Reminder to stomp out anti nonsense in the whump community. Whump fans of all people should know better.
No, the person writing underage shipping fic isn’t somehow more morally twisted than the person writing twenty pages of loving detail about their favourite whumpee being whipped and brought to the brink of death. Fiction is fiction. The appeal of both is the same. We all get that, right?
Some people use it as a creative outlet. Some people use it to cope with their own trauma. Some people are just fascinated by dark things the same way people are fascinated with horror or true crime. You can’t know which one it is, you can’t force people to reveal whether they write it for an “”acceptable”” reason without hurting those who are already hurting most and need that outlet most, and it’s really, really none of your business.
I say this because I had a reblog along the lines of “dark content is fine as long as it’s not pedo or incest”. No. Let’s not do any of that shit here. You either believe in harassing and policing people over fiction, or you don’t. There is no middle ground there, no “yes, but...”.
We can’t allow the thoughtcrimes brigade to ruin whump spaces, and they will ruin them if we let them. This is one of the few spaces where we can still simply unapologetically write what appeals to us without guilt or shame.
stabbing as a metaphor for penetration is great but when are we going to talk about pressing down on where someone is wounded to disarm them or just to be cruel while fighting. does nobody else care about the perverse intimacy of knowing exactly where to touch to overpower someone. the grotesque vulnerability of it. especially if you're the one who wounded them in the first place.
Welcome to Whumptober 2023 — the sixth year running!
To those of you who participated last year, welcome back! To everyone joining this year, welcome!
Please make sure to read the Event Info carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.
This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.
And this years playlist can be found here.
There are 139 prompt options in total this year - this is including the alternatives list! A special thanks goes out to those who took part in our trope vote back in July. From the 1526 responses to our list of 223 tropes, we looked through the popularity results, as well as your honourable mentions, and were able to produce this years prompts list. Stay tuned, as we will be posting some of the results at a later date!
We’re very excited to see the community come together once more and be a wild, chaotic bunch of creators and consumers of whump. Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!
Best of luck and happy whumping,
Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro
(All 31 Themes + Prompts, Event Information and FAQs are posted below the cut!)
Whumptober 2023 Prompt List
No. 1: “But now this room is spinning while I’m trying just to fill in all the gaps.”
Safety Net | Swooning | “How many fingers am I holding up?”
No. 2: “I’ll call out your name, but you won’t call back.”
Thermometer | Delirium | “They don't care about you.”
No. 3: “Like crying out in empty rooms; with no-one there except the moon.”
Journal | Solitary Confinement | “Make it stop.”
No. 4: “I see the danger, It’s written there in your eyes.”
Cattle Prod | Shock | “You in there?”
No. 5: “You better pray I don't get up this time around.”
Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”
No. 6: “Do or die, you’ll never make me; Because the world will never take my heart.”
Recording | Made to Watch | “It should have been me.”
No. 7: " “I paced around for hours on empty; I jumped at the slightest of sounds.”
Alleyway | Radio Silence | “Can you hear me?”
No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.”
Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | “It’s all for nothing.”
No. 9: “Learning everything ain't what it seems, that's the thing about these days.”
Polaroid | Mistaken Identity | “You're a liar.”
No. 10: “Can’t you see that you’re lost without me?”
Broken Phone | Stranded | “You said you'd never leave.”
No. 11: “All the lights going dark and my hope’s destroyed.”
Animal trap | Captivity | “No one will find you.”
No. 12: “I haven't slept in days but who's counting?”
Red | Insomnia | “I’m up, I’m up.”
No. 13: “It comes and goes like the strength in your bones.”
Cold Compress | Infection | “I don’t feel so good.”
No. 14: “Feed me poison, fill me ‘till I drown.”
Flare | Water Inhalation | “Just hold on.”
No. 15: “I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.”
No. 16: “Would you lie with me and just forget the world?”
Gurney | Flatline | “Don’t go where I can’t follow.”
No. 17: “You’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest.”
Collar | Touch Aversion | “Leave me alone.”
No. 18: “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened.”
Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.”
No. 19: “I’ll take one final step, all you have to do is make me.”
Floral Bouquet | Psychological | “I’m not as stupid as you think I am.”
No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.”
Blanket | Found Family | “You will regret touching them.”
No. 21: “See the chains around my feet.”
Vows | Restraints | “Don't move.”
No. 22: “They never saw us coming, ‘til they hit the floor.”
Glass Shard | Vehicular Accident | “Watch out!”
No. 23: “It’s gonna get me by the end of the night.”
Shadows | Stalking | “Who’s there?”
No. 24: “I’ve got a head full of chemicals; mouth full of ridicule.”
Goodbye Note | Neglect | “I thought they were with you.”
No. 25: “You’re not delivering a perfect body to the grave.”
Storm | Buried Alive | “They’re not breathing!”
No. 26: “Sometimes I get so tired; I don’t even know myself.”
Seeing Double | Working To Exhaustion | “You look awful.”
No. 27: “You drew stars around my scars; But now I’m bleeding.”
Matches | Scars | “Let me see”
No. 28: “We might not make it to the morning; so go on and tell me now.”
Bloody Knife | Sacrifice | “You'll have to go through me.”
No. 29: “I only sink deeper the deeper I think.”
Scented Candle | Troubled Past Resurfacing | “What happened to me?”
No. 30: “It’s okay, just to say, ‘I’m not okay’.”
Borrowed Clothing | Bridal Carry | “Not much longer...”
No. 31: “I thought that I was getting better.”
Emptiness | Setbacks | “Take it easy.”
Alternatives List:
Betrayal
Aftermath of Failure
Brass Knuckles
Decoy
Body Modification
Playing Cards
Examination
Hunting
Drugging
Shaking
Panic
Broken
Miscommunication
Lab Rat
Reluctant Whumper
Event Info & Rules
~ Please read our extensive event info posts before sending us an ask ~
WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. The 'theme' of each day is the line of lyrics.
The prompts are merely to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is "flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be related to the 'spark' of a relationship. It's truly up to you!
In total, there are 4 prompts for each day: there's lyrics, an object, a trope and a line of dialogue to choose from. We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks.
Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.
When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag the with:
#whumptober2023 …..(the event tag)
#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(day number)
#lyric, #bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)
#fandom or #OC, … (ironman, originalcontent, oc …)
#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)
#teeth, #gore tw, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Add "tw" AFTER the trigger/content warning. )
#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)
#your own tags go here
PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]
Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.
Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed the event. You do not need to post anything you have created, we rely on trust and we will not check this.
Questions not addressed in one of our many event info posts can be directed to this blog. We will not answer any questions that have been answered in the FAQs or rules already.
Frequently Asked Questions
Q. How does this year’s prompt list work? What do I have to choose?
You can create something based on:
The overall theme/lyric of the day
Prompt 1, 2 or 3
One or several of the alternative prompts
A combination of the above
Q. Is [specific anything] allowed?
When in doubt: JUST DO IT!
Q. Do I have to do all 31 days?
Participate as much or little as you like! Just be sure to tag your posts properly (ex. #no.7, #radio silence). If you create works for 31 total theme days you will become a completionist. But apart from that, there are no repercussions if you don’t fill prompts for each day.
Q. Can I post early/late?
Yes, you can post whenever you want. We will only reblog posts during October, but you can use our prompts all year round. The day you post will only affect your probability of being reblogged.
Q. Will you reblog my post?
Due to the sheer number of content posted during Whumptober we can’t promise to reblog every single post. We will make a random selection trying to capture a wide variety of content. The following will increase your chances at being reblogged:
tag your post properly
post within 2-3 days of the theme you want to fill: if you fill the prompt for Day 1 your chances of being reblogged during October 1st to 3rd are highest and will go towards zero afterwards.
Q. What if I don’t understand a prompt/theme?
Send us an ask! We’re happy to help with wild, unhelpful clarifications or brainstorming. That being said, the themes are entirely up for interpretation. Don’t take them too literally. For example: You can be choking on a cherry, someone else can choke you or you could be choked up on emotions, etc.
Q. What kind of content can I make? Can it be NSFW?
This is a MIXED MEDIA event! You can write fic, post meta, doodle or paint, create a gifset or photo edit, link a song, or get crafty with video - anything goes. As for NSFW, make what you like, we just hope that you’ll tag your work accordingly so that others participating in the event can stay safe.
Q. Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges?
Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.
Q. Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms?
Of course! You can post your own content wherever you like (or you can opt to not publish it at all). Additionally we’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there. It can be accessed here. The tumblr blog @whumptober-archive is the official archive, so please respect the boundaries of any closeted whumpers in your social circle.
Q. Can I use prompts to write a new chapter for an existing fic?
Yes.
Q. An existing fic I am currently writing contains many of the Whumptober prompts, can I use it?
If you are actively writing this fic at the moment with the Whumptober prompts in mind, yes. If you’ve previously posted something that checks the boxes, we ask that you not include it retroactively for this current year. You can, however, add new chapters relating to one or more of the prompts.
Q. What kind of characters can I write for?
Fandom characters, OC characters, human, furry, alien, cyborg, RPF, whoever you like. You can use the generic “whumpee” character or have specific ones.
Q. Does it have to take place in a specific fandom?
No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want.
Q. Can I use a prompt multiple times?
Yes, but it only counts once towards being a completionist.
Q. If I’m not comfortable with one day’s prompts can I use a prompt of a different day as a substitute and still be a completionist?
No, you can’t exchange prompts for different days. However, if all four prompts of a specific day make you uncomfortable, we have created an alternate prompts list that you can draw from. You can exchange any prompt with these, but please make sure not to use them twice.
Q. Where can I post my work?
Post where and how you want. You don’t have to (cross)post it to Tumblr or at all. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive.
Q. Can I start posting early?
You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? That being said, you can post early, but we won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st.
Q. Do I have to finish a fic I started/can I post WIP’s?
Yes you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish it in October for it to count towards being a completionist.
Q. Is co-writing allowed?
Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you.
Q. Do I have to create 31 standalone pieces to be considered a completionist or can I write one continuous story?
One continuous story is fine. The challenge is to write something for 31 prompts. If that’s spread over 31 fics or just one, you are still considered a completionist. (The same goes for every other media you choose.)
Q. Is there a min/max limit on word count?
There is no limit.
Q. Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many?
No limit and combine as many as you’d like.
Q. Is a hc/angst/emotional whump focus ok?
Of course! We are not going to establish a threshold for whumpiness. If you think it’s whumpy enough, then it’s whumpy enough. It can be physical, psychological, emotional, or any combination of the three.
Q. What’s considered nsfw?
See this post
Q. What is whump?
Typically the genre includes situations where a fictional character is hurt, be it emotionally, psychologically, or physically. Fanlore provides information here.
Q. My interpretation of the prompt isn’t whumpy at all, does that count?
If you don’t think your interpretation is whumpy, then it doesn’t count for Whumptober. Remember that whump comes in many forms, though, and that we don’t have a whump-checker or a threshold for how much whump needs to be included. If you think your interpretation contains enough whump to count, then it does.
Q. Can I start working on the prompts before October?
Absolutely! That’s why we post the prompts a month in advance. We recognise how difficult it can be creating for 31 days in “real time” so feel free to start creating early!
Q. How do I tag triggers?
tw at the end of the word, ex. #gore tw
Q. Do I have to use your tags?
Yes, if you want your work archived on the blog. If not, feel free to use whatever tags you want.
Q. Does combining prompts count towards completion?
Yes
Q. Can we @ you?
Yes but we mostly rely on the #whumptober2023 tag.
Q. Is there anything we are absolutely not allowed to write?
There are no rules, but please make sure to properly tag your trigger warnings. And keep in mind Tumblr’s policies if you are posting it here (or the policies for whatever site you use).
Q. Where can I go for brainstorming help?
Here on Discord or come into our ask box.
Q. My characters are minors, is that ok?
Yes, but as with everything else, use clear and descriptive tags.
Q. Can I cross post on other blogs?
Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable. You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once.
Note: This is a creation challenge, please don’t repost your old work under our tags (unless it’s been changed or edited for the event).
little whump things: A whumpee who’s not used to being taken care of. A whumpee who drags themselves out of every fight, bruised and aching, just to get to their safe place and have to begin the long and arduous process of patching themselves up- rinsing off blood and gingerly patching up cuts just so they can collapse into bed and finally rest.
Enter caretaker.
One day whumpee stumbles in the front door in the dead of night, half asleep and aching, and this time there’s someone there; murmuring to them and slipping their shoulder under their arm to take weight off their busted ankle. Whumpee blinks, surprised, and they’re suddenly sitting on the edge of the bathtub. Caretaker is wrapping their ankle better than they ever could, salve already applied to bruises and cuts hidden under gauze. Whumpee doesn’t say a word, lost in the newness of having another person here, in the quiet space between night and morning when they put themselves back together.
Its the third night when caretaker is applying butterfly stitches to a particularly nasty gash on the outside of their thigh when whumpee whispers why are you doing this?, breaking the fragile silence in the room.
Caretaker finishes smoothing down the edge of the butterfly stitch, fingers lingering, looking up at whumpee from where they’re kneeling on their bathroom floor. They break eye contact to gently press the edge of a stitch back down.
You know why, they murmur, and whumpee has to work hard to swallow around the lump in their throat.
On a distant, intellectual level, he's infuriatingly aware of what's happening to him, of how precisely these blue emergency lights match the ones that would light up in his cell.
Lunch breaks, Zack has found, get surprisingly tedious when you don't have much of an appetite.
There is an unspoken understanding at the agency that breaks are not optional. Tales are still exchanged of the time an agent had collapsed on the job after opting out of them one time too many, and the ensuing lecture from the boss has the workplace in a state of fear. Thus, there was an understanding that Zack take a break from his work somewhere around lunchtime, but even so, no one could force him to actually eat.
Another thing he and Rickard have in common.
"We're consuming them, technically," Rickard had pointed out once, on their little spot on the roof terrasse, working through his cigarette stub. "That's practically a full meal."
Zack had found it funny, though he hadn't said anything. Too busy enjoying the smoke.
Lately, their lunchtime time-killing has shifted into a... different type of venue. More secluded.
A storage closet, today. Out of the way, the door latched shut behind them. It mainly holds defunct electronic and engineering components, which means that apart from Zack, practically nobody ever uses it.
Rickard pushes him back against the door in an unsteady kiss. Zack tastes alcohol, confirming his hunch that Rickard was already semi-drunk before noon today. He isn't sure if others haven't noticed and he is getting better at tracking Rickard's mannerisms, and if so, how alarming that might be. Just like the fact that their little breaks are starting to become a habit.
Still, he can't say he minds. It's a welcome distraction, physical and meaningless. It's like they both know they're making a mistake, but keep hurtling into it time after time anyway, because who even cares about mistakes?
Rickard doesn't bother unbuttoning his shirt, just goes straight for the belt as he pulls them closer together. His coat drapes in folds around them, enveloping Zack – it's not unlike being fondled by a strange, very lean scarecrow. Zack mouths at his jaw, stubbly and a bit salty, and Rickard growls, arms going around Zack's waist and maneuvering him away from the door, and against the edge of some storage crates.
Zack stills. Something is different. Not Rickard - it's not the first time they've gone for a quickie somewhere out of the way, so what is it? While the man fumbles with his own belt, leaning over him with a hand braced on the wall, Zack tries to zero in on what feels off, all of a sudden, and why his heart is pounding, his skin tingling with a cold sweat. Maybe it's the crate. It's probably the crate. His knee gives a throb, phantom pain spiking up from his memory.
“You good?” Rickard mutters through a kiss to his throat that smells like whiskey. The cheap light bulb frames his shape like a halo. Zack tries to remember what they were doing, and Rickard's hands have stopped, but they're still on him, so it doesn't take long.
Then Rickard snaps his fingers in front of Zack's face, and he blinks.
“...Tell you what,” Rickard says slowly, a look on his face Zack can't quite decipher, and disentangles himself. He watches Zack's face for a long, uncomfortable moment, and chews on his lip. “How about this time, we actually eat something, instead. Just to keep things fresh.”
“Alright,” Zack finds himself agreeing. “Go on ahead. I'll catch up.” He just needs a moment.
Rickard looks hesitant, but nods and slips out the door. With some relief, Zack hisses out a breath. He stares at the wall as he tucks his shirt back in and straightens his tie, smoothes down his hair. Something is off, and he wants nothing more than to... leave, certainly, but leave where? Maybe the bathroom, splash some water on himself. Cool off a little.
Rickard's already outside, and probably halfway to the cafeteria by now. Zack waits for longer than he means to, seemingly trapped under that light. He remembers eventually that he did actually mean to grab some supplies here. An M5 semiconductive transposer and... what else? He had a list.
Shaking his head clear, he reaches into his pocket for a crumpled scrap of paper and peers over it, struggling to parse his handwriting in the low light.
The light flickers and fizzles out. Zack has a moment to feel utterly annoyed as he's plunged into complete darkness, not keen on the idea of searching the room for the things he needs with only his arm LED.
Then the blue emergency lights come on in narrow strips lining the ceiling. Zack's thoughts grind to a halt.
The blue lights pulse. The room is eerie, silent, and the air too thick to breathe.
Zack sluggishly fumbles for the light switch without looking. Flips it half a dozen times. It doesn't help.
His hand finds the handle and he stumbles out of the room, slams the door shut behind him, takes in the hallway.
It's worse in the hallway. Empty and hollow, with no windows in sight. (There were no windows in the closet, either. But then, you wouldn't expect there to be.)
Zack presses himself back against the wall, flat as he can. If he can melt into it, maybe he can disappear, stop existing entirely. Lead in his stomach, his blood pounding in his temples. He can't hear himself breathe.
His audio uplink clicks and the voice of one of the agency aides speaks neutrally to him. “Attention, all personnel. A city-wide power outage is currently in effect. The building has switched to emergency power. There is currently no indication of a hostile purpose to this blackout, but you are encouraged to be vigilant. Please remain on standby.”
As soon as the voice is gone, he can't tell if he's imagined it. Zack doesn't need to be told to remain on standby, not when he can't even move, can't even speak. On a distant, intellectual level, he's infuriatingly aware of what's happening to him, of how precisely these blue emergency lights match the ones that would light up in his cell when Diego returned for another one of their little 'chats', compelled by boredom and that fascination with someone he couldn't quite remember. Being aware of it isn't enough to stop the helpless weight of dread pressing down on his lungs.
The hand in his hair cups his chin, brushes over his lips
“Zack?” This voice is definitely real, and he can't tell how or when Rickard got back here. “What are you- oh, fuck.” Rickard is reaching for his arm, squeezing it, then presses at his throat to feel his racing pulse. Zack wants nothing more than to tell him to shove off and mind his own business, he's fine, but he can't make a sound.
“Here.” The flask is extended to him, and Zack stares at it blankly for several moments. It glints strangely in the blue light. Rickard sighs and steps closer, unscrews the cap and seizes Zack by the shoulder-
Squeaking noises – bottle-cap again, and his head is being held up again as water sloshes down his throat. He coughs, convulsing, and tries to swallow
Zack flinches away.
“For fuck's sake. Suit yourself,” Rickard grunts, takes a swig, screws the cap back on. Zack stares at it, transfixed. He's jarred out of it when Rickard elbows him. “Don't you have a light thingmajig?” At Zack's blank look, he sighs and elaborates. “On your wrist. Arm. Whatever you call that thing.” He taps his own forearm for emphasis.
Even so, it takes Zack a moment to catch on. His wrist. Arm. His datapad's holoprojector. Right. The one briefly considered using as a light before the emergency light went on.
He taps at the keys to bring it up. With no HUD preset, it simply emits orange light in a soft halo.
“It's not meant for this kind of use,” he finds himself saying, his own voice distant, like through a curtain of water. “The light won't reach far.” He's speaking, but he can't feel his lips move. He's fine. He's fine as long as he's focused on that yellow light.
“Good enough,” Rickard grunts. He eyes Zack's face, chewing on his lip like he wishes he could be smoking right now. Whatever he considers voicing, he decides against it. He starts walking down the hallway. “Let's go. Power'll be back soon and I don't want them wandering where we've been.”
Zack finally moves from the spot he's been rooted on, trailing after him as if Rickard is the one with the light and not him. They walk in silence.
Slowly, slowly, the crushing dread gives way to gratitude, but he keeps his silence.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“The boss needs to know.”
“What? No.”
“You were cleared for field duty what, last week? You can't go out there. Not after what just happened. You think a fucking enforcer would wait and let you get your breath back?”
“She can't know. If she thinks there's something wrong with me, she may never let me back in there.”
“Would that be so bad?”
“You're joking, right?”
“I'm just saying. Maybe you're more useful in here, anyway. There aren't that many people who can do what you do, anyway.”
“I'm trained to be in the field. It's who I am. I... I need it, even if it's only once in a while.”
“Not if it gets you killed. Not if it gets someone else killed.”
Zack snaps out of watching the rain in fascination to turn back to Rickard, nod faintly, then follow him in across the threshold. Rickard shuts the door behind him and leans on it heavily to lock it, keys jangling in his hand, then curses as they clatter to the floor. Swaying in place, Rickard kicks them into a corner, then fumbles through the inside pockets of his trench coat.
He makes a vague gesture at Zack. “Get that off. Don’ want you drippin’ on my antiques…”
the whump community is scientific evidence that indulging in absolutely bonkers gratuitously dark shit while being 100% aware of it being fucked up is a healthier state of mind and leads to absurdly sweet and kind people than the stupid “if you write bad things you are a bad person uwu if you don’t agree with me then die” bullshit that has taken the fandom by storm as of late
#as long as you aint shippin pedo stuff and incest#and you recognize bad shit in stories as bad#then we cool
Well, no, actually, and I’m sick of these “Thought crimes aren’t real except for this one!” exemptions.
You may think whatever you like of what someone writes, but the second you start harassing others over it, you have no moral leg to stand on. If someone writes a tagged and warned for fic of an underage character being graphically sexually assaulted for fifty pages straight, and you send them death threats over it, THEN YOU ARE THE BAD GUY, because you are the only one who actually caused tangible harm to real human beings.
It’s not any of your business why someone writes fucked up shit or what they get out of it. If it were illegal (and it’s not), you’d be reporting it to the police, not complaining about it online.
You don’t have to like it or read it. You don’t have to be friends with people who write that content, or have them on your dash. Just don’t harass people over it and don’t police it, and that includes demanding people to stop writing it. If you do, and you’re in the whump community, then you’re a hypocrite and you should know better.
If I made incorrect assumptions about your position, I apologize. But in my experience, people who say things like “we’re cool unless you write X and Y” usually don’t stop at curating their own online experience and feel justified to, at minimum, tell others to stop writing X and Y, if not a lot worse.
What can Zack say? That it wasn't really him, and his dealing with that has for some months now been contingent on accepting that reality? On thinking of Diego as gone, lost to years of captivity and state-of-the-art corporate brainwashing, even though he's right over there in Safehouse Delta, a team of professionals doing their best to put his mind and memories back together?
Zack snaps out of watching the rain in fascination to turn back to Rickard, nod faintly, then follow him in across the threshold. Rickard shuts the door behind him and leans on it heavily to lock it, keys jangling in his hand, then curses as they clatter to the floor. Swaying in place, Rickard kicks them into a corner, then fumbles through the inside pockets of his trench coat.
He makes a vague gesture at Zack. “Get that off. Don' want you drippin' on my antiques...”
Zack obligingly shrugs out of his coat. At least, he tries to. It takes him a couple of attempts to coordinate the removal of his arms from the sleeves and hang it on an old-fashioned brass hanger, but at least by that time, Rickard has finally produced the smokes. Since neither of them has bothered to turn any lights, only the dreary evening light through a narrow overhead window is giving them any guidance.
Still in his trench, Rickard gestures for Zack to come closer. Rather than give him the cig, Rickard places it directly between his lips with a delicacy that surprises him. The gesture is charged enough that Zack's eyes flick up to meet his for some hint of confirmation, a reassurance of the first unambiguous thing that has happened since they both mutually agreed to drunkenly stumble to Rickard's home together.
Rickard's eyes are unfocused with alcohol and distant with something very different and dark. In the past moths, Zack has discovered he doesn't like looking at them. It is a bit too much like staring into a mirror.
Zack steadies the cig between his teeth with his hand and patiently waits as Rickard produces an actual lighter, too. “Is that a gas lighter?” he can't help but ask, briefly fascinated. In the short-lived, warm glow of it, Rickard's face looks warmer than it did a second ago.
“Yeah, yeah. Might be older than me. Don't get too excited.”
Zack takes a quick, deep drag, coughs a little – still hasn't quite got the hang of this, really, and Rickard's eye-roll agrees. Indoors, the smoke wafts around them. The smell of it suffuses him, mixing with the smell of rain, moth balls and cheap alcohol.
Rickard lights a cig of his own, inhales professionally, then gestures at Zack to follow and steps past him, out of the tiny hallway into the living room, without so much as taking off his hat. Zack follows obligingly. The smell of old things hits him in the nose all at once like a cudgel, even before he's through the door. The room has a strong resemblance to a severely neglected attic, cluttered in every corner with thing out of this century.
“Make yourself at home,” Rickard grunts, stepping expertly past piles of memorabilia to stop in the center of the room, leaning back against a couch piled so high with rolled-up rugs that it's impossible to actually sit on, while Zack carefully perches on the edge of a vacant-enough armchair opposite of him. He can't help his curiosity here, so his gaze is wandering about, taking in what it can. It helps that he's buzzed, the alcohol level in his blood just high enough to suppress any dismay he might have felt at this level of clutter.
No smoke detectors anywhere – some scuff marks on the ceiling indicate they may have been installed, but were removed. This place is one misaimed cigarette butt away from going up in flames, isn't it? He glances at the rugs Rickard is sitting against. They certainly look as if they would ignite like a paper towel if given the opportunity.
Rickard doesn't seem to mind the ogling. He's calmly enjoying his smoke with the same impassioned concentration as if though it might be his last. They're not talking, but that's okay. Most of their time spent together lately consists of not talking. Zack will take that over concerned or pitying stares any day of the week.
The windows are larger in this room, the curtains drawn – there are actual curtains. There's a pitter-patter of rain on the glass, and the natural light that fills the room is calm, not glaring. It's almost... nice.
“I took Mariya here once,” Rickard volunteers, apparently feeling some need to fill the silence anyway. “She practically had a fit, and I don't blame her. Said the place smelled like an 18th century dump.” Rickard chuckles dryly to himself. “Don't know why 18th century, exactly.” He then reaches into his coat again until he's holding a flask. He flashes a boastful smile at Zack. “Refilled this one at the bar, sneaky-like.” He takes a swig.
An easy enough silence descends again. Zack's gotten to the good parts of this particular cigarette and has found his gaze resting on what he's almost certain is an early 20th century radio, and he's mentally picking it apart with his eyes, trying to identify what components he can.
At least, he thought the silence was easy enough until Rickard grunts, and Zack looks up to find the other man's eyes on him. “Used to be, you'd almost never shut up,” Rickard points out. His tone is not judging – an observation, nothing more. Zack returns his look blankly. Used to be. Less than a year ago, really, but there's not much he can say to that.
“Here. Catch,” Rickard grunts, then tosses him the flask. Zack catches it deftly enough, slowly unscrews it to sniff at the contents. Rickard gives a low chuckle at that, shaking his head. “The hell are you sniffing for?”
It's whiskey – or something close enough to it, anyway. Zack takes a deep, final drag of the cig, then washes it down with a sip from the flask followed by a greedier gulp. The smoke and the alcohol burn his throat in different ways, and it's not unpleasant. The heat goes to his chest, bringing a flush to his cheeks and reviving the buzz from before.
“I'm gonna need that back, you know,” Rickard points out. Zack ignores him. He finds it in himself to give him something resembling a smirk. “Should you be drinking, at your age?”
Rickard scowls playfully. “Fuck you,” he mutters, staggering to his feet and towards Zack.
Zack's smile turns wry. “This place is one giant fire hazard, and with that much alcohol in you, you're at the top of the list. I don't think we should be in here.”
Rickard chuckles and reaches to take the flask from him. “Well, there's always the other room.”
Zack lets him. He gets to his feet as well – his knee buckling briefly as he shifts his weight - steps closer, but stops awkwardly, then looks between Rickard and the cigarette stub in his hand. “Where...” he begins.
Rickard sighs and gestures to a tin box on the cluttered coffee table next to them.
Zack shakes his head. “Never mind.”
He tosses the stub into the tin, then carefully steps into Rickard's personal space to kiss him. He fully expects to feel nothing and for them both to declare this experiment a failure, but it's... not bad. Different, certainly. The taller man pulls him closer into the grasp of the still-damp trench coat, as Zack processes all the impressions. Cigarette smoke and aftershave and stubble and the smell of the coat, bizarrely enough, and stale sweat. Something damp hits the back of his neck, and he realizes he's dislodged Rickard's hat to the point where it's dripping onto him. And then the thick, bitter taste of alcohol on Rickard's tongue hits him strongly enough that he actually pulls back, dismayed.
Rickard glowers back at him. “You just gonna stand there?”
Zack reaches for his hat by way of answering, but Rickard grabs his wrist and steers him into 'the other room', instead. It's marginally more clutter-free than the previous one, or at least the bed is. Not trusting him to handle that part, Rickard carefully hangs his hat and coat on a chair. He looks awkward and uneasy without them, and doesn’t stand there long before moving in for another kiss.
Zack's not sure where they're going with this, or what's going to happen. They certainly haven't talked it out, but when Rickard's hands grasp his shoulders and then move down his arms, he thinks it's probably something he can live with. The man presses him to a wall. Zack answers by pulling their hips together, pressing them together through the fabric that's still between them. He hasn't been with someone in a good long while, but he remembers how it's supposed to go, when it's not happening in a cell.
When it's over, Zack staggers to his feet to find his clothes again, feeling very pleasantly rumpled. His puts on his pants and sits back down on the edge of the bed, already rummaging for a smoke. Stretched out next to him, Rickard does the same – a meaningless gesture of shared addiction that nonetheless gives Zack a welcome sense of kinship in that moment. Rickard lights up, then reaches for his hat on the chair next to him and places it on his head, still buck-naked except for the sheets half-tangled over him to ward off the chill. It's a comical enough sight that Zack snorts softly as he takes a drag.
“Not bad,” Rickard grunts. Zack looks at him with a hint of smugness, but the man is staring up into the brim of his hat, breathing out puffs of smoke. “I always assumed you'd be terrible in bed. Can't keep up in the field, can't keep up off of it, am I right?,” Zack snorts again, and Rickard continues. “But guess I had you pegged wrong. That wasn't half bad, even with that busted knee.”
Zack glances down despite himself. The knee is more achey than usual after what he just put it through, but the haze of smoke in him is already starting to dull it. He reaches out to massage it absentmindedly, then takes another slow, deep drag, savoring the discount chemicals as much as he can, and with all the curiosity of a new smoker trying a new blend. Rickard had offhandedly raved about the earthy, lung-deep satisfaction of a good cigarette after sex enough times over the past months that Zack had not only found his interest piqued, but finally recognized it for the un-subtle come-on it had so clearly been. So now he plans to savor this to the last.
Rickard chooses to ruin his enjoyment of it with his next comment.
“Back when you were in lock-up. That prick did something to you, didn't he?”
Zack turns to stare at him. He is taken too off-guard, and too dazed with the pleasant rush of dopamine from various sources to feel more than vague irritation at the comment, even though Rickard normally doesn't have it in him to pry, but his inhibitions seem a little looser right now. He shrugs, and that seems answer enough for Rick even though the man can probably barely see him past the brim of his hat.
“I had a feeling. You've been off ever since you got back. Means it had to be personal,” Rickard explains, with the same dismay one might express at a shipment delivery delayed for no good reason. He scowls, then. “Fucking prick.”
Zack wasn't expecting to talk about this today – isn't sure how to talk about it now, really, though having Rickard call him that is almost comically reassuring. He shrugs again. “He wasn't himself.” He repeats that as he has repeated it to himself time and again. An old mantra.
So it surprises him when Rickard swears and rebukes him in an uncharacteristic show of emotion. “Bullshit. Once a prick, always a prick.” He stops and sniff, inhales deeply. “Fuck. These are some good smokes...”
What can Zack say? That it wasn't really him, and his dealing with that has for some months now been contingent on accepting that reality? On thinking of Diego as gone, lost to years of captivity and state-of-the-art corporate brainwashing, even though he's right over there in Safehouse Delta, a team of professionals doing their best to put his mind and memories back together?
Oddly enough, thinking him as a prick helps, just a little. There's something reaffirming about it. Maybe it really had been Diego, and maybe it hadn't been. It doesn't change what happened, won't mend the scarring or soothe the phantom pain in his knee. It simply is.
All along, Zack has been so focused on needing to forgive him, as if he might lose himself if he fails at that. Maybe... maybe it's alright not to.
Rickard doesn't need to hear that, though. Their relationship, such as it is, has thrived, such as it has, on not making things too personal.
Zack rolls out of bed to sit on the edge of it, hands braced on his knees as he breathes, blinking at the darkness. The dream is still fresh, as real as his racing heart, the thud of his pulse in his temples, his shallow breaths. His skin feels clammy where the air touches it. Everything else feels distant.
“...Ngh, the hell?” He hears a grumble just as a hand nudges his back in the dark. Zack flinches, turns to look at where he can only barely make out Rickard's sleepy shape. Rickard. What the hell is he still doing in Rickard's bed, anyway? It's late.
Zack staggers to his feet, manages to gather up his clothes from the pile on the chair on the first try. Rickard makes a dismayed, protesting noise, probably at the prospect of Zack moving around the flat unsupervised, but he can't bring himself to care.
“I'll see you tomorrow,” he says flatly, his voice almost steady. He dresses as he limps out of the room.
It's only when he's outside the apartment building that it dawns on him that he's forgotten his coat, and the nights are colder now. Still, the door locked automatically behind him, no going back for it now, and in a way, the cold is welcome.
Lost, Zack stands there for a while, shivering. He mechanically searches his pockets for a flask (should have grabbed Rickard's on the way out...), his smokes, anything, but those are in his coat. Hissing out a breath, frustrated and jittery, Zack starts walking away quickly, nowhere else to pour his restlessness and his knee already aching more with each step through the cold. At least he roughly hits on the direction of the HQ.
Forty minutes. With the subway, it would be faster, but he doesn't take the subway.
By the time he's there, his cheeks are numb and he's resorted to sticking his hands under his shirt to keep them warm.
The sliding doors of the store front on the ground floor of the HQ are sealed shut this time of night, so he takes the back entrance, unlocking it with a hand print and walking down the narrow, squat corridor into the elevator, deceptively shaggy-looking for something with that much scanning tech behind it. Zack can hear the faint electromagnetic thrum of it as the more sophisticated devices verify his identity. He looks away from the camera he knows is concealed in the corner. In the warmth of the elevator, his cheeks are starting to sting.
The HQ is quiet this time of night. Some night owls, but not many. That suits him just fine, all he wants is to get to his room and get back to sleep.
He is unlucky. Mariya Cortez passes him in the hall and stops him, her eyebrows climbing at the sight of him.
“Zack? You look like death warmed over. What happened?”
“Nothing,” Zack says truthfully. Belatedly, it occurs to him how he must look: Under-dressed, disheveled and skin flushed from the cold. And oh, Cortez can probably smell Rickard's mothball collection on him, too.
He moves past her, though he can feel her gaze following him.
Zack finally ducks into his room, locks the door behind him, and makes his way to his bed by touch. He collapses onto it face-down, nuzzles into the pillow, stretches out his limbs until his joints pop, shuts his eyes, and makes a valiant effort to sleep.
Fifty minutes later, he finally gives up.
Zack strips, stuffs his clothing into a bin and enters the miniature bathroom. He steps under the shower and lets the jets of water scald him for a good minute before stepping out again. He dutifully pats himself down with a towel, puts on fresh clothing, dries his hair and makes some effort to pat it into shape. He pours a careful five minutes into shaving. There. He's normal. Everything is fine.
On his way into the workshop, he stops at the hallway crossroads, as has become his little ritual of late. The signs are as obtuse as you would expect them to be in a spy agency, but the words “firing range” are straightforward enough. After all, many private companies have their own firing range for personnel training. Nothing strange about that.
The firing range has guns, as you'd expect. Secured in storage lockers, but simple enough to get past. Not beam weapons, either. Bullets and gunpowder. Messy.
He could probably get away with taking one for later. You never know when you might need a gun, 'approved' or not.
A crushing grip on him, dragging him along the floor
Zack starts walking toward the firing range. Down the corridor, there'll be another elevator, he knows. He hasn't been there since he got back, but knowing it's there has made it impossible to forget.
He hears the boss's voice around the corner before he sees her, then, and backtracks rapidly, taking down the other route to engineering instead. He can't tell who she's talking to, though by the second set of footsteps, it must be another agent.
Zack walks briskly to the workshop until he's inside, surrounded by its familiar dimness. He shuts his eyes, leans back against the door to calm his suddenly spiking pulse.
He's not sure when he started avoiding her.
He takes his place at his work station, the familiarity of it embracing him. He can probably get a solid four hours of work done before anyone else shows up.
Zack's not surprised when Rickard follows him outside for his smoke break. But when the man tosses a crumpled bundle at him – Zack's coat – the animosity catches him off guard.
“Thank you,” he says, holding the cig between his teeth, and slips it on.
Rickard glares at him and lights up his own.
After a while, the hostile silence irritates him enough to break it.
“Did I do something?” Zack asks, more than a little tersely.
Rickard grunts. “Depends. We've been shacking up every week now. Does that entitle me to get pissed when you just up and leave? You tell me.”
Zack looks at him in disbelief. Of all the people, he didn't expect to have to deal with this from Rickard. Zack shrugs and looks away. “You'll get over it.”
A stunned moment of silence, then a hiss. “Fuck you.”
Rickard tosses the unfinished cig over the railing and storms back inside.
Synthetic skin being torn to reveal a robotic interior underneath
Whumpee discovered in an antique shop
A Whumpee with mismatched repairs. A green replacement eye, different from the blue. A copper tone metal arm contrasting with the cool gray. A leg of completely different style.
Whumper having no remorse towards Whumpee because they are nonhuman
Whumper being another robot, knowing Whumpee’s physical weaknesses
Whumper hacking/sabotaging Whumpee
A hacked whumpee being out of control of their own body
An electric shock destroying Whumpee’s wiring
Caretaker buys a hand me down/used robot/android, receiving Whumpee
Whumpee is the result of being put together, Frankenstein style, from several parts of robots. Life to them is miserable.
AI was transferred from a robot/android into [insert technology here], Caretaker and Whumper are both forced to deal with them, and don’t know what to do about the depressed acting technology
Caretaker discovers a robot/android dragging themselves
The voice comes out of nowhere and Zack jumps, heart in his throat. It takes him a moment to pinpoint the source – a panel of speakers up by the ceiling, something innocuous made for announcements. He swallows, tries to calm his racing heart and slips into the next room, navigating through this corporate maze. Almost every room seems outfitted with an announcement panel. The voice, growling with every syllable, follows him like a shark.
"That trick was cute, the booby trap on the door. Took me out, fair and square. But you didn't get far, did you? I can tell you're nearby. Don't worry, I'm going to be with you every step of the way now. Until we're in the same room."
Zack tries to tune it out. This is just a cheap demoralizing tactic. Even if the whole thing was a setup, he has a real opportunity here. If he sticks with it, he might get out. He might.
"You even took away my gun. Like I said: cute. Did you really think that one through? I already got a replacement, and let me promise you one thing, prisoner: No matter what you do, I'm going to use it."
He slips down the corridor. The room has at least three speaker panels and the voice is all around him, a tangible presence in his ear. If his heart was racing before, it's pounding painfully now, the gut-deep fear threatening to overwhelm his senses. He forces it down, recalls the entirety of his training – keep his mind cool, search for openings, wait for the opportunity, then move, with boldness and decisiveness.
The corridor is empty. It might have felt reassuring, but really, it just strikes him as the deserted death maze it really is. An arena to play cat and mouse in. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself at that thought. Keep moving. The next door, the next room – he peeks inside. There is a turret, facing away from the door, towards the other end of the room, Still no people. He steps inside, hugging the wall and ducking behind cover out of habit.
"Or maybe you thought it would... what, delay me? The extra minute or so I would have to spend to go out of my way to secure a replacement gun. That could be the difference between life and death, is that right, prisoner?
Wrong.
Listen closely. I'll let you in on a little secret."
Damn that voice. He can still hear Diego in it – his old partner, his old lover – but there is nothing he can recognize of the person he used to know. His lyrical taunts, waxing poetic about the mission at hand... Zack can remember that, still. But he's never had to hear it like this, with only the cold, vicious cadence of a hunter who can't wait to get his claws into him.
"You're here because of me." Diego's voice drops to a confidential whisper now, deep and gravelly. "That's right. It doesn't matter what you do, how much time you buy, how much of an edge you gain. None of it will matter. If you haven't figured it out already, this was all just a fun little exercise. A thrilling little chase for me. And a test for you, if you like. You failed, though. You fell for it hook, line and sinker. But I've been calling the shots from the beginning. I let you off with a head start. And I'm the one who made sure the entire area around us is on lockdown. You're not getting past that. And when I start to get bored... I'll start tightening the noose."
Zack's heart sinks. He begins to tremble, has to stop and lean back against the side of a desk for a moment to calm the queasiness inside him. He'd known, of course. He'd known it was a trap for a while now, and on some level, even before he'd set foot outside his cell. It was all just too convenient, but that was the training: leave no opportunity unseized.
Hearing it from him is something else, though.
The turret – he can slip past it if he's quick enough. Zack gathers his strength, disables it with a touch of his hand and the pulse generator built into his arm, then makes a mad dash for the door on the other side, slips through into another, bigger room. A conference room or something of the like.
"Couldn't wait to spring free, could you? I'm surprised at you, prisoner. I thought you had quite a cushy deal going on here. You work for us, and we keep you alive. But those terms just weren't good enough for you, were they?"
Zack takes it in with a practiced gaze. Two doors on the opposite end. Between here and there – furniture, several low tables with chairs, a powered-off projection screen, a decorative sculpture, and a fancy chessboard (likely just as decorative). He starts to move towards the doors, keeping close to cover.
"I'll tell you what... listen closely, prisoner-"
Zack freezes briefly, eyes wide as he hears the voice again – from the speaker panel, as expected, and a second, fainter source, from behind the door to the right. It's him. Fuck, it's him. He finds his wits in time to make a dive for the couch by the wall, the one that's facing most of the room, and hunkers down behind it. The door opens a split second later and a pair of footsteps in heavy boots enter the room.
"...because I'm only going to say this once. My superiors aren't too happy with you. Neither am I, you can imagine. After all, we had a deal too, didn’t we? I made you a promise, last time you tried to escape..."
Zack is frozen, pressed against the back of the couch. He doesn't dare peek past it. His body is screaming at him that he's about to get caught, overcome with an irrational conviction as solid as his bones that Diego will see him, smell him, can probably hear his thundering heartbeat right now all across the room. He tracks the heavy footsteps, his mind blank. He's been deployed on countless missions and found himself hiding behind cover, inches from an enemy, but never before has he felt such fear.
"Right now I have every inclination to make good on it, and I might not stop there. And after you're caught... well, who knows what the top dogs will do to you, when you're being so inconvenient. But I'll tell you what. You come out of hiding like a good boy right now and I might take it easy. Maybe put in a good word for you. Mistakes were made, but I'm not a monster, you know. What do you think?"
The footsteps are moving away now. Maybe it'll be okay – his mind jumbled, Zack realizes too late that maybe Diego doesn't expect to find him here, is failing to search behind cover as thoroughly as he might otherwise. After all, they do not know he can disable devices as easily as he can. They weren't expecting him to head this way, past the turret.
He can use this. Surely he can use this. If he can bring himself to move. Zack shuts his eyes, quietly takes a deep breath. His heart feels ready to burst out of his chest. His blood is pumping in his temples, something between nausea and a headache pounding in his head, and he feels achey and hollow and not quite attached to his own body. He has to snap out of it. Now. He needs to snap out of it.
"Are you here, little fox?" Diego says teasingly before sharply kicking open the door to the next room – the room Zack last came from. The turret! Fuck, if it's still disabled, if it hasn't completed its reboot...
Zack doesn't wait to finish that thought – Diego's back is turned and this is all the time he gets. He darts out from behind the couch and to the next scrap of cover. His heart sinks as he hears Diego hiss softly in realization.
"Interesting..."
The door – now! It's a straight line of open space between him and the exit, but he has to take it. Zack makes a mad dash for it, across the room, reaches it, pulls on the handle. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Diego's shape in the opposite doorway, turning towards him.
"There you are!"
Zack shoves the door open, all but falling through it. Inches behind him, plasma fire shatters the glass inlets of the door and a shower of glass shards peppers the ground. Zack scrambles into a sprint. Another hallway. He has maybe one, two seconds out of sight and out of earshot. He picks a door at random, closes it behind him, keeps running past desks and chairs, kicks one out of the way, curses himself, chooses another door at random and keeps running. If he had a grasp on where he was in this maze of office rooms and cubicles before, he's lost now.
Diego's boots thunder through the corridor he left behind.
"You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" Diego sounds pleased, and – dammit, he knows the voice is coming from the corridor, but the sound of it over the speakers diffuses it, makes it harder to pinpoint. Zack is standing in the next room, briefly frozen. The way he's facing looks familiar, but he doesn't think he's been here before. He snaps out of it and keeps moving. Spots a door with a fire escape sign on it. Filled with a strange, sudden sense of hope, he runs to it, slips inside. If he can get to another level...
The staircase is there, and he can spot another door several stories up. His legs aching and lungs already burning from the chase, Zack runs up the metallic grate steps as softly as he can. Up close, the door is solid, metallic, with a round 'submarine' style window in the top half, and another office area behind it.
It's locked.
Zack has a brief, hollow moment of wondering just how long it would take Diego to find him if he just... stops here. Stops running and waits for him. As he was told to. There is no way out, he can feel it in his bones no matter how hard he tries to delay the inevitable.
The boss would be disappointed. This wasn't how he was trained.
It's an odd thought, but it helps.
Zack tries and fails to put his back into it for a few seconds before giving up, gasping. He glances back down. He cannot hear or see Diego except through the announcement system, but backtracking feels equivalent to death. He looks back at the glass window. Double sheeting.
Zack grits his teeth and pulls off the top of his jumpsuit to wrap it around his elbow. Desperate times, desperate measures and all that.
He smashes through the glass. It takes him a couple of tries and sends glass shards flying everywhere, and painful jolts through his arm, but he can worry about that later. The noise of breaking glass is deafening. He somehow reaches through for the handle on the other side, grasping blindly. Miraculously, he feels a set of keys in the door. He has just enough leverage to turn it, with the tips of his fingers.
"I heard that, little fox." There are no speakers up here, and the area looks older, but he can still hear it from the level he just left. Like a spur, it jolts him into action. He needs to keep moving. There has to be an exit here somewhere.
Before Zack has taken even a dozen steps into the room, it becomes clear that coming here was a mistake. The area is essentially one large room full of cubicles. An exit to the left has been sealed off for construction. An exit to the right has been bricked up. An elevator door – but there is an old-timey grate gate in front of it, with the key nowhere to be found. A ventilation shaft by the ceiling looks promising, but is higher up than he can reach without moving furniture around. Not when he's already out of time.
Out of breath, Zack ducks behind a cubicle just as Diego bursts through the door.
The enforcer stops in the doorway and surveys the room. He takes a deep breath, sniffing the air. Melodramatic as always...
"I know you're in here."
He says it calmly, matter-of-fact, and it sends a chill down Zack's spine. He watches as much as he dares through a crack in the cubicle wall he's behind. A dead end. He's trapped with no way out, but if he plays it smart and keeps his head, waits until Diego has moved away from the door and circles around, then-
As if reading his thoughts, Diego looks around thoughtfully and grabs a large, heavy cabinet next to the door. He pulls on the sides, and Zack winces at the deafening noise as the metal legs drag over the rough concrete floor. Diego pulls and pushes it into place until the exit is securely barricaded.
Zack stares, cold resignation flickering through his heart. Well, that's it, then. He'll never move it quickly enough to slip out, not with that amount of noise... This was place was a death trap, and he blundered right in.
In soft bewilderment, he wonders if this has been the plan all along. If somehow, Diego had meant to herd him into this one area where he would finish him off... he couldn't have planned that, could he? This hadn't been the plan from the beginning. Zack had gotten farther than they had ever meant for him to get, of that much, he was sure. For all the good that did.
Diego continues his soft, cruel taunts as he begins to search in a circle through the large room, clearing a row of cubicles with every few steps. He's away from the exit now. Zack could try, if he's foolhardy enough to try till the last, but he knows a losing match when he sees one. There seems to be something pathetic about being shot in the back while scrambling to move some furniture out of the way.
Diego is not close to him now, but he will be. There is no escaping him. There is no point, no feasible way for him to make it out of this, no benefit he will gain by trying to drag it out, stall for time. His heart is pounding, his limbs shaking from the chase, and more than anything Zack wants to curl up someplace dark and not... think, or feel, anytime soon. He'd never understood people who, in response to a crisis, simply hid in a corner and cried in panic, but he can relate to that a little bit better now.
He stands up, not bothering with cover. Diego can't see him yet, but he will as soon as he clears that pillar and makes another sweep. Any moment now.
Zack wants to close his eyes, gives in to it. Let Diego find him. Let him shoot him, for all he cares. He's had enough of this cruel game. He's ready to lose, just for it to be over.
"There you are." The voice is smug and satisfied, sending a lurch through him. Zack looks up silently at the figure of the enforcer facing him – gun at the ready, visor only partially concealing the pleased, hungry smile, and he is panting slightly. Zack has nothing to say to him. He's tense, bracing himself for the worst, but refuses to let himself fidget. Some deep, ancient instinct in him is telling him to play dead. Maybe if he doesn't move, it won't be as bad...
"Look at you," Diego continues. He can't see the man's eyes behind that visor, but wagers he wouldn't like the look in them. "Not even trying to hide now, are you? Smart. Pity you weren't this smart when it mattered."
He raises his gun, gesturing at Zack. "Now, while you're at it, why don't you raise your hands, too? Show me you're unarmed."
Zack glares at him slightly, a weak reaction that breaks its way through the fear. This is wildly unnecessary. Any idiot could tell you he's unarmed.
Slowly, he raises his hands. Diego smirks, nods with satisfaction. "That'll do. Keep still, now."
Zack swallows, everything in him tensing as Diego approaches him with slow, heavy steps. Zack can see him better than he wants to, now, can see every scratch and scuff in that heavy guard armour, can tell just how much Diego is relishing this. He feels sickened.
"On your knees, now." Diego's voice is almost soft, but there is nothing soft about the way Diego is looking at him. He stops a few paces away.
Zack obeys him, hands still in the air. He watches the sights of the gun adjust on him. On the other side of it, Diego is watching him with his head tilted, as if surveying a particularly exquisite piece of art. Zack stares back impassively, past the barrel of the gun. He has no more defiance left in him, not anymore. Somehow, that feels more like losing than anything else has.
Diego nods softly. "Good..."
Zack barely has time to process it as the man lowers his gun and shoots him through the knee.
With a cry and a shudder, Zack drops to the floor, then simply lies there, gasping. He can't quite breathe past the pained, choked noises clawing through his throat, and his leg is on fire.
"Sorry, peach. A promise is a promise," Diego says quietly.
Zack barely hears him. He's squirming on the floor, helplessly cradling his knee and making noises he can't quite stop. The splintering, burning pain in his knee is slowly fanning out, as if engulfing him in radiation. The concrete floor is cold against his arms, the texture rough. Heavy footsteps, coming closer. He tries to lift his head to look up. Something heavy – a boot on his back forces him back down, crushes him briefly to the floor. He chokes on his whimper.
"I've got him." Diego's voice seems high above him, and it's exuberant, breathless. Footsteps again. Diego is walking away, towards the door. "Yes, we're on floor 47. Send someone to bring him in."
Zack closes his eyes and rests his face against the concrete. He has trouble thinking past the blazing pain – he can't move, can barely think about moving his leg without feeling like his knee has become a thin sack filled with white-hot shards. Something in him distantly realizes that it's not good news for his mobility, or his future chance of escape. Can't run very far on one leg. They've got to patch him up, right? They have to. At least it's over now. It sinks in with cold, sickening relief. The hunt is done. It's over.
Peach. Diego called him 'peach'. His blood runs cold at the realization. An old nickname. A word Zack remembers being murmured in the dark, affectionately, with a kiss pressed into his hair before they both get ready to face the new day. A glitch, or a rediscovery? Of all the damnedest things to remember...
"Belay that," the voice snaps him out of it – Diego's footsteps have stopped without him noticing. He's still in the room. "Five more minutes. I'm not done yet. No. Don't interrupt. Vulture out."
Zack hears a click as Diego shuts off comms, and then the heavy boots again... walking towards him, again, back towards him, slowly. No, no, not this, it's over, it is supposed to be over. Zack squeezes his eyes shut, unable to think past the overwhelming dread, so much stronger in its comeback now that it had been minutes before. He stays still as a corpse. Play dead and maybe he'll lose interest...
Diego's breathing is hungry, as if he's savouring the air as he stalks closer. He doesn't say anything, but the next thing Zack knows, a hand has seized him by the collar and is dragging him across the floor. He groans with pain as his leg is jostled in the process, tears springing to his eyes. "Diego, don't..." he manages to gasp. His leg catches on the leg of a table and he only just chokes back a sob.
Diego doesn't grace him with an answer. He drags Zack through a doorway into a cul-de-sac of a side room that must have been a kitchenette once, as far as Zack can tell from his vantage point near the floor. Diego kicks a turned over empty water cooler out of the way. Zack groans as he is pulled upright, shoved with his back against the counter and his legs stretched out in front of him. He has no choice but to look at him as Diego crouches in front of him, leering.
"Alright now, prisoner. Just you and me again," Diego murmurs, exhilarated, like he can't get enough of Zack's terror. Zack can only barely focus through the haze of pain, and even worse, the helplessness that has washed over him. He's hobbled, unarmed and has nothing to do except sit there and pray that Diego will get bored quickly enough. That face – fuck, he can't bear to look at it. All the familiar lines are still there, except for the glint of those eyes through the visor – twisted and dark like nothing he has seen before.
He finds himself looking away, trying to avoid that gaze, but Diego reaches out to non-too-gently grasp him by the chin. Zack hisses, staring into those eyes again. "Before I take you back, let's make sure we understand each other," he says softly, menacingly. "You've learned your lesson, haven't you? I must admit, I haven't had this much fun in a long, long while." His smile drops then, his face deadly serious. "But the time for fun and games is over. I want you to promise me something. Repeat after me: I will never try to run again."
Zack stays silent. At this point, only the rush of fear and adrenaline is still keeping him lucid, but there are lines he won't cross, some tiny vestiges of his spirit still remaining that he refuses to let go of. No way in hell is he going to play along now.
Diego's expression twists in an ugly way, he seems both outraged and smug. He's enjoying this, Zack realizes with a cold jolt. He'd never thought Diego, his Diego, had it in him..
"...One more time," Diego says slowly, deliberately, growling every syllable like a dog chewing through a particularly delicious bone, "I want you to promise me. That you will never try to run. Ever again." He tightens his grip on Zack, shifting his weight, and with an awful certainty Zack anticipates the pain a moment before it happens – Diego brings his boot down onto his knee, and Zack twists, a sound ripping from his throat as the pain flares white-hot, sparks dancing in his eyes. Mindlessly, he tries to scrabble for something, but Diego pins him down effortlessly. "Because let me promise you something, prisoner," Diego continues, his voice low and gravely, "if you ever try that again, I will find you, prisoner. I will hunt you down, and I will make damn sure you will not walk again for the rest of your short, miserable life. So tell me. Do we have an agreement?"
Zack doesn't answer. And then a moment later, he can't speak – Diego presses his boot down onto his knee and grinds it hard against the floor, and Zack is screaming again... he barely registers it, only feels it as the strain in his throat and the sound ripping through the building, his vision blurring with white noise. He loses track of things for a while. When he comes to, Diego is slapping his face, and then there is a splashing sound, something cool dripping down his skin, and Zack slowly blinks as Diego caps a flask at his side again. "There we go," the voice mocks him, a hand is roughly holding up his chin again. Zack squints at the bright overhead lights, his eyes won't quite focus on the figure blocking them out. Another slap to his face, harder this time, enough to whip his head around and make his ears ring.
“You with me again, peach?” A hand grabs his chin again, rough, but the nickname stings more.
“Stop...”, Zack manages, barely able to focus on his face past the haze of pain, the bright overhead lights bathing Diego's face like a halo. He cannot comprehend this. His Diego... his Diego was never like this.
The hand at his chin drifts up his cheek, oddly gentle now, and into his hair. Zack's head drops, he doesn't have the strength to hold it down, and the cool fingers against his scalp are the only thing that feels good right now. He leans into them dizzily. “Matthew?” he murmurs, before he can think better of it. Before he can regret it. Diego's name, his real name-
A terrible, empty beat of silence, but Diego's voice is inhuman when he breaks it.
“Quiet,” he growls, hand tightening in Zack's hair again, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut against the sting. Squeaking noises – bottlecap again, and his head is being held up again as water sloshes down his throat. He coughs, convulsing, and tries to swallow.
"That's better," Diego is saying, as if through a thick wall of cotton, his voice cold and merciless. "I want to make sure we understand each other. So tell me, one more time. Are you going to run again?”
Zack squints up at him against the glaring lights, grits his teeth, and doesn't answer.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Zack stares at the floor.
His back is to the side of the bed, arms folded over his knees. In the background, the distant alarm noises blare on and off. The emergency lighting is flickering every so often. It looks real.
The door to his cell is open, the force field having fizzled into nothing some minutes ago, but he refuses to look at it.
It looks real, but it isn't.
He tells himself there's a reason. It's been two weeks. Thirteen days, to be precise. His knee still gives him jolts of pain when he places his weight on it too rapidly - advanced corporate medicine can only do so much. He's in no shape to make a run for it, even if it's real. He'll just have to wait for a better opportunity. After all, he never did make that promise not to run again.
That's what he tells himself.
Inside, he knows he'll stay put the next time, too. And the time after that, if it comes to it. There is no leaving, not for him. Not with the heavy weight that settled in his limbs two weeks ago and has refused to leave – a taste like lead and the cold tang of dread.
He starts to imagine running. Making a break for it, navigating the maze-like corridors, alone. Taking out the guards. Hacking into security. Pursuit, the heavy presence hot on his heels. Hiding with his back to a couch, barely daring to breathe.
His mind shrinks away from it and he releases a breath, slow and deep, emptying it again.
The boss would probably fire him on the spot, if she could see him right now.
Heavy footsteps down the corridor. His heart sinks, and only when they come to a stop in front of his cell does he dare to look up.
Diego – the Vulture, Zack needs to stop thinking of him as him – cuts an imposing figure in the doorway, with his visor and shoulder pads and semiautomatic held in a leisurely but firm two-handed grip. The unsettling smile on his face only widens when he sees Zack. He takes a step into the cell, taps at at key on his wrist. With a hum, the force-field doors reactivates behind him, but everything else – the cameras, the lighting – does not.
Zack's heart sinks. Not him again. Diego – the Vulture has mostly left him alone since that... hunt. With the exception of being there when Zack woke up, a cheap cup of coffee ready by his bedside in some kind of mocking gesture. He hadn't touched it, didn't know what to make of it. The less he thinks about Diego, the better.
Diego slowly holsters his gun, stepping closer. The cell is small enough that Zack already regrets his far too vulnerable position now, sitting on the floor. He wants to jump to his feet, back away from Diego into a corner, put all the distance he can between them... but something in him makes him stock-still. Something about the predatory glint in Diego's eyes, the memories of that day, of having learned that if he runs, Diego will give chase. Avoid giving him reason to, even the slightest. Stay still. Play dead, give him nothing to respond to. He will get bored.
At least that's what Zack tells himself when Diego stops in front of him.
“Good boy,” the man murmurs. Diego holsters the semiautomatic, then reaches out, ruffles Zack's hair, and he shudders. “You didn't run.”
There is nothing he can say to that.
The hand in his hair drifts down, cups his chin.
Diego's voice is smug, but soft. “I knew you'd learned your lesson.”
Zack stares at the floor and finds himself wishing for a gun.
We hope you had a blast! We had a blast ❤️ thank you all for the participation and for making whumptober the event it is :)
Without further ado, here are this year's badges. A big fat THANK YOU to @ddringo (ditteringo on Instagram) for working with us on them this year. We're so much in love with them! Thank you so much!
Call for Completionists & Feedback Surveys
Now before before you run off we ask for a few minutes of your time filling out the following two surveys:
Call for Completionists open until the 4th of November
General Feedback Survey (for everyone, including Completionists) open until the 10th of November
We hope you had a great time. Thank you all so much for participating and keep on whumping!
- the mods
PS: Link to the prompt post can be found here: Whumptober 2022 Prompts
When two people are taken by the villain but one of them is really injured and so the other literally begs for some water or medical supplies to fix their friend/sibling/lover before it’s too late.
the whump community is scientific evidence that indulging in absolutely bonkers gratuitously dark shit while being 100% aware of it being fucked up is a healthier state of mind and leads to absurdly sweet and kind people than the stupid “if you write bad things you are a bad person uwu if you don’t agree with me then die” bullshit that has taken the fandom by storm as of late
I forgot I made this post but I'm not even kidding. It's anecdotal, but every single person I've met who enjoys whump and "dead dove do not eat"-type content has been ridiculously nice, boundary-aware, and with good communication skills.
On the flip side, every single person I've met who deliberately cultivated a cutesy or sweet image (usernames referencing cake and candy, overuse of "cutesy" words like 'smol' and 'uwu', the "smol bean" persona etc.) turned out to be an utter toxic piece of shit (and, not coincidentally, at least one of them was also lowkey an anti when it came to whump stuff and age gap romance.. between grown-ass adults)
They’re caught. And Whumper notices the device. But instead of taking it off and crushing it, he smiles and just leaves it on. While torturing Whumpee to learn more about who’s listening on the other end.
And Caretaker can do nothing but listen :)
Bonus if after a while, (maybe after Whumpee’s been a defiant shit for hours and has taken it all well) Caretaker just hears a broken “No… no, no, please, PLEA–” and with a loud smash and crackle, the transmissions ends and Caretaker is going out of their mind with worry.
character in fight scene: *restrains the opponent by twisting their arm/s behind their back and pinning them to the wall chest first with their own chest pressing against the opponents back*
Character in fighting scene: *restrains opponents arms in a lock hold with their own, entangling their arms together forcing their bodies to be pressed together and faces in close proximity*
Character in a fight scene: *steps with only one leg between the legs of the opponent that’s lying on the floor*
Me:
Character in a fight scene: *dives on their opponent to knock them out of the way of something that could have killed them and they both sit their out of breath, staring at each other, one on top of the other*
Character in a Fight Scene: *is pinned down by by their opponent, but then distracts them and flips them both over, so their opponent is now the one pinned down*
Me:
Character in a Fight Scene: *breathing heavily, wiping away blood from their mouth as they look mildly impressed at their opponent*
is this real? / i thought pro wrestling was fake? wrestling is 'fake' in that the fights are choreographed and the winner is predetermined, but the physicality is very real. there's no way to 'fake' getting whipped with a metal chain so hard it leaves welts.
why ARE they chained? this is a specialty fight called a 'dog collar match' where both participants are, you guessed it, fitted with dog collars which are then chained together.
is this legal? / how can this be allowed? why wouldn't it be? they're both consenting adults who planned and agreed to it.
but they could be seriously hurt! they know, and they accept the risk. pro wrestlers are well aware of the injuries possible in their line of work, and they do it anyway because they're crazy people.
IS there aftercare? of a sort, yeah - there's a medical team on hand to patch everyone up, and lots of coworkers backstage to give them a 'job well done!'
why are they wearing thigh highs? they're kneepads/shin guards for protection. looking like sexy thigh highs is just a bonus side effect!
ok, but why's that guy in a shiny speedo? personal preference. wrestlers can design their own outfits and some prefer full coverage long tights, while others wear less to show off the gams.
is that cm punk? yup! he unretired last year.
why do straight men watch this? i'm still trying to figure this one out. 🤷
#is this just kinky as hell to anyone else or like#is that just me?
Nah mate two half-naked muscular men chained together by their dog collars whipping the shit out of each other with chains in a ritualised power struggle with a predetermined dominator and submitter of the interaction in a public ring is wholesome family entertainment
someone's sideblog xoxo @raggedbreathwhump - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
