Whump sideblog - Marvin, he/any - just here for a good time, almost entirely reblogs- follows n stuff from @marvinprefect42 - mutuals i am giving you a kiss
after lurking for 2+ years, im finally doing it. so hello!
my name is marvin, i use any pronouns but like he/him, and i consider myself a big whump fan. im in quite a lot of fandoms, and also love to read people's whump ocs. i like box boy stuff, captivity whump, and im a sucker for a large array of cliché prompts.
im not much of a writer sadly, but i love to read other people’s stuff. since ive been lurking, i havent had the chance to find many good writers, so if you write whump, tell me and ill give you a follow! (follows come from @/marvinprefect42) Id also love to be part of some whump discord, so please drop any link if you have any!
some of the people im quite a fan of, and have inspired me to come out of the darkness:
like the betrayal’s always going to be worse if they cared about you and it didn’t matter. someone discards you because they didn’t give a shit, then you can be angry about that, you can feel vindicated in that, you can get over it. but if they can look you in the eyes and say “I love you. I would make the same choice again.” You will never sleep peacefully again, is all.
“I thought they cared about me, but they were lying this whole time.” <- tired. boring. removes all the nuance of this relationship to make it easier to move on from.
“I thought they cared about me, and I was right, and every minute they were there for me, every time they said they were proud, every laugh we shared leaning against each other bruised and breathless, all of it was real. and they still left me behind. They could put their love aside. I couldn’t.” <- insane. will never leave you alone. reminds you that even the worst people are still people and can still care about even the ones they hurt the most and that undoes neither the harm nor the love.
The hand on his shoulder pats gently. Runs across the side of his neck, slides into his curls. Lux shivers.
“Baby, baby! That’s the whole point!” As if giving him a luxurious treatment at a hair salon, those hands scrape across his scalp and tug on his hair, twisting it and tugging it with apparent affection. It sends Lux’s shoulders scrunching forward, his back hunching defensively. “You should be scared. We’re going to crack you right open. It’s gonna hurt! It’s gonna mess you up!”
The lilting voice grates against his ears. Lux shivers when he’s pulled back to sitting up by two fistfuls of his hair, all the way until the base of his skull is pressed to the top of the chair and he’s forced to look up at the person standing over him.
“Please,” The warlock whispers, wrists flexing in their bindings. Metal cuffs with odd markings on them. His magic isn’t working. He’s trying, trying to poke at it, but it won’t wake up. He hasn’t felt so small in a while.
“You don’t like hands here, on your head? Oh!” As they slide their fingers from fistfuls of curls to his temples, Lux’s eyes widen and fill with tears. “Oh, you’ve had guests in your head before! Is that why you’re such a baby?”
Humiliation sends a flush raging across his cheeks. “What, what do you w-want to know? I can, maybe I can talk. We can talk about it. You don’t, y-you don’t have to – I could talk, ins-stead.”
“Talk about what? You – don’t – even – know – what…” With each word, they rap their fingers against his temples. “I – want – to – know!”
He can’t take this again. Magic slicing into his mind, tearing open his secrets, forcing him to relive awful things. Erasing things he needs, mixing up stuff he was trying so hard to keep in order… too many times it’s happened. He doesn’t remember his birthday sometimes. Forgets how to find the house. Needs contacts in his phone because he can’t keep hold of phone numbers, reads his journal to know how his week’s been so far. His scrambled brain can’t take it anymore.
Their fingertips adjust, their wrists angling differently, with purpose that is too familiar. Lux squeezes his eyes shut and breathes hard from his nose, his stomach tensing against rapidly building nausea. If he isn’t killed, it’ll be so awful going home with this fresh horror. He won’t be able to sleep in the bed with Emory for a while. He might not be able to speak. It’ll all be so hard again.
The pressure begins to build in his skull. As if he’s got hands sliding under his clothes to slowly pull them off, Lux croaks out a sob.
The walls in his mind stand solid. He’s ready for magic to slice through them and slam into the back of his skull, ready for his memories to suddenly be tossed around and shaken loose. All he feels is the gentle throb of a budding headache.
Confused, Lux frowns, eyes blinking open. Above him there is a frown to match his own. Their eyes are closed with focus.
“...Oh,” The warlock whispers, relaxing in his chair. “Oh, I guess you… you’re just…” Oddly, and for the first time, he laughs softly at someone trying to hurt him.
“What?” Their voice is strained. It’s difficult to speak while using mind magic. It sounds painful. “What are you laughing at? How are you laughing?”
Lux’s smile grows wider. The tears are still in his eyes, but now it feels like he’s crying from the laughter. “I think… I’m better at this than you are.”
The hands jerk away from his head. The throbbing between his ears dulls almost instantly. Lux lets out a shaky sigh, relaxing fully.
“What kind of a freak is good at this? You – you… how many times has someone fucked your brains out?” They’s staggering back and bracing a palm against the wall, shaking the stinging magic from their fingers.
His smile fades, legs shifting with discomfort.
They push off the wall and return to stand behind him, resting their hands on his shoulders. Tension makes its way back into his muscles.
“Still plenty I can do to you,” Comes that grating sing-song voice again, colored with a pained smile.
living weapon whumpee has been having a worse time than usual. they are put through more gruelling training, punished more severely for any infractions, given less and lesser time to rest. whumpee doesn't know what to name this slow swell of emotion below fatigue and pain.
until someone pushes too hard, and suddenly there is blood on their hands. blood on the white tiles, on the white coat and the white room, the stabbing bite of that color washed away by the still warm red dripping down the walls. the glass lays shattered by their feet.
the researchers seem to have overestimated their million protections and precautions.
what happens next is a blur, burgundy and crimson and scarlet all soothing away their pain and the discomfort. it's not so bad, they tell themselves, shaking as they pull the trigger, over and over and over again— their body is a weapon and whumpee is the least of those that have wielded it.
and then they are staring at the night sky. dark and cold and overwhelmingly alone in its beauty. whumpee falls to their knees. they are wide awake, and sleep that isn't made of drugs may never touch them again.
an angel doing nothing to help a person because the angel’s not allowed to interfere with mortal affairs, but a demon butting in for the rescue because this is exactly the kinda shit the demon rebelled for back in heaven
whumpee is given to a new owner. the change is abrupt and sudden, but there's never been any scope for failure in their duties, so they get to work— doing the chores, cooking, cleaning.
after the first day of being as meticulous as they could be, they feel despondent upon not being allowed even half a glass of water. they want to ask what they did wrong, and if they could please not send them away— but they swallow all their questions as owner directs them to the room they'll be sleeping in. they lie down on the floor, looking at the ceiling as hunger cramps their stomach and pain lines their throat, swallowing thickly, dizzy and tired. they fall asleep in no time.
on second day, they know they have to try and figure out what mistake they might have made— did they leave dust to collect in some room? didn't do the laundry correctly? misplaced a book on the shelves? the lack of direction is making them sick with worry, and owner barely spares them a glance at breakfast. whumpee can't bring themselves to ask for instructions as owner leaves the house, staring at the fast fading figure in the window.
they try to be as thorough as they can be, but they feel weak and tired and cold. they go through the motions, and serve the dinner once owner comes back, barely steady on their feet. once again it is eaten in silence. owner moves to leave for their room when whumpee blurts— "I— I'm sorry, p-please could you tell me what I did wrong? I know it isn't my place, but, but—" owner looks confused, and whumpee rushes out, "canIpleasehavesomewater," bracing themselves for a beating.
owner doesn't understand. why is whumpee asking for permission to drink water? surely they've had some in the past two days?
or so they think. this is promptly proven incorrect as whumpee stumbles and tries grappling at the nearest surface, but instead manage to injure themselves and fall unconscious.
Living weapon/slave/pet whumpee realizing they don’t have any baby pictures or their lost teeth or anything of their childhood at all. They barely remember it, and so it feels like they just, came into existence fully formed.
Feeling sick looking at other peoples pictures and realize that’s what a kid looked like, that’s what they looked like, while they were being “trained”, how could someone do that to a kid?
Not being able to understand references to movies or books or cartoons because they never did anything other than training, even their education was deadened and cold. After all, what would a kids book mean to a kid that never got to be one?
Hearing caretaker talk about their “inner child” and being confused because it didn’t feel like they had one. They felt like it was too late, that their inner child was snuffed out. Or that they were still just a child in some ways, confused and scared and out of their depth.
Confused when people do things for them without expectation. They had no experience with love of any kind, but especially not the giving, generous, selfless love that might come from a parent or guardian. It makes them uncomfortable, to be cared for. It throws into stark relief all that had been missing in their life, disrupts their sense of the world, but also… it feels good. Like getting into a hot bath after being out in the snow.
This is vague on timeline stuff, so don't worry about it too hard. Weapon no longer considers the rebels to be terrorists and is allowed to move around without restraints, but isn't considered part of the group and is still viewed with suspicion.
Masterlist
---
The Weapon hadn't considered its own development in years. It likely wouldn't have considered it at all, were it not for the photo.
Chloe's parents sent what the rebels called 'care packages' at frequent but irregular intervals. For reasons only known to Chloe's parents, the latest package had included pictures.
There were a variety of them. Some landscapes, some cityscapes, some portraits. There were photos that had obviously come from various protests, with vast seas of people holding signs and looking determined.
The picture that caught the Weapon's attention was one that had nearly caused a fight. Tyler had grabbed it from the pile and loudly exclaimed, "Oh my God, is this itsy bitsy Chloe? Are those pigtails?"
"No!" Chloe protested, sounding more embarrassed than truly upset. "No, you don't get to see that, why did they send that?!?"
It quickly devolved into Tyler playing keep-away, with Chloe laughing while she obviously used less than her full effort to get the photo back. The other rebels looked on in fond amusement and made no attempts to separate the two.
The Weapon entered the room slowly, wanting to be part of the camaraderie while still knowing it had no business intruding. Despite her split focus, Chloe was the one who noticed it first.
"Hey, Weapon!" she said with a grin. "Wanna help me get back what's rightfully mine from this asshole?"
"As if you two could take me!" Tyler boasted, though he still eyed the Weapon with mistrust. He had been wary about their leader deciding to allow the Weapon to move about without restraints.
It hesitated before asking, "May I... be allowed to see the photograph?"
Chloe's smile shifted, somehow becoming softer and less exuberant. "Yeah, of course."
Before Tyler could react, either to protest or to hand over the object, she elbowed him in the stomach. He doubled over dramatically before collapsing to the ground, giving her plenty of opportunity to pluck the photograph out of his grasp.
"Thank you!" she said brightly.
He raised both hands. One had a thumb pointing upwards; the other had the middle finger extended.
"Children, play nice," the leader—it still struggled to think of him as simply Zeke—said, sounding immensely tired.
"Here you go," Chloe said, offering the photo to the Weapon.
It took the object with the care a pilgrim would show a relic. It gingerly held the corners, not wanting to mar the glossy surface with its fingerprints. (That was still something it was adjusting to, being able to leave fingerprints. To freely use its hands, without coverings.)
The photograph showed a young girl standing next to a large dog. The dog might have been a Labrador or golden retriever, and stood at waist height to the girl. The girl was laughing, her eyes scrunched shut and her mouth open wide. From out of frame, a spray of water headed towards the two.
The Weapon looked between Chloe and the photo. The girl in the photo had hair a few shades lighter than Chloe, bound in braids on either side of her head. She had Chloe's freckles, and the port wine birthmark that peeked out from Chloe's shirt collar was on full display on the child's bare shoulder.
"This is." It swallowed hard before it was able to continue. "A photograph, of. Of you? When you were younger?"
"Yeah," she said. She had decreased her volume, as if speaking only to the Weapon instead of her teammates.
"Like I said, itsy bitsy Chloe," Tyler offered. He had apparently regained his voice after Chloe's assault, though he still sat on the floor.
"You were. Much smaller," it said, wincing internally at how inane the comment was.
"I was a kid," she said with a shrug.
A thought occurred to the Weapon. It had been that small, once.
Bile rose and burned its throat. It once had been as small as the photographed girl, with her round cheeks and tiny hands.
It had been that small, but it had never been a child.
Noble captive of a pirates gang, clean skin bruised, healthy hair bloodied, embroidered clothes torn, ropes leaving marks on wrists that never knew anything rougher than lace.
Skinny and dirty homeless orphan casually whipped by a noble rider for not stepping out of the horse's way sooner
