The Memory Circuit [IV]

love the ambiguity between resignation and loyalty w conditioned whumpees. scenario ive been fixated on is one where whumper gets hurt/incapacitated while whumpee is in chains. whumpee takes the opportunity to steal the key and unlock themselves. but all they do with that freedom is help whumper get situated and try to remedy the situation as best as they’re able. once that’s handled, they’ll put the chains back on themselves and return the key without being told to.

day 11: rehabilitation

@medwhumpmay

content: substance abuse whump (drugs), morally dubious caretaker, addict whumpee, argument

“Well, I don’t want to go.”

Caretaker sighed. “I figured as much. But you realise you can’t live like this, right?”

Whumpee huffed. “I’m living just fine.”

“You’re shooting up heroin how many times a day?”

“I’m not shooting up anymore.”

“Lies. Lies. You just keep lying. You lie to me, you lie to your family, we know. We all know. We can see the fresh needle marks on your arms. You’re high right now.” Caretaker wanted to stay calm and collected for this conversation, but it was so hard when Whumpee was being so… difficult. “We know.”

“You don’t know shit,” they hissed. “I’m done talking to you.”

“You realise I could just call the cops on you, right? I don’t have to wait for you to go to treatment on your own. I could get you locked up and away from drugs for months, if not years.”

Whumpee pursed their lips. They inhaled sharply, their muscles tensing and untensing. “You wouldn’t.”

“I will if you leave me no other choice. I will do it. I don’t want to— I don’t. But I will if that’s the only way to save you from overdosing. I don’t want to find you in the bathtub one day, dead. I don’t want to find you on your bedroom floor with a needle in your arm. I don’t want any of that.”

“I’m fine. If it’s so annoying to you, fine, I can stop. I can stop any day.”

“No, you can’t. You need help, Whumpee. Let us help you.”

“I’m not spending six months to a year in a stupid fucking program!” They stood up from the sofa, yelling now. “I’m not! If you’re so obsessed with the rehab program, you go in! I’m not going to do it! And I’m done fucking talking!”

Caretaker stood up as well, just as fired up. “Out of the two of us I’m not the fucking addict! I don’t need rehab! You need some fucking time locked up somewhere where you can’t get to your dealers and they can’t get to you!”

“I’m leaving! If you call the cops, you’re dead to me, whether I’m sober or not! I’m fucking done!”

“That’s it.” Caretaker grabbed their phone off the table and started dialing the emergency number. Before they could hit the call button, Whumpee jumped at them and tackled them to the ground. “What the fuck? Get off me!”

“You’re not calling the fucking cops on me!” They wrestled the phone out of their hand and rolled off them, and Caretaker was just in time to see them smash it against the corner of the table, completely shattering the screen. Then they threw it on the ground and stood up.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Caretaker screamed. “You’re out of your mind! You need serious help! You—”“I’m leaving. If you call the cops on me, like I said, you’re fucking dead to me. Don’t try to find me.” With that, they stormed out the door, leaving Caretaker on the ground along with their ruined phone. They let out a long, deep sigh and decided right there, on the floor: they would put Whumpee in jail if it meant saving their life. They just needed to get another phone to make the call.

~

@whumpsday @lolrpop

The Memory Circuit [V]

Bite Down

Masterlist | Previous | Next

⎉: @chaotic-orphan @morning-star-whump Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: graphic depictions of physical and psychological torture, child abuse, grooming, sexual violence involving minors, institutional exploitation, non-consensual medical/technological procedures, trauma flashbacks, violence, captivity, dissociation, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

It’s in the bones. In the soft tissue. In the places they didn’t bandage, because they didn’t care to.

His ribs are packed wrong—wrapped too tight, maybe broken in three places. His knees are locked in crude external splints. The shoulder—left—burns. Swollen. Dislocated. Maybe shattered? It feels like it. His right hand won’t flex. 

The chair holds him upright, fixed in place. Mechanical restraints at ankles, wrists, chest. A gentle hum. Cold metal bolted to colder floors. Bok can’t breathe easy. He can only sit in the wreckage of himself, eyes half-lidded, mouth dry and sticky.  

He shifts. Just once.  

The pain flares, vivid and immediate.

The door opens.

He doesn’t lift his head. He can hear the steps: unhurried, expensive. A rustle of real fabric, not synthetic. Cotton. Maybe silk.

“You know,” the voice says lightly, “you’ve got a remarkable pain threshold.”

Bok does look, then. Just a little. His neck protests, loud.

The man who enters is not dressed like a soldier. Civilian clothes: deep blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, collar loose; dark slacks. Wavy red hair pulled back loosely, some of it still curling at the sides. A gold necklace glints at his chest. Black gloves sheath his hands, and at his hip, a sleek holstered gun rests.

Pretty. Bok hates that it’s the first thing he notices. Pretty, in that careless, born-with-it way. Sharp nose, clean lines, dry eyes.

Coffee. He’s holding coffee.

Bok stares.

The man sets it down on the table beside him and gestures with an elegant little flourish, like they’re starting a chess match.

“Broke a man’s tibia with your elbow, apparently. While your own leg was already broken. I don’t know if I’m impressed or nervous.”

Bok can’t tell if he’s being mocking or not.

The man walks closer, retrieving the neural tap cable.

“You were still kicking. Still biting. Ribs broken, hand crushed, and you still managed to stab someone. So forgive me—” he glances at the restraints, “—for being a little cautious.”  

He crouches. Close now. Bok can smell the coffee.  

“I’m Ricky,” he says, tone clipped, unbothered. “You and I are going to get very close.”  

Ricky picks up the bit next, turning it between his fingers—black polymer, soft—and holds it up like a peace offering.

“Bite down.”  

Bok doesn’t move.

Ricky rocks forward onto his toes, his face barely beneath Bok’s eye level, but Bok gazes coolly back down at him nonetheless.

“It’s not for me,” Ricky snorts. “It’s for your tongue. Once I go in, it’s going to get ugly.”

He slips it into Bok’s mouth with steady fingers. Bok bites down hard.

Ricky jerks his hand back with a hiss. “Shit,” he mutters, shaking out his hand. “Yeah. Good man.”

He finally rises, shakes out his fingers one last time, then turns and strides to the console.

The rig hums to life. The tap slides into position, and Ricky’s fingers fly over the controls, quietly humming to himself.

“Not personal,” he adds—and hits one last switch.

¶¶¶¶

Whatever it is slams into Bok’s skull like a hammer.

He jerks in the chair. Screams against the bit. His back arches. The restraints groan. Every nerve lights up like a live wire.  

On-screen, the first images begin to flash.

¶¶¶¶

Age 13. Training Facility: Unit 17

A dorm. Sterile. White. He’s naked from the waist down.  

A clipboard passes between two adults. One nods. The other gestures.  

The handler steps forward. Grabs his jaw. Lifts it. Examines him like a horse.  

“He's grown,” they note. “Ready for evaluation.”  

He tries to speak. Voice cracks. They slap him. Open hand. 

He’s twelve. Maybe thirteen.  

The handler grips his shoulder. Turns him. Presents him.  

“You’ll be perfect,” they murmur, adjusting his collar. “Lower your eyes.”  

Bok watches from the chair, shaking.  

NO. No no nonono stop—stop this—no more, not now—

But it only digs in further.  

¶¶¶¶

Age 14. Night Session: Red Room

A velvet bed. Cameras in every corner. A glass wall.  

Three men sit behind it. Watching. Grading.  

Bok is told to strip. He does.  

Hands guide him. Lotioned palms. Voice at his ear.  

“Do it sweet this time. Smile like you mean it.”  

Sharp cologne. Bok kneels.  

His eyes are dead. Inside, he’s somewhere else.  

Behind the glass, someone nods. A ‘pass’.

Bok clenches his fists in the chair. Restraints grind against metal.  

His whole body is taut. Teeth digging into the bit.  

Ricky shifts. He clears his throat. Tries to skip ahead.  

Bok slams a mental wall in place.  

The machine screeches. Screen fuzzes. Glitches.  

But it finds another path.

¶¶¶¶

Age 15. First Kill

A hotel room. Expensive. Marble tub.  

A client lies back, champagne in one hand. His pupils are slow.  

Bok is dressed in silk. Lipstick.  

He laughs. Touches the man’s shoulder. Drops something into the drink.  

“Bottoms up.”  

The man drinks.  

Thirty seconds. His lips go slack. Bok leans in. Whispers something that isn’t picked up. Then drives the needle into his neck.  

The body spasms.  

Bok pins him with a knee. Watches the light fade.  

Then calmly strips the bed. Wipes the prints. Changes clothes. Twirls the keys, pockets them, gone. 

The whole act—flawless.

On screen, it replays twice.  

Ricky exhales. 

“Why did they pivot you to assassination?” 

Bok curls his lip. “Maybe I got bored.”

¶¶¶¶

Age 16. Assault

A handler. Drunk. Furious. Slams Bok into the wall.  

“You want to make me look bad?”  

He’s been failing evaluations. Slipping.  

Too much resistance.

The man forces him down. Belt off. No camera this time.  

It’s fast. Violent. Bok doesn’t scream.  

Afterwards, he lies there. Eyes open. Something gone.  

¶¶¶¶

Bok thrashes in the chair. Screaming now. Wordless. Gut-deep.  

The restraints dig into broken skin.  

On screen, the memory degrades. Fragments. Blurs.  

Then another—

¶¶¶¶

Age 17. Redress

A locker room. Same handler.  

Bok follows, humming.  

Injector in hand. Sharp. Fast.  

Stab to the neck. Hold it. Hold it—until the body stops moving.  

The blood freckles Bok’s cheek.

He laughs—soft, breathless.

¶¶¶¶

Back in the chair, Bok shoves with every ounce of mental force left.  

The screen hisses. Static. Feedback stutters.

Bok’s pushing back against the onslaught. Slamming doors in its face.

Ricky types frantically. Tries to reroute.  

Fails.  

Tries again.  

Fails.  

Overload. 

Sync disruption. 

Neural resistance spike: critical. 

“Stop fighting,” Ricky snaps. “Stop it—”  

Bok glares at him. His lips are bleeding dark.

He spits the bit to the floor with a slick clack.

“You get off on that, Ricky?” he sneers, voice tight, eyes wet, betraying him. “You enjoy it?”  

The screen explodes into white noise. Hard cut.  

Bok crumples. Not quite unconscious. His head pounds.

Ricky stares at the console. Then at Bok.  

His voice is thin.

“You little bastard.”  

Ricky crosses the room. Pages someone on the intercom.  

“We’ve got a failure,” he says. “Tap’s down. No data retrieved. He—overloaded it. I don’t know how.”

A beat.  

“No, don’t send a tech. He fried it.”  

He turns his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. Silence.

He clicks off.  

Ricky stands by the door, one hand resting on the frame, his gaze tracing the tense lines of Bok’s body as his chest heaves with ragged breaths.

“You know,” Ricky’s voice is hollow, the words hanging in the space between them, “I was hoping you’d make this easy.”  

“Go… fuck yourself,” Bok wheezes out.

The door hisses shut behind Ricky, sharp and final.

The lights dim.

And Bok lets his head fall back, eyes shuttering.

Masterlist | Previous | Next

The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

Masterlist | Previous | Next

⎉: @chaotic-orphan Let me know if you'd like to be added or subtracted from the taglist!

TW: physical assault, attempted sexual assault, substance use, internalised trauma, psychological breakdown, imprisonment, coercion, manipulation, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The bar has no name anymore—just a fizzing strip of neon clinging to a rusted beam above the door. Inside, the red light pulses like a hammer, and the air is thick with oil, sweat, and something vaguely metallic, like old blood on iron.

Bok sits at the edge of the bar. One foot hooks around the stool leg, anchoring him. His other boot taps lightly against the floor, in rhythm with the bass that shakes the walls.

His glass is half-empty. The liquor is acrid and sharp, coating his throat like engine fuel.

A man drops onto the stool beside him. Loud jacket, richer than the rest of the room. A slick grin follows.

“You working tonight?” the man asks, voice pitched low.

Bok doesn’t answer. Just lifts the glass to his lips, sips.

The man leans in closer. “You’re too pretty to be sitting here alone.”

Fingers trail up Bok’s thigh, casual. Bok stiffens. The glass in his hand trembles. He shifts his weight, the stool wobbling slightly beneath him.

The man chuckles. “You shy, sweetheart?”

What was meant as a term of endearment lands like a blow.

The man reaches up, runs his fingers through Bok’s damp hair. His hand tightens—bunching it in his fist.

Bok exhales slow through his nose. His knuckles whiten around the glass.

“Come on,” the man murmurs, leaning in close enough to smell his cologne. “I know what you are.”

Bok stands suddenly, too fast. The stool scrapes loud across the floor. The man grabs him by the back of the neck this time, tries to yank him near—but Bok spins, shoving him off-balance. He stumbles into the bar, curses sharp.

A fist flies. Bok ducks. His palm hits the counter for leverage. Light hair falls into his eyes—he shoves it back with slick fingers, knuckles at the ready.

The man lunges again. Bok pivots low and slams his elbow into the dude's ribs. The sound is wet, guttural. The guy staggers, then roars and swings—

This time it connects. Bok’s jaw snaps sideways with the force. Pain explodes down his neck. Ink spatters across the bar.

People are shouting now. Moving back. Watching.

Bok wipes his mouth, black smearing across his palm. His chest heaves. He steps forward—gets in one good hit, right to the man’s throat.

Then they’re grappling—hands, fists, elbows. The man claws at him, snarling. Bok’s hair is grabbed again, yanked hard. His body slams into the bar, ribs cracking against the edge.

He tastes salt and metal. His ears ring. And still, his body moves.

He’s not trying to lose.

Bouncers shove through the crowd. One grabs the guy. Another seizes Bok, jerking him backwards. Bok tries to loosen himself, but they’re already hauling him.

"Out."

The door opens. The city screams.

And then they throw him.

He hits wet concrete with a grunt, shoulder flaring white-hot with pain. The door slams. The music vanishes like a heartbeat cut short.

He lies there for a moment. Breathing.

Rain spatters down, cold and biting. Night blooms in slow spirals around his knuckles, washed away by gutter runoff.

His chest rises, falls. Again.

I almost let him.

His jaw tightens. Teeth grind.

A tremor takes him, small and violent. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. Ink and water run down his arms.

He stays like that, hunched and shaking, for a long time.

No one stops.

The city keeps moving.

¶¶¶¶

Hal stares at the ceiling of the room where they keep him.

Fluorescent light hums, flickering at irregular intervals beneath the sparkling chandelier.

His wrists are cuffed to the chair again, tighter this time. His ribs throb under soaked bandages. Each breath pulls at the place where flesh tried to close around pain.

Ricky is already there, leaning against the wall like he’s waiting for a friend. A file folder sits open on the table—thick, heavy, bloated with things Hal already knows.

“You were one of ours, Hawkins,” Ricky says at last, tapping a photo with two fingers. “Senior clearance. Protocol Valparaíso access. You wrote part of the legislation that governs automaton integration.”

Hal doesn’t speak.

“You knew the regulations,” Ricky continues. “You helped draft the punishments. You were the one who suggested neural tagging in the first place.”

A long pause. Ricky walks around the table, slow.

“And then you go off-grid, shack up with one. A freelance nomadroid. Unmarked. Off-record. Illegal.”

Hal raises his eyes. They’re dry, exhausted. “He wasn’t—”

“No,” Ricky interrupts, voice sharp. “He wasn’t just a droid. You’re right. That’s what makes this worse.”

He drops another photo. This one is of a disassembled model. Wiring exposed. Liquid black pooled around the table where the skull used to be.

Hal flinches. Just slightly.

Ricky leans down, smile thin. “You know what happens if this goes public, right? If your involvement leaks?”

Silence.

“Your clearance. Gone. Your name. Smeared. Pensions, benefits, citizenship? Stripped. Your friend’s address is still listed in the system. Do you think she’ll appreciate a midnight raid?”

Hal’s jaw tightens.

“So,” Ricky says, flipping the folder closed, “we're offering you a free route.”

Another folder. This one thinner. Sleeker.

“Conditional release. You'll be tagged, tracked, watched. You’ll check in every seventy-two hours. And when we find Joyeux—and we will—you will help us. Or everything comes out.”

Hal swallows. He flexes his hands in the cuffs.

Ricky’s smile grows. “So? What do you say?”

There’s no real choice. There never was.

The cuffs hiss open. The chair scrapes as Hal stands.

He doesn't look at Ricky. He just turns, and walks.

¶¶¶¶

Outside, the rain is louder.

Bok leans against the alley wall, a cigarette trembling between his fingers, though he hasn’t lit it. His jaw is swelling. Blood still clings to his collar.

His breath clouds in the cold air.

Behind his eyes, the fight plays again—frame by frame, sensation by sensation. The hand in his hair. The pressure on his throat. His own hesitation.

You’re too pretty to be alone.

He doesn’t feel pretty now.

The cigarette falls from his fingers.

He presses his back to the wall and slowly sinks down. The rain keeps falling. The city doesn’t stop.

His hand touches the edge of his coat, fingers finding a hidden seam inside the lining.

Bok shuts his eyes.

Tonight, he just breathes.

Masterlist | Previous | Next

A villain that’s very protective of their hero

A tear ran down their temple when the hero woke up.

"I..." Their throat tightened. It hurt. All of it hurt. As they realised they were covered in dust, their eyes teared up even more, washing the dirt off their face in clear slim lines. They couldn't see much, but there were little rays of sunshine pushing through the concrete above and to their sides, revealing the villain on top of them.

The hero had to swallow, clear their mind. The villain stared at nothing in particular, not even the hero under them. They looked like they were concentrating, but the hero knew that look too well: the villain was in surging pain.

Their washed-out eyes were wide open and there was blood sticking onto their hair. The hero couldn't tell for how long they had been unconscious, but the villain seemed to have been awake the entire time.

Apparently, not even a building collapsing on top of them could destroy them.

The hero stared at them, stared at that face shape, those shoulders, those eyes. Was that it? Were they ultimately going to die together? Right here?

The hero didn't have any energy left in them to lift a finger, at least of all chunks of concrete. Their muscles burnt and they were sure several bones of theirs were broken. They continued to observe their enemy. Their enemy who had saved them. Without them, everything left of the hero would be mushed-up heroism and a torn cape. How was it even possible that the both of them were alive?

"How are you holding up?" the hero whispered. They were sure they had mere minutes before the villain's arms would give out. Mere minutes before the villain would collapse just like the building.

At first, the villain didn't answer. Their arms were shaking. They took in a deep breath.

"My kidneys are definitely done for," they said eventually. Their voice was raspy, their breathing quick. "And my leg is broken. You think some of your friends will come to our rescue?"

"If we can hold on for like ten more minutes, maybe. That's a big if, though." The villain nodded or maybe the hero imagined it, after all their view was extremely limited. "Why'd you do that? You could have saved yourself."

The villain finally looked at them and the hero's chest hurt more than before.

"...how could I not?" they asked.

"No, please, don't do that-"

"You're my everything. I do all of it because of you. I show up to see you, I mess up to see you, I fight to see you."

"Please," the hero begged. They couldn't bear a confession now. They couldn't watch the villain die because of them. "Please don't say that. Please tell me you hate me and it was a mistake or instinct."

"You know that's not true." The villain's blood ran down their side and dribbled onto the hero. They moaned softly. "You know that's not true, not even a little bit."

The villain let out a sharp breath and the hero could tell they were breaking down slowly. Growing weaker while the concrete grew heavier.

Tears gathered in the hero's eyes anew.

"I can't do this," the hero said. "You can't leave me, please. I am so scared. I am so-"

They choked on the words. There wasn't much space for either of them, but the hero managed to push their arm up and although some of their fingers were certainly broken, they touched the villain's cheek.

"Are you getting claustrophobic?" the villain asked gently. Their arms were trembling and more and more blood was running down their sides. The hero knew the villain could barely hold it together and they didn't seem to realise that the hero was rather getting thanatophobic. Even now, the villain remembered that the hero was a little uncomfortable in tight spaces, but the lack of space was their last problem right now. "Don't worry. I am here."

And there it was.

Blood coming out of the villain's mouth.

"I am here, please don't cry," the villain said. "I am right here."

The hero tried to hold back their sobs, but it made everything a little harder.

"I am so tired," the villain whispered. They closed their eyes for a second. "Please, can I lay down? Just for a minute or two. My back hurts so much."

"Yes, come here," the hero answered. Their bottom lip quivered.

But they were more than ready to share the weight the villain had protected them from.

It’s really bold of me, a neurodivergent who struggles with rejection sensitivity, to want to be a writer— a career path forged entirely by rejection.

before you stab someone: THINK!

how can you make it Tender?

how can you make it Homoerotic?

how can you make it Implicitly intimate?

how can you make it Noticeably a metaphor for sex?

how can you make it Kind of gay?

Can you do a prompt about the Hero being apart of a team and Villain is forced to work with the Hero's team after being kicked out of their own villian team. The members of the Hero's Team doesn't trust the Villain but the hero does, mostly because the hero thinks the villain cute and reminds him of someone.

Very inspired by prompt 339.

Corrupted By a Pretty Face

The alarm blared across the spaceship. Red lights flashed on and off. The hero put down their sandwich. What was it now? They looked down at their watch. An incoming call was coming in from their second in command. The hero left the dining bay, running, and picked up the call. Their second’s distressed face projected above the watch. The hero held up their wrist as they ran.

“What’s the issue?” The hero said.

“Your fugitive!” Their second shouted. Veins were popping out of his forehead.

The hero sighed. “What has the villain done now?”

“Come and see for yourself! We’re next to the greenhouse.”

On the plus side, by the time the hero got there, the flashing lights and the blaring alarm had turned off. On the other hand, half the crew was standing there, everyone glaring at the villain. The hero slowed down, trying to piece together what had happened from everyone’s faces.

“This is why we don’t just pick up every criminal we-”

The second cut himself off when he saw the hero. Everyone else saw them and quickly scattered. Except for the second and the greenhouse head. The hero approached them. They gave the villain a quick look. They looked very pretty, as always. But also very guilty. Not a good sign.

“Okay. What happened?”

“Disaster, captain!” the greenhouse head said. Her eyes went wide. “They sampled the hybrids!”

‘The hybrids’ were several cross-plant breeding projects the on-ship farmers were working on. They were an innovation, considering the mixed plants were from different planets. A project like that could get you access to any planet across the galaxy. They took a long time to grow, and only 5 out of 100 would ripen well. So they were saved for the most important diplomats across the Milky Way. And the villain had eaten some.

“You’re joking,” the hero said.

They looked back at the villain. The villain blinked for a second, remembered what they had done, and took a deep bow of apology. Mostly, the hero thought, to avoid eye contact with the three people staring daggers at them.

“I’m truly, deeply sorry, captain. I didn’t know the fruits were of significance.”

The hero had to tamp down a laugh. The villain’s tongue was purple with fruit juice.

“The fruits,” the greenhouse head mocked. “They’re scientific marvels! Why, I-”

“Hey,” the hero touched her arm. “How about you take a minute. Survey the damage. Get back to me later. Okay? I’ll deal with them.”

The greenhouse head looked even angrier, but she nodded. “Okay, captain.”

She stomped back into the greenhouse and slammed the door. The hero gestured at their second to get lost, too. He frowned. The hero gestured again. He rolled his eyes. 

“I hope you finally see what a mistake this was,” the second said.

Then he turned on his heels and walked away. His heels clicked down the corridor. The hero rubbed their temple. The people on this ship sometimes acted no older than five.

“Hey. Look at me.”

The villain finally broke their bow and sheepishly made eye contact. The hero tilted their head, surveying the villain up and down. Hopefully the villain would think they were just assessing the situation. The hero looked into the villain’s eyes again and started walking backwards.

“Follow me.”

The hero did this sometimes. They knew this ship with their eyes closed. And it was more convenient looking at someone while they talked. Bonus, it made the villain focus on them, trying to see if the hero tripped up. After watching the hero make two flawless turns, the hero finally started the interrogation.

“Tell me what happened.”

The villain rubbed their arm. “Okay, so, like I missed mealtime, right? So the dining bay wasn’t serving food anymore.”

“There’s always food. Make a sandwich.”

“But I didn’t want a sandwich.”

“Fine. So you went into the greenhouse?”

The villain nodded. “I was just picking some fruits for a snack.”

“And you didn’t notice the giant ‘don’t touch’ sign above the hybrids.”

“I don’t think so? Or I ignored it. I’m not sure.”

Of course they weren’t. The hero came to a sudden stop. The villain almost ran into them. The hero turned to their left. The room was numbered 38625B. Their office. They pressed their thumb to the scanner. The door slid open.

“Come in,” the hero said, moving inside.

Their office was a desk with high shelves on either side. They contained books, gadgets, and pictures from across the stars. Behind the desk was a mounted painting of the outside of the ship. The hero knew the villain thought the painting was a little over the top. But the hero loved their vessel.

The hero sat down at their crowded desk and had the villain sit across from them. The hero went into a desk drawer and rooted around. Finally, they pulled out a sheet of paper. They put it on the desk so the villain could see it. It was the agreement the villain had signed a few months ago, when they had just boarded the ship. It was an agreement to behave according to the ship’s code of conduct. The hybrids were explicitly mentioned. The hero plucked a pen from their overstuffed pencil holder and pointed at the clause.

“You’ve done some strange things on this ship. Spreading greenpox-”

“I didn’t know I had it when I boarded!”

“-and making the soap in all the bathrooms explode everywhere-” “I was just testing their durability.”

“What about almost killing Lucky?”

The villain rubbed their neck. “My bad. But dogs are contaminated with a million diseases.”

“That’s what his shots are for. Remember how you didn’t have any for greenpox?”

“Okay, point taken.”

The hero continued. “But messing with the hybrids? Clear violation of the code of conduct.”

“Trying to kill the dog wasn’t?”

“We’re not supposed to have dogs on the ship. So.”

“I knew it!”

“Anyway,” the hero tapped the contract. “I have grounds to kick you off this ship. Abandon you on the next sparsely populated exoplanet and let you find your own way.”

The villain took in what the hero said. It gave them pause. “But. . .you’re not going to?”

The hero balled up the paper and tossed it in the trash can next to their desk. “Nope.”

The villain stared for a second. “The crew’s not going to like that.”

“Which is why I’m going to draft up a new contract,  without hybrids, and we’re going to pretend that was the agreement all along. Like I forgot to add it.”

“You never forget anything,” the villain said.

“I almost never forget anything,” the hero responded.

The villain reached out and clasped the hero’s hands. The hero looked down at where their skin touched and tried not to blush. This must be a custom on the villain’s planet.

“Thank you,” the villain said. “How can I ever repay you?”

“By behaving,” the hero deadpanned.

They pulled their hands back. The villain was smiling wide. “I don’t know why you’ve decided to help me, but I’m eternally grateful.”

The hero smiled back. “If I left you, you would just find another gang to get abandoned by, and we’d find you again in six months trying to rob us to make ends meet.”

“Hey,” the villain said. “Rude.”

“But I’m not wrong.”

The villain didn’t have to know how cute the hero found them. Or that they reminded the hero of everyone back home they had a crush on. The villain would probably tell everyone, and the crew wouldn’t take kindly to the hero giving someone they found attractive special treatment. But boy, did it make it hard to look at the villain’s face and stay mad. If the hero ever even was mad.

“Okay,” the hero said. “Get out of here. I don’t want to see you leave your quarters until tomorrow.”

“But-”

“I’ll bring you food later! Just get out of here.”

The villain nodded. They stood up, bowed once more, and quickly shuffled out. The hero leaned back against their chair and sighed. Why did they always fall for criminals? It was going to get them in big trouble one day.

Then again, you only live once. The hero hated to say it, but they were looking forward to visiting the villain’s room later.

Collar and the Crown

⎉: @whump-in-the-closet thanks for the prompt mwahahaha

TW: abuse, coercion, humiliation, non-consensual control, psychological torment, physical pain, power imbalances, dehumanisation, forced obedience, implied sexual threat, references to past physical torture and branding.

The dining room gleams with opulence. Gold leaf detailing. Velvet chairs. Candlelight dancing through fine crystal. It smells like roasted meat, sweet wine, money. Roses colouring rot.

Whumpee stands at the centre, drowning in the spectacle. Their black turtleneck clings to them like armour, the fabric stiff with sweat, stretched too tight across their ribs. Jeans rough against their skin. Plain. Deliberately so. Everything about them sticks out sorely in the midst of the splendour.

Their posture is rigid. Neutral. Perfect. They’ve practiced this. Rehearsed it in the mirror until their muscles ached.

They don’t look at anyone.

Whumper stands beside them, smiling like a man unveiling a masterpiece. His suit is immaculate—blood-red tie, black silk gloves. His hand rests lightly on Whumpee’s back. 

A leash beneath a lover’s touch.

He taps his glass with a fork. The sound is sharp, crystalline. The room hushes like a curtain falling.

“My friends,” Whumper says, eyes sweeping the table, “I promised something special tonight. And I never break a promise.”

He turns to Whumpee, smile widening.

“Come closer, pet.”

Whumpee obeys, jaw ticking once.

The movement is mechanical. Inside, their gut tightens.

“If you flinch,” Whumper mutters, low against their ear, “I’ll gut you here on the floor.”

They stiffen.

The room watches, entranced.

And Whumper begins.

He unbuttons the turtleneck slowly, reverently, as though undressing a bride. One button at a time. The fabric falls away from the collar—metal, thick, functional. It gleams in the light. It hums softly.

“Oh,” someone says, voice slurred and intoxicated. “He’s collared. How darling.”

The shirt slips lower.

A scar on the shoulder. Long. Surgical.

“This one,” Whumper begins, his voice rich, “was from a lesson about disobedience. They were quite… expressive.”

He traces it with his gloved fingers. Whumpee flinches.

Too late.

The collar bites. Just a flicker of pain down their spine. Enough to make them inhale sharply.

Whumper doesn’t pause.

More skin is revealed. More marks. Scars that twist and curve like a topography of pain. The brand, raw and angry, slashed across their chest—his title, forever.

“I’d love to get my hands on that,” someone murmurs at the table. “Such craftsmanship.”

Whumpee’s hands clench. But they keep quiet.

And then—eyes.

In the far corner of the room, someone stands. Out of place. Rigid. Pale.

Whumpee’s heart lurches.

They know that face.

An old nemesis. Once a rival who swore they’d destroy them—

And now—they just watch.

Frozen.

Whumpee’s stomach turns.

Whumper presses a glass into their hand. Wine, dark and viscous.

“Drink,” he says, low.

Whumpee doesn’t move.

“Now.”

The collar flashes again—bright red.

Agony sears down their spine. Their knees buckle. The wine sloshes in the glass.

Whumper steadies them.

“Don’t spill,” he rebukes. “You’ll ruin the carpet.”

Whumpee raises the glass. It shakes in their grip.

The wine touches their tongue like fire. It burns going down. Too strong. Too much. Their throat rebels. Their eyes sting.

But they drink.

A drop spills down their chin.

Whumper catches it with his thumb, wiping it away.

He turns them to face the guests.

“Raise your glasses,” he says. “To discipline. To devotion. To the beauty of supremacy.”

Glasses clink. The sound is obscene. Triumphant.

And Whumpee?

They stand there, collar humming, chest bare, body marked with every lesson learned too late.

Their face burns, flushed too deep, too loud, shame trying to scream its way out.

Someone laughs. “What else can they do on command?”

The person in the back—the one who knows—hasn’t moved.

Their expression is blank now, guarded.

But they don’t come forward. They don’t speak.

And that hurts more than anything.

Whumper leans close, lips brushing Whumpee’s temple.

“You’re doing beautifully,” he says. “They adore you.”

His hand slips down, settling just above the waistband of Whumpee’s jeans.

“Shall we give them more?”

Whumpee trembles. Their legs feel like glass. Their skin screams. Their mind is a hurricane.

But still—they stand.

Because the alternative is worse. Because there is no alternative.

The applause rises again, thunderous, gleeful.

And Whumpee, trembling and silent, is swallowed by it.