Love The Ambiguity Between Resignation And Loyalty W Conditioned Whumpees. Scenario Ive Been Fixated

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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wow lesbians.......

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

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.

Now consider: a man in a dress. Not in drag or all dressed up or anything. No accessories, no makeup or styling, just wearing the dress, some ratty boxers and muddy sneakers. No socks or stockings, hairy legs in the open air, just raw dogging those nasty shoes. Hair mildly damp. Visibly sleep-deprived. Bruises on shoulders, elbows and knees, left palm bleeding. Sitting on a curb on the street, shivering, looking wretched, and absolutely miserable.

I forgot where I was going with this.

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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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?

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.

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