#cyborg whump

[crimsons-whump-pile]

living weapon losing bits of themself and then getting those parts replaced by machine, slowly turning into less and less ‘living’ and more and more ‘weapon’. where is the line between person and possession. which one were they to begin with?

[toyybox]

robot/cyborg who starts constantly hearing radio frequencies because of the mechanical parts in their head and they can't figure out how to make it stop

[holidayinhell]

cw: amputation, violence

Caretaker drew in a shaky breath. 

He’d been much more active the past few days- opening his eyes, occasionally croaking out a few words, but this time he sensed it. When Whumpee woke up, he was going to stay awake.

He looked down at his own trembling hands. There was so much to tell his friend. So much had changed.

He felt guilty that he wanted, so badly, for Whumpee to wake up. Death was a better alternative to what life was now, and that was the truth.

But selfishly, Caretaker didn’t care what was best for his friend. Whumpee had to live. Because Caretaker couldn’t face this hell alone.

Caretaker traced his fingers along Whumpee’s shoulder, watching as the man’s eyelashes fluttered like moth wings. 

Tucked under the blanket, he looked the same as he always had.

How could Whumpee ever forgive him?

Finally, his eyes cracked open.

Whumpee’s moss-green pupils rolled around lazily as he willed himself awake.

“Oh my god!” Tears streamed down Caretaker’s face as he leaned into his friend, giving him a gentle hug. “I can’t believe it.” 

Whumpee tried to lean into Caretaker’s arms—and nothing happened. He tried to sit up. Nothing, like an invisible weight pinned him to the bed.

Whumpee blinked through the haze and the world began to shift into focus.

Caretaker loomed above him, thinner than last time he’d seen him, and paler. He was a sight for sore eyes.

“Caretaker….”

He managed to flash a smile before bursting into tears.

“You look like hell.”

Whumpee’s heartbeat picked up as his senses sharpened. They were in the enemy’s infirmary and he was surrounded by dangling cords and beeping monitors.

“Why are we here?” Whumpee asked, his voice gruff and weak. “What happened?”

“Sorry,” Caretaker wiped the tears from his face, but they kept flowing. “We’re safe right now. God, I’m so sorry. I’m just so happy you woke up.”

As his vision adjusted he noticed more. Caretaker’s shaved head, his sunken cheeks. The greenish yellow shadow under his eye, a black eye on the mend.

“…do you remember anything at all?”

“No.” Whumpee coughed.

“Are you in…pain?” Caretaker winced as he whispered the word, as though saying it would somehow hurt him.

“Just numb,” he said in a hushed voice. “I reckon I’m on some pretty strong shit.” Whumpee could barely lift his head from the pillow. He noticed the heavy bandages wrapped around his shoulders, peeking out from under the thin infirmary sheet. “I can’t move.”

Caretaker didn’t respond. He was distracted, looking around as if he were checking the corners.

“You don’t remember anything at all?” He asked. His voice was low, barely above a whisper.

His breathing picked up. “The men turned on the captain. Please tell me that was a dream.”

“It wasn’t a dream.”

Caretaker looked over his shoulder, checking to make sure no one could hear. “It happened. The crew turned. Whumper and half the other crew members. It was a fucking mutiny.”

“Whumper?” Whumpee’s cheeks burned. “What happened to the captain?”

The captain had been a steadfast leader. Whumpee was second in command, it should’ve been him leading the faction against that traitor fuck.

“Whumper’s in charge now.”

 Whumpee’s head fell. “He killed him, didn’t he?”

“He hanged the captain.” Caretaker’s eyes went wide. “He’s still up there, in the courtyard. Sadistic fucks.”

Whumper’s stomach boiled. How many times had he told the captain he couldn't trust that backstabbing cunt?

“Whumpee, I don’t know what he has planned for you.”

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

“No—shh.” Caretaker leaned in, voice low and urgent. “Whumpee, listen to me. I don’t think we’re getting out of here. Whumper’s in control now. Everyone follows him. He gives the men guns and money—drugs, prostitutes—”

“I’ll kill him,” Whumpee said again. “I’ll kill all of them.”

“You already tried.” Caretaker exhaled hard. “That’s how you ended up here.”

“God damn it.”

Whumpee’s gaze slid to the glass of water on the table beside the bed. His throat ached just looking at it. 

He tried reaching out for it, but his body didn’t respond. He huffed out a sharp breath. “Why didn’t they kill you then?”

Caretaker blinked, caught off guard.

“Did you fucking give up?” Bitterness cracked through his voice.

Caretaker turned away.

“We all did, okay?”

“Whumpee… gah.” Caretaker sniffed sharply, dragging mucus back from his nose. “I don’t know to tell you this—”

“Don’t cry.” Whumpee swallowed thickly. “Don’t fucking cry, Jesus. We’ll figure it out.”

Caretaker looked away. “They were going to kill both of us if I didn’t do it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Whumper knew we were friends. That fucking bastard!”

“What did you do?” Whumpee tried to move again, panic flaring. Nothing responded. “Caretaker, what’s going on?”

Caretaker broke, tears spilling over. “I’m so sorry!”

“You’re awake.” 

The low voice came from behind Caretaker. The hair stood on the back of his neck. 

“Thanks letting me know, Caretaker.” He spat sarcastically.

Caretaker sniffled, quickly wiping his tears and regaining composure. “Captain, he literally just—“

“Shut up and leave.”

Caretaker looked back at his friend. Mouthing one last I’m sorry, he bowed and turned on his heels, exiting the room. 

Whumpee felt his hope walk away with him.

“How are you feeling, Deputy Commander?”

Whumpee kept his mouth shut, refusing to answer. His eyes burned with hatred as Whumper skulked closer.

“You’ve been demoted, if Caretaker didn’t let you know.”

He was in Whumpee’s face now. He’d been decently handsome guy, but now a thick, jagged scar ran from his chin to the corner of his eye.

“Nice face.” Whumpee quipped.

Whumper cracked a smile, eyes shining wickedly.

“Wish I gave you that.”

“You did.”

“Good.” Whumpee said. “I'll have to do it again, to remind myself how it felt.”

“You don’t remember?” Whumper’s gaze dropped, lingering on Whumpee’s broken body beneath the sheet. “I guess between the pain meds and the coma, you don’t remember anything at all.”

Whumper’s fingers pinched the sheet draped over Whumpee and ripped it off—

“... a lot’s changed around here.”

The first sensation was the cold. The blinding white of the sheet reflected the fluorescent light as it floated through the air. The visceral reaction of the cool air hitting his exposed skin, a flash of shame.

It only lasted only an instant, melting away the second his eyes traveled down his own body.

…What was left of it.

His arms and legs were gone.

“Surprise.”

(more whump)

[ichortwine]

recently been getting into android/robot/construct whump... Waiter! a million more of the same cake pls!!

everyone if ur into cyborg/android/robot whump pls read The Murderbot Diaries pleaseee *stares at you with my big brown eyes and flutters eyelashes at you*

edit: IT'S ALSO LIVING WEAPON WHUMP

[whump-in-the-night]

Whumpy cyborg thoughts tonight:

Turning someone into a cyborg against their will. The shock and horror of discovering someone has changed out their organic body parts with electronic ones. And who knows what plans the whumper has for them. Living weapon stuff perhaps?

Or maybe it was an act of love. Maybe they were dying and it was the only way to save them. But they still didn't have a choice.

Pain from cyborg modification, during the transformation, or after.

If their senses are upgraded they could go into sensory overload

Other people might see the whumpee differently afterwards. Like they aren't even human anymore. Maybe the whumpee even starts to believe it.

[lumpsandwhumps]

The Dirt Only Falls Down

CW: Body horror, graphic description of injuries, mentions of character death(s), cyborg whumpee, sci-fi disabilities, claustrophobic environments, some mild/SFW suggestive content (consensual)

(Note: This is heavily edited to maintain some anonymity for other people, but there are a lot of new characters and context here due to the nature of this one. Feel free to tell me if anything is still too confusing!)

————

February 2826

“How much do you charge for the mods?” Roman asked.

“Uh, depends on which one?” Zag stared at the plate in front of him. It was still piled with food, but he wasn’t hungry. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d bothered coming out to the bunker cafeteria in the first place.

“I’ve got the mats with me, but Carmine has the schematic.” Roman stood from his seat across the table. “Come on.”

Zag stood. He grabbed the plate and followed Roman towards the entryway.

They passed through tables of familiar faces. Canthus and Wendy were having lunch with Root. Don was by the plate return chatting with Doc Silver… or was that the new singer? He was a bit fuzzy, and they could have easily passed for brothers.

Governor Millard was at a small table by the doors, shoveling spoonfuls of black-market peanut butter into his mouth.

That’s strange… he thought vaguely. Odd that a government official would so openly flouting his banned butter - outlawed decades ago after a freak allergen accident took out an entire planet.

Zag looked down to dump his plate of leftovers in the disposal can, but he was just holding the materials Roman had given him.

He looked up. Benoni was licking the spoon clean of peanut butter, not the Millard. Easy mistake to make, with their Exalted masks and distinctive green coats. Neither would have appreciated the mix-up, though it made more sense that Benoni would be enjoying a jar of contraband butter, given how reliable he was on supplying Zag with all sorts of other black market products.

He followed a few feet behind Roman through the empty, winding bunker hallways. They were going to… Diana’s, right? For schematics? Right.

He didn’t recognize this way, though, and it was oddly dark despite the bright white of the automated lights. The air felt stale and heavy and tense…

This was wrong. Why was Roman taking him this way? He didn’t remember any part of the bunker that had dirt floors—

The world lurched.

“OUT! GET OUT!” The Sheriff’s voice boomed over the rumbling as he spun around. “RUN!”

Sheriff Kozo’tan’s materials dropped from Zag’s hands as he turned to run back up the tunnel.

He was running with all his might, his lungs burning, but he was so slow, every movement weighed down like he was running through water—

He was stumbling, the rocks and gravel raining down from the ceiling and walls rolled under his feet. He skidded on something, or maybe the ground lurched again. Jagged rocks scraped into the skin of his palms and knees, tearing through the brown coveralls as he was sent sprawling to the ground. The dirt stung where it packed into the torn flesh.

The rumble was drowning out Sheriff Kozo’tan’s shouts, so loud that it was vibrating inside his bones.

He looked back. Kozo’tan was just a few steps behind him. He yelled something Zag couldn’t hear.

Then the rushing darkness was on top of them both.

The rumbling stopped.

“Kozo’tan?” It came out quiet and raspy. Zag tried to take a breath to speak again, but couldn’t get air.

Something weighed down on his chest, pressing his ribs down, trapping his lungs, only managing shallow gasps.

He tried to move. Nothing.

He wiggled his fingers. One hand managed to shift some dirt loose, but he could only scrabble at the earth on top of him uselessly.

Oh god.

He couldn’t feel his legs.

No, no, no, no no no nonononono—

“Kozo’tan!” he yelled.

The weight pressed harder into the space that his exhale left. He could barely breathe.

“Help!” Panic choked his voice. “Please! Help! Someone!”

“I can help.”

A headlamp flickered to life on the ground. It was his. He had dropped it. He didn’t know when, but he had. And he was certain that it didn’t have much of a charge left.

The light reflected off metal, a shiny golden leg beside his face.

Zag blinked up at the man standing over him, mostly beard and top hat.

“You have to get them out!” Zag said, trying to scratch at the rubble with his one free hand.

“Who?” the man with the gold leg asked.

Who?

“Lady Laurent! Dammit, help me! We have to get her out!”

Zag felt the skin of his hand tearing as he kept clawing at the earth on top of him.

She had been right behind him, she was just on the other side, they had to get to her—

“Goddammit, help me, you useless sack of—!”

“Ya know, I lost my leg in a cave-in. It was one of my mines, the Cindersteel Mining Company.”

Zag froze.

“W-what?”

The man came down on one knee, his golden leg still planted firmly beside Zag’s head. He leaned over Zag’s face to speak.

“Replaced it with this gold one here,” the man said with a toothy grin.

Zag couldn’t breathe, but it wasn’t because of the weight crushing down anymore.

“I c— I can’t f-feel m— my legs—”

He remembered this. It was happening all over again. Or… was this the first time?

“Oh yeah,” the man responded with a nod, “I lost my leg in a cave-in.”

How many times has this happened?

“I can help! As long remember to vote for Governor Goldleg!”

His stomach churned. Everything was trying to spin, but kept righting itself at the last moment with a jolt.

“I own the Crimsonsteel Mining Company!” The man’s attention shifted to Zag’s hand.

He looked too.

His hand was shredded, shaking. The flesh was sliced open, blood everywhere, seeping into the dirt. The skin was peeling, sloughing off in chunks. Under that was blood.

Under that was metal.

Metal fingers shaking uncontrollably.

He screwed his eyes shut, not that it stopped the tears from falling out of the corners.

His heart felt like it was going to explode.

“We can take this dirt and turn it into a trickle UP mine!”

He was already dead, he was dying, he was still alive and maybe that was worse—

“Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!”

Everything fell silent, save his shaky gasps for air.

“Ziggler.”

That voice was familiar.

He opened his eyes.

Jake Sullivan leaned over him, inches from his face. Unmistakably Sully. His jaw swinging open and low from where it detached, tongue lolling out over broken teeth. The rest of his head a mash of red and pink and grey and shards of white bone crushed through it all like shrapnel—

“The dirt only falls down.”

———

Zag jolted awake. The sheets were balled up tight in his fists, like they were the only thing keeping him from falling through the mattress.

Sullivan was gone. So was Goldsack or Goldscrote or whatever his name was.

He curled his toes and felt the metallic musculature lengthen and contract all the way up to his hips. Okay. The tightness across his chest eased slightly.

He laid there, staring at a ceiling that seemed to be spinning, until he didn’t feel entirely like Jell-O anymore. When he felt like he could risk standing, he stumbled to the kitchen to grab a second six-pack from the fridge.

———

She opened the door to her unit after a few tries knocking.

“Heyyyyy,” Zag said with a grin and a clumsy flourish of the beers. “Was jus’ wonderin’ if you had any plans for the res’tuv the night?”

Her brow furrowed as she appraised him.

“Zag, it’s after three.”

“Yeah, but you’re ushu’lly up now, right?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he shrugged.

Her expression changed slightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No.” He frowned at the beers in his hand and wished a few moments too late that he hadn’t averted his eyes so obviously. “…Surface stuff.”

He hoped that was enough of an excuse. She worked remotely from the bunker so it wasn’t like she ever went up there anyway.

He wasn’t even sure if she’d heard about Roman and Kozo’tan getting killed by General Verrix these past Surface Days. Everyone seemed to be treating their corporate-printed clones as if nothing had happened, just like they’d treated Lady Laurent after she’d been killed by Verrix’s half-baked experiments a few months earlier. Zag had seen all three of them dissolve to ash as their radiation shields shut down around their lifeless bodies, only to return to town to find them walking around again: Clones. Zombies, more like, but everyone insisted they were just the same.

She gave a curt hum.

“You didn’t message about getting together tonight.”

“That’s not a rule. I figured we could jus’ get together now. An’ I brought some beer.”

He gestured again with the six-pack, already dwindled down to a five-pack.

“Not when you’re drunk,” she said. “That is a rule.”

“It’s on purpose!” he protested. “I know what I’m doing. This was like… fifty percent of the plan.”

“Fifty percent?”

“Yeah, fifty percent ‘get drunk’, fifty percent ‘come here’.” He gestured towards the interior of the unit behind her.

She raised her eyebrows.

“Well,” he said. “More like ten percent ‘come here’, forty percent…”

Zag gestured inside again, with a far more pointed look.

Her expression remained flat, her arms crossed.

Dammit, time for the big guns.

He leaned against the doorframe and looked up at her with the saddest, most pathetic puppy dog eyes he could muster.

She didn’t say anything.

He added a single pitiful whimper for maximum effect.

Her lips pursed. He recognized that expression.

The five-pack of beer nudged at her leg.

“I promise I’ll be extra good…” he said.

She snorted at that, and tried to pretend it was a scoff.

“You’re being a brat.”

He smirked.

“That’s on purpose too.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t stifle her own grin.

“Fine,” she said, stepping back enough to clear the doorway. “But your pants stay on.”

They did stay on, even if his shirt didn’t. But at least Zag slept without dreaming for the first time in a week.

————

Tag list:

@justlikeotherchemists ⭐️

@suchprettypieces 💖

[stagelightwhump]

Thinking about the horror of having one's body changed against your will, and not knowing why or what you're being changed into.

Perhaps you'll be injected with padding, or heating elements, to be kept and snuggled against your will.

Perhaps you'll get your teeth sharpened, your nails replaced with claws, and forced to fight against others until you're a bleeding, broken mess.

Perhaps you'll be turned into somebody else's favorite character, redesigned, from the ground up, demoted from real person to flanderized replica.

Perhaps your limbs will be torn from you, replaced with cold, unfeeling metal, to make you taller, or shorter, or buffer, or perhaps, just maybe, to make you quadrupedal.

Perhaps you'll have your organs replaced with mechanical pumps and reactors.

Perhaps even your eyes and ears will be mechanized.

One thing is for certain, however.

You'll never be the same again.

[whumpinthepot]

@febuwhump 2025. Day 23. Gunshot Wound

Art for @whumpcateyes of their oc Paxt!