't make a single sound.
It's driving Whumper crazy that they can't get a reaction out of Whumpee. After yet another unsuccessful torture session they storm out of the basement. In their anger they don't pay attention to the low doorframe and bang their head against it, hard. "Ahh!" They yell out.
Whumpee chuckles.
Whumpee chuckles.
The first sound that Whumper gets out of Whumpee, and it's a chuckle of amusement because of Whumper's pain.
Whumper sees red. They turn around, more enraged than they have ever been in all their life.
"Oh you're gonna regret this," they snarl, an almost murderous look in their eyes.
Whumpee quickly whipe the smirk from their face, willing their eyes not to betray what they feel deep inside.
