A Villain That’s Very Protective Of Their Hero

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 [IV]

Good Morning, Sunshine

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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: police brutality, physical assault, vomiting, surveillance, systemic abuse.

Line dividers by @sister-lucifer!!!!

The door buzzes.

Hal jabs the button again, hard.

Nothing.

Then: “It’s four-fucking-thirty in the morning, Hal.”

Her voice crackles through the speaker like it’s pissed, too. He presses his forehead to the doorframe, eyes closed.

“Hey, Piggy.”

The lock clicks.

Jules stands in the doorway in a billowing shirt and one sock, hair a frizzy halo of sleep and pure, undiluted fury.

“You look like shit,” she settles venomously, stepping aside.

The flat smells like chamomile and burnt oil. There’s a threadbare orange blanket on the couch and a spider plant hanging in the corner, definitely named something like Milo. Hal sinks onto the couch, spine curling in on itself. Jules crosses her arms.

“Is this about Bok?”

Hal’s head jerks up.

She sighs, already turning for the kitchen. “I’m putting the kettle on. Start talking before it boils.”

¶¶¶¶

The kettle clicks. Hal’s in the kitchen, shoulders hunched as he pours water into sleek mugs. His hands shake.

Jules watches him from the table, unreadable.

“He’s gone,” Hal says, voice hoarse.

“I figured,” Jules replies. “The silence wasn’t exactly reassuring.”

Hal lets out a slow, ragged breath. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Lucky me,” she mutters.

Then: Knock knock knock.

Jules’ eyes snap to the door.

“Please tell me that’s not—”

“Open up, Jules,” comes Ricky’s voice, carrying that signature lilt of his.

She doesn’t move. Hal, already pale, goes corpse white.

Jules opens the door just enough to glare through. “You’ve got a lot of nerve.”

Ricky smiles coolly. “Just here to chat.”

“Go chat with a blender.”

She tries to shut the door. He plants a booted foot in the frame.

“We’ve got Joyeux,” he says. “You know what that means.”

Her jaw tightens. She steps aside, reluctantly. “You’ve got five minutes.”

Ricky walks in like it’s his flat, brushing droplets off his shoulders. Hal retreats to the sink, one hand braced on the counter like it’s the only thing holding him up.

Ricky’s eyes flick to Hal. “I assume you know Hal was keeping company with a nomadroid.”

He halts mid-pace, catching Jules’s look.

A beat.

“I’m assuming you didn’t know it was unregistered. Fully illegal. Possibly unstable.”

Hal makes a noise—half breath, half choke. Jules glares at him too.

“I know it’s complicated,” Ricky hums. “But Joyeux was dangerous. The raid was clean. We have footage. And Hawkins’ prints.”

“Shut up,” Jules says.

Ricky lifts an eyebrow.

She turns to Hal, voice quieter now. “You didn’t tell me everything.”

Hal can’t look at her.

“Did you love him?”

The air goes still.

Hal’s grip on the counter slips. He doubles over and vomits into the sink, body wracked and shaking.

Jules doesn’t flinch. Just grabs a dish towel, runs it under cold water, and presses it into his hands.

Ricky looks away; pulls out his datapad.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says lightly, and walks out.

The door shuts behind him.

Jules exhales—long, slow, furious.

Hal leans against the wall, towel clutched in his hands, face pale.

“You loved him,” she says again, not asking this time.

And Hal, eyes puffy, just nods.

¶¶¶¶

Earlier.

They blow the door in.

No warning, no pause. Just the shockwave and splinters, smoke curling into the hallway like fingers.

Bok’s head snaps up from the mattress on the floor. He doesn’t move fast enough.

They’re already inside.

Three soldiers. Black gear, black masks, silent. Their eyes glint faintly like glass behind the visors. A flick of motion, and the room is theirs.

Bok reaches for the blade on the counter. Cheap boxcutter. Pathetic. He grabs it anyway.

The first soldier closes in.

Bok swings.

Steel kisses flesh—a shallow cut across a gloved arm. The soldier barely reacts.

Bok bolts.

One grabs his shirt, misses. Another’s faster. A baton slams into Bok’s spine. His knees buckle. He drops, scrambles, still crawling, still fighting—

Another hit—his side caves in around it. Something cracks. He sucks in air.

He twists, knife in hand, jabs upward.

The blade rakes a thigh—deep. The man swears. Stumbles. Bok surges forward.

It doesn’t matter.

A boot catches his shoulder. Slams him sideways into the wall. His skull hits plaster, leaves a dent. He falls.

They’re on him.

He thrashes—kicks, claws, spits black.

Someone grabs his hair, yanks him up. His neck strains. He stabs back—nothing.

A baton hammers down.

His hand breaks. Knife drops. Gone.

They don’t stop.

Two hold him down. One crushes a knee with the baton—crack. Bok jerks, bites his own tongue. Ink floods his mouth.

“Still fighting?” one mutters. Disgusted.

Second knee. 

Crack. 

He goes limp, twitching. Ribs heave. Eyes wide. Still conscious.

One more hit to the jaw. His head snaps sideways. Something dislocates.

They drag him.

By the arms. His head falls back, eyes dull, breath fogging through slightly parted lips. His bare heels scrape against the floor. Sweat clings his hair to his forehead, dripping down his face. The rest of his body hangs limp, trailing behind them like a trainwreck.

“Secure,” one says.

Another checks a watch. “Thirty seconds over. Let’s move.”

They vanish into the hallway.

The door hangs from one hinge. The room still smells like smoke and metal and blood. 

And they’re gone.

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honestly shout out to the dead dove: do not eat creators, the darkfic authors, the people who can unflinchingly stare into their darkest desires and curiosities and give them life enough to share with other people. It's absolutely so much harder than it looks to pull off

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.

kudos to writers with dialogue-heavy works, I got mad respect for y'all. love using dialogue as a tool, but my default settings are non-verbal (dialogue) and non-stop yapping (description).

Kinda fucked up that we all coo and sympathize with "former gifted kids" but never talk about the students who had to stay late after school or over the summer for remedial classes/clubs, who struggled to get above a C, who were given up on or punished. Who tried so hard to understand or just couldn't. Who were grouped with the "stupid kids" (a classmate called us that in remedial math btw)

Autistic kids and adhders who can't relate to their gifted peers and are constantly alienated by them. Kids who struggled in school due to dealing with a chronic or mental illness or physical/learning/developmental disability. Those of us who have had to drop out of highschool or college. Kids who worked so hard and wanted to be seen as smart, but never were. Who watched as their peers seem to fly by them in school, while they were left behind. Who were bullied and put down by those in the gifted and honors classes. Whose confidence was absolutely destroyed by education.

I love you all and I'm so sorry the school system failed you. I'm sorry you weren't properly accommodated and given the education you deserved. I'm sorry people put you down for something that they never had to fight for.

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?

wow lesbians.......

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

If my ocs were real and I walked into a room with all of them I'd immediately get jumped