#handler caretaker

[whumppromptoftheday]

"you have to stay away from me." living weapon says, pushing handler away. "all the shit i've done? i'm-I'll end up hurting you."

"look kid, I couldn't care less how many people you've hurt. I'm here for you and that's not going to change."

[distracted-obsessions]

Handler telling their Whumpee "you're ok, you're ok, you're ok," as they guide Whumpee through a panic attack and get them asleep, consoling Whumpee when they start worrying about what will happen when they go feral when they wake up

Handler telling Whumpee "you're ok, you're ok, you're ok," to comfort themselves as they shove a feral Whumpee in a cage, needing to tell themselves that Whumpee is going to come back. They're not lost forever, they're just lost for now. They'll be back. They'll be themselves. They have to be.

Whumpee telling Handler "you're ok, you're ok, you're ok," when Handler, covered with bandages and sore from sleeping on the floor in front of the cage, flinches away from Whumpee's gentle touch through the bars in the morning

[paintcrab]

Captain-Weapon Bonding Time (mageliens story)

Training with dad :)

contains: child living weapon, canine living weapon, panic attack, bathing/washing, a muzzle, conditioning/deconditioning, vomit mention, parental captain, and all the soft I could fit

•••

The Wea— Shale sits on the floor in front of the Quartermaster. Tips its head.

‘It’s just a harness. I just need to make sure it fits—it shouldn’t hurt,’ she telepaths at it. “Put your head here, please. Good, thank you. Mid-arms through here…. Yes. Good.”

Mana adjusts the straps around it instead of arms. Over its shoulders and around its stomach. The material is soft, padded. Not heavy: it’s a comforting weight, like the calm-blanket Captain Edgar gave it.

“Kid, run down the hall until you reach storage, then walk back,” he says.

The run is slower than it’s used to, but the harness stays on, and it’s a forgettable weight. The storage room is big, but the distance to it isn’t much. It’s back pretty quickly.

“Status report.”

“I—The Wea—” it flicks its tail, irritated. “The weight of the harness reduces its—my speed, though not significantly. The arm slots have ample room, and the storage will likely make me more effective. I do not have any complaints about the material,” it reports.

Does not stare at Captain Edgar and listen to Quartermaster’s surface-thoughts to get a sense for how he’s feeling.

I do not have any complaints. The words, its words, imply it might complain about other things. Hint at the Weapon’s….

The words are tainted with insubordination and rebellion. It cannot revoke the words.

It cannot unspeak them.

“That’s good, Shale. If that changes, I’d like you to mention it.”

“Kid, stand down.” Edgar lunges for it— “Weapon, stand down.”

He grabs the handle on its harness with a mud-slick hand, dropping to hold Shale properly. Pries its mouth open with some effort.

Tracker’s tail is bleeding. The venomous barb wasn’t punctured, and the Weapon restrained it so she couldn’t sting it.

“Are you okay?”

“The Wea—The Weapon did not intend to— It—it—” it ducks its head, eyes clamped shut, taking choking, gasping breaths that consume its body.

Trembles, little scales fading in and out of existence, and he can barely pick out the words— “disobedient—will not happen again—it’s sorry—will make sure to comply—sorry—”

He leans on its side, breathing deeply and audibly. “Breathe. Breathe, kid. It’s just a bite. You’ll be okay. Tracker will be okay.

“Tracker will be okay, and we’ll learn why this happened so we can work on fixing it. Not yet, but once you’re calm.”

Eventually, eventually, its breathing settles. It still trembles, watching him, but he gives it a peanut butter bite, and it seems to understand he won’t punish it, even if the fear is still there.

“Do you want to lay down for a bit, or wash the mud off?”

“The bath, sir.”

It stiffens before leaning into his touch. Presses the top of its soapy head into his chest while he rubs shampoo into the fur on its neck. Buzzes, softly.

Dr Gabriel can’t touch its neck without it closing its eyes and tensing, but Shale lets out the tiniest whine when his hands move down to its shoulders.

By the time it’s ready to be rinsed and dried, it’s less on edge. Doesn’t flinch when he trips over the ramp and curses himself for putting it there.

Shale eyes the small metal cage in the Captain’s hands from its place on his bed. “What is it, sir?”

“A muzzle. You said running reminds you of chasing people down, right? That it’s hard to tell the difference?”

It does. It hasn’t run in weeks, and suggested a tether in case it sees someone else run.

“It’s soft, on the inside, and it’s got four little screws you can put in to suppress your magic, in case you get overwhelmed or triggered by people’s thoughts. They go in this pocket on your harness, but I’ll carry spares just in case.”

He puts it on.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now take it off,” he says.

It reaches up, with shaking hands, and undoes the buckle. Hesitates. Does not get hit. Does not get shocked. Does not get whipped.

Hesitates, looking at Captain Edgar.

Slowly, carefully, it removes the muzzle. Gives it back to the Captain. Gets a reward.

Gets a reward.

“Sir, why is the muzzle removable?”

“I want you to think before biting,” he says, fluffing the fur on its chin. “I want you to use it as a tool to remember biting is not your first option, and I want you to be able to remove it if you rethink it and decide biting is the right choice.”

It places its head onto his lap. “The Weapon may not be able to—”

“We’ll work on it. Good job, kid.”

It does not buzz loudly at that. It is perfectly dignified and professional and the vents make weird noises sometimes.

He brings it to the cafeteria, and gives it a big bowl with peanut butter on top. And a turkey neck. And is something it has to work on, rather than choking down the whole thing at once.

Which is good, because it likes tasting things. Its fur is shinier, it’s gained some weight, and it’s….

It hasn’t jumped up to the Captain’s bed without permission, but it could. He wouldn’t hurt it, and there aren’t any thoughts in his head: he means what he says.

In the beginning, he said it could sleep on his bed.

They go out to the hall. He puts its muzzle on. “Go run five laps between here, the garden, and the gym.”

“The Weapon can run sixty-five, sir.” It would vomit on the final lap and collapse from exhaustion, but it could. It has run that much before.

“Ten,” he says firmly. “If you remove your muzzle, stop. If you get tired, stop. If you get thirsty, there’s a water bottle—”

“In my harness, sir. I am aware, you showed me. It even has a straw!”

“Yeah, kid. You can stick it through, if you want, but I’d prefer if you stop to drink.”

The muzzle is…. The ability to remove it makes it less effective, but it doesn’t tell him that. Just runs, snapping at people who seem to be running away, but the muzzle doesn’t let it do anything more.

By the fourth lap, it’s aware of the urge to bite, and by the fifth, manages to stop itself from snapping at two different people.

Shale crashes into its Captain, and presses its head into his leg. “No causalties.” it reports, shoving the straw in its mouth and taking a long sip. “Thirty-one attempts. The muzzle is functional, sir.”

“Good job, kid. I love you,” he says. It would do anything to hear that. Ten laps is nothing, fifty laps is nothing, seventy laps is nothing, compared to the way his voice goes soft and special and just for it.

“Thank you, Captain.”

They play tug-war to help it feel successful. Like it caught something, the Captain says, but it doesn’t really care about the reason.

It gets to play tug-war.

It gets to win tug-war, and get told it’s strong and crafty and good.

Play makes it buzz. Play makes it buzz loudly, bobbing its head in anticipation.

The Captain could ask it to do anything, to push itself past its limits until it’s sick and wheezing and pathetic, and it would do it for play and affirmations and gentle hands. It tells him.

“I know, kid. I’m sorry.”

It brushes against his leg. “I love you too, sir.”

•••

Story Masterpost

[borderline-whump]

Whump Ramblings #4

CONTENT: Living weapon, injection, abuse, starvation, compliance, flesheater, betrayal, violence, memory loss, loss of control

Monster whumpee that's ACTUALLY a monster.

Starving Wolf (Rewrite):

Elliot was lucky. He had the nicest handler in the facility. Whether it was sneaking him clean water to drink or giving him an extra bath that week, she never missed an opportunity to spoil him. Elliot loved her so much. Her soft voice, her long hair, her pretty name.

Piper Anderson.

That’s the name that was on her card. That’s the name she heard so often from her boss when she knew she was in trouble. Anderson highly doubted she was getting in trouble for risking her safety. Elliot had never come close to hurting her.

“If given the choice, Elliot would never hurt anyone. I won’t be afraid of a sheep in wolf’s clothing.”

That’s what she always said.

She went back into Elliot’s enclosure and conducted her daily check-up. When she tried to leave, the door did not unlock. It wasn’t stuck and malfunctions would have been reported to her, so she could infer this was on purpose.

It wasn’t until noone came during feeding time that Anderson knew what was happening. They wanted her to see what a monster Elliot really was. She scoffed at the thought.

Not only would she never let her boss live this down, but she would also spend every moment with this gentle giant. And that’s exactly what Elliot was. Even if Elliot got hungry, he was receiving injections every couple hours to keep him from his violent instincts. Not even the boss could stop him from getting the injections because they came from a bracelet only the higher ups had control over.

If anything, Elliot was more concerned then Anderson was.

“Are you supposed to be here? If they aren’t feeding me today, I might get hungry. It wouldn’t be safe for you to be in here if I’m hungry. If I hurt you, I would never forgive myself.”

It all felt like a bad joke to her.

“You would never hurt me. Just… think of this as a special day for you and me.”

He liked that word. Special. And to think of a day just for him. It made him feel warm and fuzzy.

Hours kept passing and passing. When Elliot went to his hide, she wasn’t afraid. He was often shy. When Elliot started staring at her from across the enclosure, she wasn’t afraid. He was often curious. When Elliot didn’t speak for hours, she wasn’t afraid. He was often scared to speak.

“If given the choice, Elliot would never hurt anyone. I won’t be afraid of a starving wolf.”

That’s what she always said. She couldn’t tell. She couldn’t think. Being approached like this brought a creeping feeling into her. A feeling that makes her heart sink. It was a weird, special feeling.

Elliot hates that word. Special. To think of the day where he slaughtered the only person who cared for him. It makes him feel sick and afraid.

He doesn’t remember her screaming or begging or crying. He doesn’t remember any of it. If given the choice, Elliot wouldn’t understand the concept of harm. A wolf in sheep’s clothing doesn’t understand harm. Even if the wolf doesn’t know what it is even when it sees itself in the mirror. Even if the wolf doesn’t remember what it did. Even if the wolf is receiving injections.

It all feels like a cruel joke to him. He can’t keep thinking about her. Her gargling voice, her bloody hair, her disquieting name.

He’d rather forget that name.

Thank youuu @bloody-boyfailure you literally reminded me about this. So I was like "let me rewrite it with the new lore", cus when I first wrote that I didn't have everything set yet. I still don't but REGARDLESS! It's a bit different from the original and it probably loses a lot of the good things but I hope it also has new good things as well. Still getting the hang of learning how to write, but I'm actually kinda happy with this?

[iwritewhump]

self-surgery | "not everyone makes it out"

april is the cruelest month day 19

characters: living weapon, handler

warnings: cursing, stitching someone's leg

870 words

~

Living Weapon stumbles into the small apartment, dropping his keys on the side table next to the door. He slams the door behind him and slides the deadbolt, then the chain, and finally the slide lock. 

He leans against the door and slides down it, knees drawn up to his chest as his stomach heaves. He lurches forward, emptying his stomach of its few contents, and his head falls back against the door.  

“Fuck,” he whispers, holding his head in his hands. “Fuck fuck fucking fuck.” 

He splays his legs out in front of himself and presses a hand over the quick-bleeding gash on his leg, trying to put enough pressure on it to stop the bleeding. 

“That’s not gonna work,” He says, almost scolding himself. 

He exhales in puffs and puts his hand up on the side table, using it to help him up. “Come on,” he mutters, gritting his teeth, “Come on!” 

He pushes himself to his feet and limps to the kitchen. The lightbulb flickers for a few seconds before staying unlit and he stares up at it, wishing he had just changed it that morning when it flickered. 

He opens the junk drawer and pulls out his lantern instead of the lightbulb sitting next to it. It takes a few clicks of the knob, but the lantern turns on and emits enough light for Living Weapon to work with. 

He grabs the first-aid kit from under the sink and falls back on one of the chairs around the table. 

With practiced movements, Living Weapon opens the kit and pulls out the gauze, suture kit, and iodine. 

He uses the scissors from the kit to cut his pants a few inches above the gash and opens the bottle of iodine. He pours some into his palm and rubs it all over his hands, making sure to cover his fingers well. Then, he pours some on the gash, making sure it covers the entire area. 

The light turns on in the hallway and Living Weapon looks up as he opens the suture kit. 

“Living Weapon?” Handler yawns, walking into the kitchen, eyes closed. “I didn’t think you’d be home tonight.” 

She lowers her arms and opens her eyes, then rushes to his side. She takes the suture kit from his hands and sets it on the table, “What the hell happened?” 

He shrugs, “Had some business to attend to.” 

“I told you to stop fucking fighting. You’re going to get killed one of these days.” She scolds, washing her hands in the sink. “Most people don’t make it out, I don’t know how you’ve made it this long.” 

She pats her hands dry with a paper towel and sits down on the seat closest to him, scooting it just a little closer. She pulls his leg onto her lap and finishes peeling open the suture kit. She bends over to examine the gash and sucks a breath in through her teeth. 

“This one’s going to take a long time to heal.” She holds the suturing needle in her hand and starts stitching him up. 

He stares at the ceiling and tries to ignore the needle threading through his skin, but Handler snaps at him with her free hand, “Hey.” 

“What?” He asks, looking down at her. 

“Promise me you’ll stop fighting.” 

He shakes his head, “I can’t.” he sighs and chews on his lip until he draws blood, “I know that…not everyone makes it out. Trust me, I fucking know. But…” 

He trails off, watching as Handler ties off the remaining suture thread and cuts it close to the knot. She opens the cabinet under the sink and throws the needle in the sharps box and looks back at him. 

She deflates, “One day…you won’t come back. And it’ll be your fault.” 

With shaking hands, she opens the gauze pack and places it on top of the sutures, then she rips a few pieces of tape to put on the edges. 

With trembling fingers, Living Weapon takes the tape from her and presses it on top of the gauze, making sure all corners are taped against his skin. 

“Thank you for helping me,” He whispers, looking at her through lowered lashes. “I’ll take a break at least. Wait until this heals and then a little longer probably. I just…I’m not ready to give it up. That was such a big part of my life and now…it’s over.” 

She scoffs and bunches all the trash up in her fist, “You want to be fighting for your life again?” 

“No!” he blurts. “I just…” 

She cuts him off, “You miss getting your teeth knocked in. Enjoy having broken limbs. Love having to stitch yourself up in the middle of the night?” 

“I can’t explain it. It’s just like it’s part of me. I don’t know what else to do. It’s like there’s no me when I don’t…” his voice is barely above a whisper, like he’s scared to admit it to himself, let alone Handler. 

She tosses the handful of trash away and turns her back on him, “You need to find a better way to cope. Because I can’t keep doing this, you’ll be on your own next time.”

[paintedshell-hermitcrab]

Canine (puppy) Living Weapon + Muzzle + Caretaker

Weapon is muzzled so it won’t bite.

The muzzle is comfortable. It’s removable, and Caretaker is working on making sure Weapon can remove it without distress. Without it panicking about disobedience.

It’s a barrier. A way for it to think before striking, a way to check if it really means to attack.

“Can I play tag, sir?” it asks, already wearing its muzzle.

“Permission granted, kid. Just keep it on, and report any attempts to me.”

When the game is over, it runs into their arms. “Three, sir. Only three! And zero casualties!!”

“Good job, kid.”

Weapon’s muzzle is freedom. It’s a way for it to run and chase and play without hurting anyone. It’s a way for it to learn it doesn’t have to.

It’s its Caretaker giving it space to think.

[whumppromptoftheday]

handler has an entire brigade of living weapons, each more deadly than the last. whumper takes whumpee, one of handler's closest friends in an attempt to get back at handler and they all go after whumper

[distracted-obsessions]

Sorry, that mutt only goes with that handler. Yeah, they were in an explosion together and now they panic when they're not within 5 feet of each other. The mutt starts bargaining, the handler bites, it's a whole thing