Extras masterlist - AUs, fanfics, crossovers, etc.
✏️ Masterlist for all my writing
✨ Latest updates:
Apr 24 - 🚀 Found
Jan 24 - 🌗 K&J x MMSS: The House of One Particular Noble (#1)
Oct 19 - 🩸 Kane & Jim #58: A New Kind of Hunger
Aug 17 - 🐕️ Separation Anxiety #2: Forgiveness (K&J Crossover)
Aug 01 - 🩸 K&J AU Drabble: Opened AU
Jul 29 - 🧛♀️ Swallowed Whole (Vampire oneshot)
Jun 24 - ⚕️ Medwhump May: "Stay With Me"
Jun 21 - ⚕️ Medwhump May: Head Injury
Jun 20 - ⚕️ Medwhump May: Recovery Time
Jun 12 - ⚕️ Medwhump May: "I'm Fine"
🧚 my g/t sideblog is @smallsday !!
🔏 this blog is sfw, but you can send a dm for my 18+ sideblog! (tumblr tos compliant)
i am always & forever taking oc-interactive asks! i may even canonize them sometimes. (sometimes i keep asks for days/weeks before answering, i'm not ignoring you i just don't have the spoons, i tend to answer 'em all in a big batch about once a month)
do be warned that i reblog drawn & written gore! always properly tagged.
more info under the keep reading: current WIPs, publications, events, squicks, notes
✍️ Currently working on:
Kane & Jim present arc
K&J x MMSS: The House of One Particular Noble
📚 Publications I’m in: (may contain 18+ content from other contributors)
Hurt and Comfort: A Whump Anthology - Proceeds to NNEDV
Zine of GID: Guys in Distress 2023 - Proceeds to RAINN
The Whumpboratory - Proceeds to Dollar For
High Stakes and Bloody Business - Proceeds to Bat Conservation
Cosmic Consequences - Coming soon!
🎉 Events I’ve done:
Medwhump May 2025
Whumpmas in July 2024
Whumptober 2023
Whumpmas in July 2023
BBU Community Days 2023
March Trope-A-Thon 2023
Whumpmas in July 2022
Find more events to participate in within my event tag!
💔 Squicks: (content i do not interact with)
minor whump / child whump (angst is ok)
mental hospital settings or forced psychiatry
Notes:
🎨 icon drawn by @soursagas
🔠 if you point out a typo for me, i will love you forever <3
❌ bigots of any kind (eg. transphobes), do not interact.
💾 backup accounts: @whumpsdays on tumblr, whumpsday on pillowfort and wafrn (inactive so far) and ao3 (fanfic only)
Every morning in the torture dungeon, the torturer (love your job and you’ll never work a day in your life) goes around greeting his victims with, “wakey wakey begs and achey.”
content: bad caretaker (unintentional), hero villain whump, villain whumpee, hero caretaker, whumper turned whumpee, uhhh whumper turned caretaker?? there was some mutual whumping before this, i don't know man
"I can't help you if you don't want to be helped," Hero said. Villain scoffed.
"What, are we a team now?"
"A team? We? No, definitely not. But you're bleeding, I have some first-aid training, and out of the two of us, I don't like to see others die."
Villain glanced down at their wound. Blood was seeping through their fingers. Their nervous — they were trying to hide it, but they were definitely nervous — eyes finding Hero's again. "Fine," they spat, like it physically hurt them. "Take a look at it, doc."
"If you think I'm doing this for fun—" they started, but when Villain actually took their hand away, and they got a look at the wound, their whole trajectory changed. "Holy shit!"
"You did this!"
"No, I— I did? I didn't mean to, I—" they stammered. Had they really injured Villain so badly? This looked... lethal.
"What, you suddenly don't want to help anymore?"
"Don't act like you weren't trying to prevent me from helping two seconds ago!"
"Can you do anything about it or no?"
Hero's eyes were flicking between the wound and Villain's face. "I can try?"
Villain let out a humourless laugh. "Oh, that's very reassuring. I definitely won't die today."
"Okay, let's not act like the wound is undeserved—"
Villain suddenly hissed in pain. "Fuck," they said emphatically. "Just do something! It fucking hurts!"
content: second person pov, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, lady whumper mention, implied minor whump, child whumpee mention, rocky recovery
You stare at the sandwich in front of you intently, like you're trying to memorise every single little white spot on the salami. There's no way you can tell her.
"I'm sorry, did I—"
"You did nothing wrong," you hurry to assure her.
"Still, if you don't want to share..."
"I..."
More staring. More stammering. You can't bear to look at Freddie. But she's asking so sincerely, there's no way you can deny her. She has a right to know, anyway. She's in danger.
But how can you tell her without telling on everyone in the facility?
"Back at home," you start slowly, carefully, "I had a sort of... mother-figure." Okay, not bad. Believable. True, in a way. "She was... strict. She didn't want me wandering outside, or making friends, or..."
"Not a very good mother-figure," Freddie interjects.
"She was! She was. She had her reasons. Anyway, in the dream, she... found out you took me in. And she wasn't happy."
"Mmm."
You risk a glance up at her. She seems to be deep in thought.
"So... Okay, so... Hm. Your name is #064. You don't seem to be mentioning a real mother, but a mother-figure. And I'm fairly sure you just confirmed you lived in that awful facility."
Have you really given away so much already? Oh dear. Oh no. "No, home, home is a different place—" you try, you fumble, but she sees right through you.
"It's okay," she says. She smiles. "I'm not judging."
She definitely is.
But that's not the worst part. You are giving away the game. You are giving away vital secrets of the organisation. You are being a traitor.
"Why are you even so interested in the facility?" you ask quietly. She never told you why. She just showed up, started asking questions, bribed you with a salami sandwich and a warm bed, and now you are here. Telling her about the facility. Like an idiot.
She takes a bite of her sandwich. You don't touch yours. Your appetite is long gone, replaced by anxiety.
"One time, I saw them kidnap a child," she says easily.
But that's... not right. The facility doesn't kidnap people. They take in orphans. Give them three meals a day and a bed, and to repay that kindness, you and the others try to be good at what the facility teaches you. #065 and the others, they were all orphans. No family. No name. No nothing. Your handler has told you the story several times: you were abandoned in the hospital, your mother never claiming you. You've never heard of anyone being kidnapped.
"That's not... That's absurd."
"Unmarked van, two women in all-black clothing, snatched up the kid like it was nothing. I called the police — they were wildly unhelpful. I ran after the van as long as I could, to see where they'd take the kid. I only had to run two streets down. Van passed through a gate to the back of the facility."
"That can't be right."
She takes another bite. Still so nonchalant. Like this doesn't even faze her. Even if it were true— no, especially if it were true, she should be freaking out about it.
"Saw it with my own two eyes," she says, not bothered by you not believing her.
"Why are you so calm, if you think there's a facility in town that kidnaps children and trains them to be—"
You cut yourself off. Idiot. Stupid. You almost said it out loud.
"Trains them to be what?"
"Ah..." You scramble for a word. "Self-sufficient."
She gives you a sceptical look, but doesn't press you on it. "Because I finally have someone who can help me bring the whole thing down," she says.
Oh.
Is that supposed to be... you? You're the thing that'll bring the facility down?
"But you're wrong," you insist. "They wouldn't kidnap people."
"How did you end up in there?"
"I'm an orphan. They took me in. That's what they do."
"So it's an orphanage. Why didn't they give you a name?"
You shouldn't have told her your name.
"#064 is my name."
"What's up with the prosthetics?"
"Ah..."
"And why did they kick you out with injuries that would make a grown man bed-bound for a week?"
You can't answer all these questions. Your head hurts. Freddie seemed so happy-go-lucky at first, so soft, so affable, but now she's staring you down like you really are her golden ticket.
"I... I..." You don't know what to say.
"Oh, look at the time. I'm gonna be late." She gives you another smile, like nothing happened. "Finish your breakfast. I'll be back by five." She stands and puts her plate in the sink. "Make yourself at home while I'm not here!"
With that, she leaves.
Your head is still spinning.
This is bad. Bad bad bad bad. You need to leave. Now.
Were you really taken in as an orphan? Her story makes you question your reality
Just finish breakfast. One step at a time.
Nothing is safe. Run back to your room and spend the day under the covers.
"I'm back," Priscilla said quietly as she opened the secret door to the attic of the auto repair shop. There was no answer.
03 must've fallen into disrepair again.
At least that was what Priscilla had thought, before she pushed further in and realised the attic had been cleared out. Completely. No trace of 03.
"Oh no," she breathed.
She immediately jumped off the ladder, not even caring to put the door back in place. She rushed out to the back of the shop, to the dumpster, frantically opening the lid to reveal several bags of trash. She tore through them all, looking for her love. She found no trace of her.
Of course. What were the chances of Priscilla making it back in time to find her?
She jumped back into her car and headed to the junkyard.
Priscilla was immortal — as in, she reincarnated into different bodies in different times. It always took some time, but she eventually regained her memories every time. This time, her body was a woman's called Rita. Rita was one of three children, absent father, seamstress mother. She had to drop out of school to support her family.
It didn't matter. Rita wasn't real. Not really. It was Priscilla inhabiting her body. And as soon as she regained consciousness, she sneaked off, crossed borders, came back to the same repair shop where she'd left her girlfriend last time when her body got old and frail.
Her girlfriend was similarly immortal. 03 — her full name being 7583703 — could keep going so long as she was kept in somewhat working conditions. Parts changed, swapped out, old stuff being replaced by new technology.
But she wasn't in the auto repair shop. And if she was in the junkyard, possibly unresponsive, it would take Priscilla a very, very long time to find her.
But she would find her. There was no world in which she wouldn't.
She got to the junkyard and got out of her stolen car — Rita never got her driver's licence, but it didn't matter, Priscilla knew how to drive — and started yelling for 03. There were no others around.
"Fuck, please, please, answer me..." she muttered. 03 was the love of her life. They had found each other through time and space, every time, no matter what body Priscilla came back in, no matter what 03 looked like, they always found each other.
"Here," came a weak, distorted voice. It didn't even sound like 03 anymore.
Priscilla ran over to a pile of junk and started throwing stuff away, slowly revealing a rusted, dysfunctional 03. "Oh dear..." she said, gently tracing 03's jawline. "I'll help. It's okay."
"I know," 03 said. "Like always."
"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."
"Did you like your family too much?"
Priscilla scoffed, but... Rita's family was sweet. With her having run off, she didn't know what would become of them.
Still, 03 was more important.
"I like you most," she said. "Come on..." She gently lifted 03's metallic body out of the pile of trash and brought her to the car.
"You have freckles now," 03 pointed out. After so many bodies, so many lives, Priscilla wondered how 03 still found ways to note her favourite features.
"Yeah. And you have a rusted voicebox. What happened in the attic?"
"The new owner found me. I pretended to be unresponsive. I knew you'd find me anyway."
Priscilla smiled, though it was a little pained. What if she didn't find her? What if she lost 03 forever?
Disassembling 03 for cleaning was as natural as breathing by now. Priscilla made sure to scrub every part of her thoroughly, making sure the rust was gone, parts were well-oiled, and she shoplifted any part that needed to be replaced.
Soon, 03 was back to functional again.
"I like the new arm," 03 noted, making small rotations with it. "When the last one was crushed, I... It hurt."
Priscilla sat down on the curb. Cars were whooshing by. Nobody paid them any attention.
03 sat down next to her.
"What was it like?" 03 asked. "Your life this time."
"Nothing notable. I'm just glad to be back with you."
"Come on. There must've been something noteworthy. A crush, maybe."
Ah. So that was what was on 03's mind. Priscilla smiled. "You know you're my one and only."
"Well, as Priscilla, yes. But you weren't Priscilla for a long time again. How old is this body?"
"23."
"There was nothing in those 23 years?"
"Well... I suppose... I don't know. I liked my mother. And my siblings. It's always... You know it's always a little..." She trailed off, frowning. "I don't like leaving people. But whenever I get my memories back, there's no way I can stay. When I know you're waiting for me."
"You don't have to come back to me just because of that," 03 said. "If you ever find someone more—"
"Stop. I won't. I love you."
03 smiled to herself. "I love you too."
"What have you done in the last 23 years?"
"Mostly hid out in the attic. Sometimes, when I didn't hear anyone in the shop, I'd go downstairs and guzzle a bunch of oil. You know I like the taste of it. Poor man running the shop had called the police multiple times, but of course, no sign of a break-in."
Priscilla smiled. "It must be boring. Waiting for me all the time."
"Not all the time. You come back, and we spend decades together. Usually. When there's no freak accident."
"Come on, I got hit by a car once."
"Because cars were invented in the last century. Who knows how many more times there will be? And you remember that wild beast attacking you?"
"That was ages ago."
"Still. I never like to... to see you go like that. I prefer being by your bedside, when you're old, and comfortable. I like being able to say goodbye, even if it's more of a see you later."
Priscilla tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You know... I've been through so many bodies. Ruined so many lives."
There was a beat of silence. Priscilla didn't continue. 03 didn't cut in.
"Do you ever... wonder if it's just habit at this point?"
03 looked away. She looked like she'd just heard the words she had been afraid to hear in her millenia of lifetime. "Not for me," she said quietly.
"Yeah..." Priscilla looked up, staring at the sun about to go down. "Sorry. That was a weird thing to say. Do you always like me equally?"
"Yes."
"Even in the male bodies?" she asked playfully, wiggling her eyebrows. 03 pushed her a little.
"It doesn't matter to me. You're my Priscilla."
"And you're my 03. Sorry for bringing up so many weird topics today. I guess... I guess you're right. I did like this body's family a lot. You know, I wonder... I wonder what became of them after I left."
"Maybe we should go back. Together."
"They're countries away."
"We have time."
Priscilla let out a little laugh. "That we do. That we do."
"I'm serious. Let's go back. I could meet your family—"
"My family has been dead for 3000 years. They're not my family. I don't need them."
"You're worried what they'd think of me."
Priscilla looked down at her lap. "I just don't want them to hurt you," she mumbled. "I'm not ashamed of you, I just... What if they want to take you apart? Turn you in to the government? Anything like that. I don't trust them."
"I'm sorry for being a nuisance."
"What?" Priscilla's head snapped to her. "You're not— What are you saying?"
"You can never bring me around anywhere. You're forced to live out your eternity watching out for me. It's already been 3000 years. That's how many human lives?"
"It doesn't matter. I love you. That's what lovers do: watch out for each other."
"I just hold you back."
"Are you trying to break up with me?"
It was 03's turn to look down at her lap. "No... Not really... I don't want to... I just... I feel bad..."
Priscilla reached out and grabbed 03 by the face, turning her head so she was facing her. "Do not. I choose to come back for you every time because you're my everything. What is eternity, if I can't spend it with someone I love?"
03 was tearing up. This new technology was really something else. Priscilla just wished her tear tank wouldn't be emptied out for the first time since her arrival because of her.
"One day, you'll get bored of me," 03 said. "And then— And I won't know. I'll just know that decades passed and you didn't come back. And I think of that, in the decades when you're not here. And it makes me so— so—"
"Hey. 03. Listen to me. I will always come back."
"You don't know that. What if one time you don't regain your memories?"
Priscilla swallowed. "If this has been going on for millenia, I don't have reason to doubt it'll go on for more."
"But you don't know that."
"Yeah, well, what if you fall into such disrepair I can't fix you? What if the twenty years I spend away from you is too much? What if one day I can't shoplift parts for you? Don't you think I think about this stuff too?" Priscilla let go, tears of stubborn determination stinging her eyes. "I think about this. I thought about this today, when I couldn't find you."
Silence stretched between them.
"I don't want to be a burden," 03 said again.
"You're not. 03, I... I'd be lost without you. Please, just promise me you'll be around for as long as I am. I know that's selfish. But please."
"I'll be around for as long as I can," she said gently.
Priscilla scooched over, so their shoulders were touching. The sun had gone down. It was getting chilly.
"Wanna break into a motel room?" Priscilla asked.
03 grinned at her. "You know it."
~
oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter
good old "finding out how the other army treats their men" except it's through being a spy, not a prisoner.
one spy coming back like "the good news and the bad news is that we're fighting traumatised people who would probably fold at the sight of proper nutrition"
one who can't bring themselves to go back bc life is so good on the other side and the longer they wait the worse it'll be for them. one who 'loses' contact with command after a while.
(good) side being able to recognise the 183828 spies the other side is sending because duh. look at them they have big scared eyes and shake at the sight of a commanding officer. they eat like starving dogs. they can't walk past the infirmary without tearing up a little.
Declan, my bloodbag whumpee from my series 'Shattered'! 🩸⛓️
---
Commissioned from the AMAZING AND BEYOND SUPER TALENTED @elgrajaz ! thank you so so much for drawing my boy!!! 🥹😭 It's beautiful, I can't stop looking at him!!! AAAAAA!
customisable android whumpee who spent decades with an owner being sold to another (because its previous owner died or doesn't want it anymore etc) and the new owner completely revamping its look. to the point it doesn't recognise itself in the mirror. new face. new parts. new it.
content: past trauma, broken bones, starvation, torture, noncon mention, aftermath of whump, betrayal, team whump, bad caretaker, emotional whump
"I found it," Leader said solemnly. Whumpee had no idea what they were talking about.
"Found what?"
"The journal."
Oh.
Whumpee squirmed in their seat. Whumper had written everything they did to them down in a journal. Whumpee knew it existed, but they never got the chance to read it. Never got the chance to read the things they'd gone through from Whumper's sick perspective.
"Did you read it?" they asked quietly.
Leader shook their head. "The team agreed to leave it untouched."
"Can… Can I read it?"
Leader raised an eyebrow. "You must know what's in there. And wouldn't it trigger you?"
"I want to read it. If that's possible."
"I mean…"
"Please."
Leader sighed. "It's your prerogative." They took out a key from their pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer, pulling out a beat-up looking notebook. They handed it to Whumpee. "Just be careful."
"I will be. Thank you."
Monday, June 8th
I broke Whumpee's arm today. The sound was almost comical, the little pop as it gave way. It sounded like the way I would've imagined a bone breaking to sound. Whumpee was hysterical about it, talking about how it wouldn't heal right and how they wouldn't be able to go back to their duties once they finally escaped or were rescued. They don't know I've hidden them well-enough not to be rescued by the team. Do they think I don't know others are looking for them?
Tuesday, June 9th
Whumpee keeps crying about their arm. I gave them extra rations today to shut them up, but it didn't work. Sometimes they can be such a whiny bitch. But I picked my target right. They're a pretty crier. And useless without their team.
Wednesday, June 10th
The urge to rape them is ever-increasing. I can't do anything about it, they just look so pretty on my basement floor, all black and blue…
Whumpee shut the journal. They were breathing heavily, panting almost, like they'd run a marathon. Whumper never raped them. They had no idea the sick piece of crap even had these thoughts. Sure, their gaze might've lingered on Whumpee's starved form for a little longer than was comfortable, but with everything going on, Whumpee didn't even consider…
It was fine. They were out. Whumper was gone. And the team would never read this journal.
—
"Whumpee, can we talk?" Caretaker asked the next day. Whumpee found it strange how jittery they were, but they agreed. They were best friends, after all.
"Sure, about what?"
Caretaker was hiding something behind their back, and Whumpee assumed it would be a small present or something. Like a welcome-home gift. But when Caretaker pulled the thing from behind their back, Whumpee felt their heart sink.
It was the journal.
The journal that was supposed to be under their mattress.
"I heard Leader say they gave it to you. And I had to know— I had to—"
Whumpee snatched it out of their hand, cradling it close to their chest. "What is wrong with you?" they whispered. This was their best friend. Had been, up until this point.
"I just had to know. Whumpee, I'm so sorry for what they did to—"
"I'm going now."
Caretaker moved to block the exit. "Whumpee, we need to talk about this."
"Get out of my way."
"You can't carry this burden alone."
"So you took it upon yourself to try and share it."
"I had to know!"
"No, you didn't have to!" Whumpee snapped. "You absolutely didn't have to! You all agreed not to read it, you didn't just go against me, you went against everybody! You should be kicked off the team for this! I— I hate you!"
Caretaker froze at the words. "You're just worked up right now," they tried.
"Yes I'm worked up! You read the journal! I hate you! I hate that you betrayed me like that! Get out of my way!" they shoved past Caretaker, journal still in hand, and went straight to Leader's room. Caretaker was following them closely. "Leader," they said, barging in without knocking. "Caretaker read it."
"I knew Whumpee would never talk about it if it were up to them!" Caretaker, who had followed them inside, said in their defence. "Surely, you didn't intend on just keeping the journal and never even reading a page!"
"You did what?" Leader asked, and Whumpee was quite satisfied with the level of rage in their voice.
"I had to know," Caretaker tried timidly, the same stupid excuse they'd given Whumpee.
"Get out. Right now."
"But Leader—"
"Get out."
Caretaker pursed their lips. They left without another word. Leader closed the door behind them. "Whumpee, I'm so sorry. If I'd known—"
"It's fine," they forced themself to say. "I didn't know Caretaker was this type of person either."
"I truly am sorry. You… can't really take that back."
Now they know.
"I want them kicked off the team," Whumpee said. The words felt like sand in their mouth.
"I understand you're upset—"
"I want them kicked off. Right now. Go after them and tell them they're not welcome here anymore."
"Whumpee, I'm upset as well. But let's sleep on this at least once."
"They read the journal."
"I understand. And I will take appropriate disciplinary actions—"
"I want them kicked off."
Leader sighed. "Whumpee… You would regret that tomorrow."
"It's either me or them. I can't work with them any longer. If you keep them, you lose me."
"You can't be serious."
"I am very serious."
Whumpee knew this was risky. They were still recovering from torture, had PTSD to boot, while Caretaker was a full, contributing member of the team, able to go on missions. By all accounts, if Leader was forced to choose like this, they should've chosen Caretaker. The rejection would hurt, but honestly… maybe Whumpee did want to get kicked off. After what had happened with Whumper, they'd come back, but they didn't really feel like… they could ever go on missions again.
"Whumpee, let's sleep on it," Leader tried again, and Whumpee made their choice then and there.
"So you choose them."
"No—"
"I'm leaving."
"Whumpee—"
"And I'm taking the journal." With that, they turned and walked out. They found Caretaker standing a few feet from the door, not strictly eavesdropping, but definitely a bit close for comfort. "What do you want?"
"I just wanted to apologise again—"
"Save it. I'm leaving."
Caretaker's eyes widened. "What?"
"I'm not working with you. And Leader chose you — be happy."
"Whumpee—"
"Save it."
"But—"
"A tip for when you have another tortured, traumatised teammate with a detailed journal on how they were tortured: maybe don't read the damn journal."
Its eye twitches slightly. Its hand had been flexing rhythmically in idle boredom behind its back, about the most movement it could manage at the moment, but even that went still in response to the question. There was a delay. It seemed to be holding its breath. You neither clarify nor offer it any relief.
“…I’m a psychic, sir.”
There was a thin note of confusion in its voice. The answer contained notable restraint. You suppose you were hoping for more.
“So, what? Does that mean you were born like this? Were you born? The files just said you were sourced from a developer, and that the place doesn’t exist anymore. What does that mean?”
You see it flinch. You’d stepped a little closer to it, and it’s clear it would prefer if you hadn’t. It takes even longer this time, and the answer is even less satisfactory.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that, sir. I’m sorry. My handlers’ number should be available to you if you have more questions.”
It won’t look at you at all now. If anything, it just seems to be watching your hands. Its body remains tense, which is silly, because it wouldn’t be able to protect itself even if you were to move.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, rocky recovery, comfort, nightmares, past trauma
Your thoughts are going a million miles an hour. You're back and forth between going to Freddie and asking for her comforting words, and getting out of bed and running as far away from her as possible, so as not to put her in danger.
Selfishness wins out. You slowly and quietly get out of bed and shuffle over to the open bedroom door. Freddie's door is open as well, even if just a crack. You push it open. She doesn't even stir. She's so vulnerable. If your handler really decided to hurt her, she would be entirely defenceless.
"Freddie?" you whisper. Nothing. "Freddie..."
She finally moves. She groans in her sleep, turning over. You'll have to be a little more assertive. A little more bold.
You were trained not to be bold. You were trained to be quiet, submissive, pliable.
"Freddie," you squeak. Not very bold.
"#064?" She finally blinks her eyes open and sits up. "Is everything alright?"
Suddenly, you feel stupid having come over to her room over a nightmare. But it was so realistic, so visceral... "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."
That's a funny way of saying 'I have put you in mortal danger by being here'.
"What do you mean?" She rubs her eyes, trying to focus.
"I..." How are you meant to explain it without giving away what the facility is? "I just... I don't think..."
"Have you been up all this time? Thinking about this?"
"No, I... I had a nightmare. And I don't think I'm doing the right thing by taking advantage of your kindness."
"You're not 'taking advantage' of anything. You're just trying to exist. I don't think that's a crime."
You do.
The two of you stay silent for a bit. Freddie seems to be waiting for you to speak, but you're desperately waiting for her to convince you she can protect herself. If she doesn't, you don't know how you could muster the audacity to stay at her place.
"Do you want to sleep here?" she asks after a while.
What would that solve?
"Why?" you ask quietly.
"Well, when I have nightmares, I often wish I had someone to sleep next to. To feel safe."
That sounds... so simple. Also, ineffective. Sleeping next to someone not combat-trained will do nothing to make you feel safe from your handler, the most terrifying woman you've ever met.
And yet.
"I'd like that. If that's okay."
Freddie smiles at you sleepily. She pats the space next to her on the bed. "Climb in."
You carefully climb into bed with her. She's warm, and she doesn't talk or make it weird, she just closes her eyes again like this is all natural.
"Are you sure this is okay?"
"Mhm."
"Sorry. I won't bother you."
"You can talk, if you want. If you have something to get off your chest. I'll listen."
You have life-saving information you need to get off your chest. But you know you won't share it. You're too much of a coward to sell out all of your family and make Freddie understand how wrong she is for having taken you in.
Because her blanket is warm, she is warm, and you're already starting to feel sleepy again.
—
The next thing you know, you're jolting awake again.
For a moment, you have no idea where you are. Baby pink walls, inricate dressers, a painted picture of fruit above a large mirror. You look to your left; Freddie.
Right. You're in Freddie's room.
"Sorry, did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet," she says, her face the very picture of compunction.
"Are you going to work?" you ask.
"Yeah. Well, if you're awake anyway, would you like to have breakfast with me?"
You nod much too eagerly. Salami sandwich. You'd kill for one.
"Okay," she says with a smile. "Come along, then."
You do, quietly, and while you're walking to the kitchen, you note how much your body has improved over just two days. Your bones probably won't heal right, there's a bit of a chronic pain problem you're staring down the barrel of, but the last beating your handler dished out to you as a parting gift won't claim your life. Probably.
Freddie puts the sliced bread and salami on the table. Then, two plates.
You don't dare reach out before she gestures to them with a smile and an encouraging nod. Then, you gingerly take a single slice of bread and a few slices of salami.
"As always, have as much as you want," she says.
"Thank you, Freddie."
"What was your nightmare about?" she asks casually as she takes a slice of bread for herself.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, bodymod, rocky recovery, comfort, nightmares, lady whumper
You're just standing there, eyes flicking between the bed and Freddie. In your head, you've already made up your mind: you will repay all this kindness by at least telling her your 'name'. But your mouth doesn't move. The conditioning still running deep, to your very core.
"Is everything okay?" she asks.
"Yes," you reply, swallowing. "You've done... a lot for me. Too much, probably. I don't really deserve—"
"Let's not go down this path," she cuts in, her voice soft. You clear your throat.
"Well, the point is... I am... indebted to you."
"You're not."
You furrow your brows. No, you definitely are.
"I do this because I want to help, not for any transactional reason," she continues.
"Still, I... You at least deserve to know my name."
That gets her to perk up, listening intently. She says she doesn't want a transaction, but that's clearly a lie. She says she doesn't want to find out more, but when the opportunity presents itself, she doesn't turn it down.
"My name... Um..." Suddenly, you feel self-conscious. Everyone outside has a proper name. What will she think? "My name is #064."
Freddie is still silent, like she's waiting for more. Then, after a few seconds of silence, "That's... it? That's your... name?"
You shouldn't have told her. She must be judging. She must hate you. She must—
"Okay," she says. "Nice to meet you, #064." She has a smile on her face.
Was this really okay to share? You can't help it, you return the smile, though yours must be a little timid and tentative.
"Just to reiterate: you don't have to tell me about your life in exchange for all this. But I'm grateful. I have something to call you now. Even if it's..." She trails off. "Well, anyway, ready for bed?"
"Yes, Freddie."
"My room is across the hall; if you need anything, just holler. I'll go finish my dinner."
You nod. You wouldn't bother her even if you were dying, she must know that.
In any case, she exits the room and pulls the door almost closed behind herself. You take that as a sign that though you're treated as a person here, you still don't deserve privacy. Though with how close to closed the door is, it's more privacy than you've ever gotten — in the facility, the doors had to be fully open at all times, and you had roommates.
You look at the bed. Freshly made. The covers are adorned with little purple flowers, the pillows are white and purple. It almost feels too pretty to ruin by lying in it.
You fidget for a few minutes, just standing by the bed, before you muster up the courage and get under the blanket. It's so soft. And so warm. The scent of the detergent Freddie used to wash them is pleasant. This is so much better than the park bench, even better than the facility.
No. You mustn't think that.
But they kicked you out, didn't they? What use is it, clinging to the memories?
Those are the only memories you have. Your past. Your identity. What are you supposed to cling to, if not that?
You don't have a lot of time to ponder these things. Sleep in your wonderfully comfortable new bed pulls you under within minutes.
—
You're at the facility. You're training, slashing up dummies with the blade in your left arm, punching others with your right.
Your handler watches.
"Too slow!" she shouts at you.
You try harder. You work faster. You hate the training dummies — your left eye, the one functioning as a heat camera, doesn't pick them up, so it's harder to tell where they'll come from.
Before you can land another blow, someone grabs your hand. The training dummies disappear, and it's just you and your handler. Darkness closes in on all sides. You see nothing but her furious face.
"You're useless," she hisses, squeezing your wrist until it aches. "You're better off dead."
"No, please—"
She lets go and slaps you. "Talking back? Just when did you become so bold?"
She's right. You should take the punishment quietly.
She punches you, and you fall to the floor. "You're a useless," kick, "no-good," kick, "waste of space," kick.
You don't curl up. If she wants to kick you to death, that's her prerogative, as your handler.
"I know you told her your name," she says as a final kick lands to your stomach. "I know, and I will find you, and I will cut out that blabbering tongue of yours."
That's her prerogative.
"And I'll teach your new 'friend' what being so close to you entails."
That gets a reaction from you. "No, please, don't hurt her—"
Kick.
"Already attached?" she sneers. "I'll make sure you see her battered corpse."
—
You jolt awake. It's the dead of night. Your handler is nowhere to be seen.
Through the walls, you see Freddie's heat outline, lying in her bed. You're gasping for air.
'If you need anything, just holler.'
Your heart is beating out of your chest. Your handler will know you told her your name. She always knows. Freddie is in danger. You put her in danger.
Stay quiet and try to go back to sleep.
Call out to Freddie.
Get out of bed and go to Freddie's room to seek comfort.
Get out of bed and run. She's not safe while you're here.
content: second person pov, choose your own adventure, living weapon whump, living weapon whumpee, conditioned whumpee, bodymod, rocky recovery, comfort
"Please..." you mumble, tears gathering in your eyes. "I don't know what to do..."
Everything in you screams to leave. It's dangerous. You've already revealed more than you wanted to, by complete accident. How can you know you won't compromise the entire mission of the facility by just staying here and blabbering?
You hear Freddie push back her chair and stand again. She rounds the table and stands next to you, but she doesn't touch you.
"Can I... Can I hug you?" she asks timidly.
A hug. You haven't been hugged in... ever. It sounds... good, right now. To be in the arms of someone caring, even if that care is contingent upon—
No. You don't want care like that.
"You just want to—" You hiccup. "You just want to find out more, and I won't tell you more, so just— just leave me be and let me go—"
"No," she says gently. "I don't care about any of that right now. You're distressed, and I want to make it better. You look like you could use a hug."
She's manipulating you, a voice in the back of your mind that sounds an awful lot like your handler whispers.
You slowly lower your hands. She's looking at you with compassion. Manipulative or not, you just... You want a hug. Is that so selfish?
Yes. Yes it is.
Still, before you can change your mind, you nod. Freddie steps closer and envelops you in a gentle hug. Her arms around you feel warm and her scent is just the same as what lingered on the jacket, just a little stronger. You hug her back, clumsily, like, well, like you've never done this before.
"It's okay," Freddie murmurs. "I'll keep you safe from whoever it is you're afraid of, okay?"
How could she? A whole organisation of trained assassins, all after the same goal: to kill the traitor. How could she ever keep you safe from that?
You just have to make sure you don't become a traitor.
Freddie slowly pulls away. "Better?" she asks with a smile.
Well... This solves nothing, but... "Yes. Thank you, Freddie."
"I'll set up the guest bedroom for you."
"But you haven't finished the—"
"I can eat after. Do you want to take a shower while I do that?"
You hate showers. The cold water doing nothing to make the deep ache in your bones go away, the careful maintenance of your metallic arm after one, it's all a hassle and...
But you can't just inhabit the guest bedroom dirty.
"Yes. Thank you."
Freddie smiles at you. "Okay. I'll show you where the bathroom is, and I'll bring you a clean towel and pyjamas."
You spend longer in the bathroom towelling your prosthetic dry than you actually spend in the ice cold water. You clench and unclench your fingers, and for the first time, you wonder what will become of this arm now that there's no one around to maintain it. Will it eventually just stop working, leaving you with one arm and a useless piece of metal hanging limply by your left side?
You try not to think about it. It feels impossible.
The pink pyjamas Freddie laid out for you are soft and warm, a little big on your frame. You don't mind. After spending 20 years sleeping in the most uncomfortable but practical pyjamas you could imagine, this feels quite... luxurious.
You step out of the bathroom to find Freddie still in the guest bedroom, arranging pillows. "Ah," she says when she sees you. "You're done. I'm almost done as well."
So many pillows. Such a soft-looking blanket. Luxury, luxury, luxury. You don't deserve any of this.
You can still change your mind. Change out of the pyjamas, run far away so Freddie can never find you again, protect yourself and the facility.
But you're tired. The promise of another sandwich the next day is — embarrassingly — enough to make you want to stay.
"Are you okay?" she asks, and you realise you've been spacing out. "Sorry about the pjs, I—"
"No," you cut in gently. "They're perfect. This room is perfect. I just... I don't understand..." Tears threaten to well up in your eyes again. "Why are you doing all this for me, if you won't even try to get information out of me?"
