Hello! Would You Be Willing To Write About Someone Who Finds Out That Their Roommate And Childhood Best

Everyone clap for non consensual body modification everybody loves a character whose body has been altered against their will

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

do you have any icks in whump?

I haven't really thought about this before now, so bear with me!

I would say I'm not really squeamish about anything specific, but I did have an experience like. Mid-last-year??? That would suggest otherwise HAHAHAHA

TW: mentions of child abuse.

Whether you've ever heard of Ancient Chinese foot-binding or not, I would suggest proceeding with *extreme* caution if you feel so inclined to research. It was done to young girls, and gosh did I think I could handle one x-ray imaging of this poor victim.

dear nonny, nuh-uh. Not the case at all. While I was staring at this very real x-ray with a sort of horrific fascination, or enthrallment, or whatever you want to call it---it was a mix between the two---anyways; I saw a sort of black fuzziness start to crowd my screen, like crawling, miniscule ants, and I frowned because what the helly man 😔

And I kind of tried to shake my screen, flip my laptop lid back and shut, and I blearily realised it was my very OWN vision infected with this onslaught of static. And I felt so very very tired and sick and nauseous and

Cut.

I'm on my back now. I'm blinking up through a haze, and I vaguely feel my hair scratching my neck and back, and I see the faint, dark outline of something looming above me, and I think, huh. That looks like the desk in my house! :D:D

But my vision sharpens rapidly, and oh, it is my desk

But what's it doing so high up above me-? And I realise my chair is right there, and my arse isn't on it anymore :D, and I'm lying flat on my back and I push myself up with clammy hands and sweaty hair and the room is spinning and dipping, and my stomach does a twisted sort of turn

And I push myself up further onto shaky legs, gripping onto my table with a white-knuckled grip, and I force myself to the kitchen, and pick a mug, any mug [from later investigations I belatedly realised it was the one I usually reserved for rice, no wonder the water tasted like fucking flowers] and I chugged a full shot.

The nausea is still there but it's lessened severely in the bare minutes I stumbled to and from the kitchen, and I walk to my bedroom and stare in the mirror, and Jesus Fuck have I never seen my face so drained before.

I didn't do much afterwards except lay my head on my knees and try to get the beating of my *loser ass* dysfunctional heart back under control. That was my first and only experience of fainting. No I did not enjoy it. But did it serve to enhance the accuracy of its depictions in my writing? Hell YEAH

Anyway, moral of the story is. Please be cautious when consuming media. Do NOT overestimate yourself for your own sake please I beg of you. I could've suffered a concussion if there was anything to hit my empty head on, passing out is not fun!!!!

But it's all the more reason to whump your blorbos with it amirite 😈

Sorry for derailing so disastrously. I can say with full confidence, my whump-related ick? Child abuse, child whump. Not to say I wouldn't interact---I WILL read, and have written such works on the regular. Frequent compulsory breaks tend to help me a lot! But it's not something I tend to react positively to.

The fact I was viewing imagery of something that happened to real children in real life was just... more upsetting than usual?

The Memory Circuit [V]

Bite Down

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⎉: @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.

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The Memory Circuit

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The air is thick with the cool breath of night. The light—sharp, blinding—flickers, then fades, swallowed by the dark. Wetness has seeped into their hair and scalp; rough cement bites into their back.

A voice.

A hand pulling them up. Another hand, setting them on their feet. Brushing debris off their sodden green garb; inquisitive tones.

“What’s your name?” they ask.

Joyeux—

Bok... Joyeux.

But their throat hurts and the words don’t spit, and they want to lie down again.

Hal Hawkins hesitates before he reaches out, pressing a hand to their shoulder.

They flinch.

“Hey, easy,” Hal murmurs. “You with me?”

A pause. The sharp scent of damp concrete. The hum of something electric, distant.

Bok blinks, sluggish. “I don’t know.”

Hal exhales sharply through his nose, rubs a hand over his jaw. “That’s not great, is it?”

¶¶¶¶

Bok and Hal live together. It is a small flat, crammed with too many books, too many wires, things with blinking lights whose purpose Hal won’t explain.

Mornings, Hal hands Bok a cup of tea, frowns when Bok wraps both hands around it and doesn't flinch. The steam curls against Bok’s face, but he only tilts his head, watches it rise, unreadable.

Bok scalds himself pouring out boiling water for pasta. Someone shouts. He glances down at his blistering skin, pressing a fingertip against the raw patch with a curious gleam in his eye.

Hal grabs his wrist, voice sharp. “Hey. What the hell?”

Bok doesn’t answer.

¶¶¶¶

Bok tries his hardest to get into religion.

“I think fear was the first thing I ever learned,” he tells Hal, flipping through pages of an old, cracked Bible. “Fear and shame. I abandoned God but kept my shackles.”

Hal hums from where he sits on the floor, working on a delicate network of luminescent capillaries. “Sounds exhausting.”

Bok considers this, then shrugs.

¶¶¶¶

He slices himself on accident. The cut isn’t deep, but the reaction is instant. Someone yelps. Bok lifts his hand, turning it this way and that, watching thick black liquid bead and streak down his wrist. Someone rushes to grab a napkin.

“Your pen exploded,” they say, pressing the paper against his palm. Bok says nothing.

¶¶¶¶

Curled together, their bodies tangled in the dim glow of the ceiling light, Bok traces slow, deliberate patterns against the nape of Hal’s neck. The warmth of his breath ghosts over skin, his voice slipping soft into the space between them.

“I am one tiny part of this vast universe,” he murmurs, “offered the chance to comprehend myself ever so briefly, and to fall in love with what I see.”

Hal stills. The hum of the city filters in through the open window—distant, electric, alive. Bok feels the shift in Hal’s breathing before he hears his voice.

“Poetic.” A pause. “Did you read that somewhere?”

Bok tilts his head, considers. “No.”

Hal says nothing. The light buzzes overhead, flickering once.

¶¶¶¶

Bok finally suspects something is wrong.

“Two years ago,” Hal says, a little softly. “Here, in Rome. You were wearing emerald green.”

Bok gazes into his mirror, loose strands spilling past his eyes, at a reflection both carnal and utterly alien. 

He hadn't known how long he'd been in Rome, or how he'd gotten there.

¶¶¶¶

Their flat is raided. Bok locks Hal and himself in the bathroom. The door rattles on its hinges, a fist pounding against it. The sound of gunfire, of things splintering.

Hal is bleeding out on the tiled floor. Bok is deliberating.

“Joyeux,” Hal breathes, voice rasping.

Bok freezes. The name feels like a bullet to the skull.

¶¶¶¶

There is no time. He drops through the window, eight stories up. The pain is muted as he crashes onto the pavement below, vision swimming, systems struggling to recalibrate. He is left to peer up at a sky that sprinkles softly back down on him.

For a moment, Bok just lies there, feeling the rain sink into his clothes, feeling the static fuzz at the edges of his mind. The pavement is cold against his cheek. Somewhere above, inside the flat, Hal is dying.

Someone's shouting. Boots slamming against wet concrete. A distant siren wailing through the city streets.

A tremor runs through Bok’s fingers. His limbs feel leaden, sluggish, but his body is still trying to move, to repair itself.

He presses a hand to the ground, tries to push himself upright. A jolt of something sharp lances through his spine, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t. He was programmed to survive, after all.

Survival...

The word echoes in his head, cold and hollow. Hadn’t Hal said something, once, about survival? About living versus being alive?

Bok doesn’t remember.

All he knows is that Hal’s voice is already slipping from his memory, like ink bleeding into water. His fingers clench against the pavement.

The light overhead flickers. A streetlamp, swaying in the wind. For a split second, Bok swears he hears Hal’s voice—low, exasperated, fond.

Joyeux.

Then, the moment is gone.

Bok drags himself to his feet. His systems are stabilising. The rain is coming down harder now, washing the black streaks from his hands.

Somewhere in the city, he knows, there are answers.

He takes a step forward. Then another.

And then he starts to run.

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whumpee screaming into a gag. screaming for help. screaming in pain. screaming to warn their would-be-rescuer that it's a trap

The Memory Circuit [II]

The Customer Is Always Wrong

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

TW: sex work, intoxication, dissociation, emotional numbness, implied exploitation.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The city thrums with restless energy. Rain glides off glass and metal, pooling in the cracks of neglected streets. Overhead, neon burns in artificial constellations, flickering with the air, carrying the scent of ozone, of damp pavement, of banks and smog.

Bok moves through it all, drifting and drowning.

He is warm with liquor, a heat that coils in his gut and dulls the static fuzz at the edges of his mind. The club had been suffocating—smoke and sweat, bodies pressed close, hands lingering too long. But out here, beneath the buzzing glow of a malfunctioning streetlamp, it is cold. Cold enough to bite through the feigned haze of his intoxication.

A cigarette dangles between his fingers, its ember flaring as he takes a slow drag. Smoke unfurls from his lips, curling into the damp night air.

A voice reaches him, smooth, expectant. “Looking for company?”

Bok glances up through strands of damp blonde hair, eyes lidded and unfocused. The man before him is tall, well-dressed, an air of shrewdness about him.

He doesn't answer. Not immediately. He sways slightly, the world tilting at an odd angle.

The man chuckles, pulling out a slim card between two fingers. “I’ll make it easy.” A number. A sum. More than most.

Bok blinks slowly, then takes it.

¶¶¶¶

Bok falters after the figure, credits heavy in his pocket, though his body feels lighter than ever. The neon haze outside the bar stains his skin in shifting colours: red, blue, green.

The stranger leads him through a narrow corridor, past flickering signs and the hum of electrified advertisements. Their breath fogs together in the cool night air. Bok doesn’t ask where they’re going.

Inside the chartered room, the lights are dim, and the bed is clean. The stranger—tall, dark-eyed—shrugs off his coat. Bok sways, catching himself against the wall, blinking at his own reflection in a cracked mirror. He looks different here, distorted, his hair a mess of damp strands, lips parted.

“Don’t fall asleep on me,” the man murmurs, stepping closer. A hand grazes Bok’s jaw, tilting his chin up. His pupils contract automatically at the proximity. The stranger’s grip is firm, assessing. “You’re more pleasing than I expected.”

Bok exhales a soft laugh, tilting his head to expose more skin. “I know.”

It doesn’t matter. Nothing does. Just the press of hands, the exchange of currency, the contract that follows.

¶¶¶¶

Hal Hawkins sits in a cold metal chair, wrists bound, the sting of the restraints biting into his skin every time he moves. Across from him, Agent Ricky watches, expression unreadable, hands clasped on the steel table between them.

The room is sterile, suffocating in its stillness. The kind of place where time distorts, where confessions are extracted like rotting teeth.

“I am going to ask this once more, Hawkins.” Ricky’s voice is calm, deliberate. “Did your charge exhibit these characteristics?”

A flick of fingers. A projection hums to life, casting eerie blue light against the dull walls.

Photographs, sketches. Rows of servants, their smooth heads imprinted with the signature navy star, and a smaller star at their commissure; their bodies identical in stance.

Hal grits his teeth. “No, because I didn’t fucking know—”

Ricky barely reacts. He studies Hal as if dissecting something small and predictable. “And yet you harboured him. A freestyle automaton, even, of sorts. A security threat.”

Hal exhales sharply through his nose. “I harboured a human person.”

Ricky tilts his head slightly. “Is that what you told yourself?”

Silence stretches between them, thick and suffocating.

Ricky leans forward, eyes narrowing. “You had relations with this servant, Hawkins.”

The words land like a blow. Hal stiffens, fists clenching against the cuffs. The motion tugs at the wound beneath his ribs—a sharp, lancing pain that flares outward.

He feels the slow dampness under his shirt. Every breath pulls at the stitches, raw and unhealed.

The wound is still a weakness. A liability. A reminder of the night he nearly died on his bathroom floor.

A reminder of Bok, standing above him—eyes wide with something that might have been horror. Or grief. Or nothing at all.

—The memory presses against his ribs like a phantom limb.

Ricky notices.

A slow, knowing smile creeps onto his face. “No, he wasn’t. But you didn’t know that, did you?”

Hal says nothing.

Ricky watches him for a long moment, then stands, smoothing down his cape. The projection flickers, then vanishes.

The door slides open. A second officer enters, leans in to whisper something into Ricky’s ear. Hal can’t make out the words, but he catches the way Ricky's lips curl at the edges, the amusement in his eyes when he turns back.

“Your nomadroid is still active.”

Hal doesn’t move.

“We’ll find him,” Ricky says, voice light. “And when we do, he’ll be dismantled. Piece by piece.”

Hal’s nails dig into his palms. The restraints bite into his wrists, the sharp sting cutting through the dull ache in his side.

Ricky leans in, voice dropping. “For your sake, Hawkins, you better hope he doesn’t remember you.”

¶¶¶¶

Bok wakes in a bed that isn’t his. The room is dim, quiet save for the distant hum of city life beyond the window.

The stranger is gone. The money remains.

Bok exhales, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, as if to scrub something away. His fingers linger against his temples, then drop. He swings his legs over the edge of the mattress, feet meeting the cold floor.

The air smells of cologne and sweat. He stretches, listening to the hum of the city outside. His fingers ghost over his skin, over the places where hands had been, and he wonders if Hal would have looked at him differently if he knew.

Hal.

His chest tightens. He pushes the thought away.

There is work to do. There are more nights to survive.

Bok lights another cigarette. Inhales. Holds it. Lets the smoke pool in his lungs before exhaling slow, watching it coil toward the ceiling.

There is work to do. There are more nights to survive.

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The Memory Circuit [III]

Get In Line, Mister!

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⎉: @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.

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We’ve all seen the ‘after being tortured whumpee has an absurdly high pain tolerance and caretaker has to ask them why they haven’t moved their hand away from the burning stove etc etc’ and while I do love that trope I raise you:

Whumpee who after being tortured becomes hypersensitive to pain, to the point where stubbing their toe or burning their mouth on hot food or the pressure of their bandages against their wounds is enough to send them spiraling into flashbacks and convince them that caretaker is just another whumper with more creative methods

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.