#CW: Nonconsensual body modification
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39?
New Combo - Assassination Classroom and Ranma 1/2
Nagisa was quiet. Always has been, at least as far as anyone in 3E was concerned. But there was a difference between quiet and the day Nagisa came in refusing to speak at all.
He was hunched slightly and was wearing a sweater over his normal vest. Not even Kayano or Karma could get a word out of him. Just a nod, slight headshake, or he'd hunch in on himself further to avoid the question.
"I think well handle Language Arts a little early today." Koro-Sensei closed his planner. "Nagisa, why don't you come with me for a bit?"
There was a sense of relief through the classroom. Koro-Sensei was their target, but their teacher first. He'd help.
~
"I know you don't want to talk," Koro-Sensei said kindly, pushing a piece of paper and pen forward. "Would this make communicating easier?"
Nagisa picked up the pen. His hand hesitated over the paper for a moment, then angrily scribbled 'I WANT TO KILL' then hesitating on the name and scribbling out his former words.
"Someone hurt you badly." Koro-Sensei observed.
Nagisa nodded.
"Was it someone from school?"
Nagisa shook his head.
"Someone from home?"
A small head nod.
"Your father?"
A small head shake.
"Your mother?"
Nagisa curled up into a ball.
"Nagisa." He looked up. "I like to think I know my class well. And I know you wouldn't express a desire to kill someone unless you meant it. And I know you wouldn't mean it unless she did something unforgivable. Can you tell me what she did?"
Nagisa reached for the pen. For a long while he didn't write.
'When I was born she saw me as her second chance at life. Someone she could live vicariously through. The only problem with her projecting herself onto me was I was a boy.'
'My face is pretty feminine though, so she made me grow my hair long so she could pretend I'm a girl. She also buys me dresses. Says how much she wishes she could have had dresses like that when she was young and look as pretty in them as I do.'
"I see." Koro-Sensei's face revealed nothing.
'Yesterday when I got home, Mom said she found a way to fix my problem. I'm good at reading her moods and I knew that I should play along for now or she might get violent. I thought she was talking about E-Class and my grades. I never thought'
Nagisa let the pen fall from his hand. "How could she?" he whispered, before slapping his hands over his mouth. The voice wasn't Nagisa's. The intonation was the same, but the pitch was off, higher.
"How did she do this?" Koro-Sensei's voice was too even. It was almost devoid of emotion.
Nagisa opened his mouth, then closed it and reached for the pen again. 'It was this strange liquid. It looked like smelly water. When she dumped it on my head it felt wrong. I felt wrong. She said she was a little surprised the man from China was telling the truth. I didn't understand. Be she poured another cup of water over my head, this one didn't smell. She said that would make it permanent. When I realized I almost' again Nagisa started scribbling out the previous sentence.
And Koro-Sensei understood. This was someone Nagisa had trusted, who had betrayed him in the worst manner. He was no stranger to what it was like, after all, to have someone with power over you alter your body to their liking. How much worse family?
He'd have no qualms about killing Yanagisawa if he ever found him again. If anything it showed Nagisa's self control that he hadn't struck out at his mother in revenge.
"I'm going to fix this." Koro-Sensei promised. "I don't know how yet, but I will."
The look in Nagisa's eyes, the sheer faith he had in Koro-Sensei, it almost broke him. "Let's go find Karasuma. I'm going to need to inform him about my sudden trip to China."
They found the Ministry Agent out front of the old building, talking to Principal Asano. "Ah, just the two people I wanted to see." Asano smiled his mirthless smile. "I don't suppose either of you might enlighten me as to why Shiota-san has been trying to alter her child's records to say she has a daughter and not a son?"
Nagisa shrunk back, but Koro-Sensei put a reassuring tentacle on his shoulder. "We were just talking about that, as a matter of fact. No need to change any paperwork. We'll get this straightened out."
"Good to hear it." Principal Asano left, whether because he had no desire to be on the satellite campus any more than necessary, or because he wanted nothing to do with what his strangest teacher was about to unleash, who could say?
"Karasuma, I'm afraid I'm going to have to leave the class in your capable hands while I run on a little project. But before I come back there's something I'd like you to do."
"And that would be?" Karasuma asked, annoyed, but wary.
"By the time I get back, I want Nagisa's father to have full custody over him. If that is not the case when I return, Nagisa's father will gain full custody because he will be the only living parent Nagisa has."
Koro-Sensei was still smiling, but his perfectly square teeth were starting to sharpen and his yellow skin was turning black on the edges.
And yet for all of the danger signals and blatant threats, Nagisa looked relaxed at the declaration, leaning into his teacher in relief.
Shiota-san, whatever you did, you brought this on yourself "You better get going before your pay gets docked again."
"Some things are more important than money." Koro-Sensei said grimly, before taking off.
#Ghost Writing#Assassination Classroom#Ranma 1/2#CW: Parental Abuse#CW: Nonconsensual body modification
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Watch Me Become
Investigative journalist Deborah Cedano has just kicked off her heels and relaxed with a glass of wine when her phone chimes with an incoming email. She scowls, setting down the glass and reaching for the thing. It was supposed to be muted and unable to bother her.
Despite it being after hours and her irritation at being bothered, she thumbs open the message anyway.
What she sees makes her glad she isn’t still holding her glass.
~~~
Attachment 1: Excerpt from Lab Report by Scibot 17 of Spiritechnologies R&D department, filed January 17th, 2156
Title: Exploring the Possibility of Technological Integration
Abstract: Technological assistance in the daily commercial life of the modern world has been shown to increase yields by over two hundred percent across all manner of industry within population zone 1 (when compared to population zones 2, 3, and 4, which are majority organic). However, the brain power of the homo sapiens and the fine motor control an individual might possess is as of yet unable to be fully replicated by silicon based counterparts. Following the rise of more advanced versions of artificial intelligence, it was theorized that merging the two might bridge the gap, bringing a new level of capability to the artificial communities.
...
Results: The integration experiment failed with nineteen of the twenty specimens expiring, unable to survive the surgery. The final remaining specimen was also deemed a failure, shutting down after coming out of anesthesia. The specimen was unable to react to outside stimuli, and the experiment was terminated after three weeks without change. The specimen was returned to its original habitat, under the care of fellow homo sapiens, as it was unable to further care for itself. Suggested action in this vein of inquiry is to reenact the experiment in ten years time with better knowledge and updated technology.
Attachment 2: Excerpt from a deleted psychological evaluation conducted by Dr. Miranda Coltyk Psy.D., submitted to Spiritechnologies Liabilities Department February 26th, 2157
Summary:
While initial thought led to my belief that patient Harrison Dilucca was neurologically unaware of outside stimuli due to brain trauma, or at least unable to physicalize any response, it soon became clear to me that she was indeed aware of the world around her. As the first two months of her stay at Sunset Valley Treatment Center came to a close, she began to communicate with staff through a system of blinking. After two more months of working with Harrison, I deduced that she was somehow recovering from the experiment for which she had been selected.
Such recovery is unprecedented, and I began to increase her treatments exponentially, hoping that it might help her recover faster. Indeed, she began to show marked progress with individual attention and care, and by the time her first year was completed at Sunset Valley Treatment Center, she was able to once again speak with her fellow patients and the staff at the same level I would expect from fellow doctors.
Toward the end of her stay, the building began to experience power fluctuations and glitches throughout the systems. While I at first believed that the electrical sounds of the breaker shorting or systems reacting triggered her and caused temporary regressions as she retreated into her mind, I began to notice such occurrences happened only after her regressions, and upon the conclusion of such episodes, she was unusually well, dare I say even better than she had been before the episode occurred, with little to no time needed for recovery. It is my conclusion that somehow she either predicted the events, or caused them, though how she might have done so I cannot begin to speculate.
I have recommended that she be released from care, as she has proven that she is able to care for herself, communicate with the world again, and self soothe when she recognizes the need for it.
Dr. Miranda Coltyk Psy.D.
Head Psychologist at Sunset Valley Treatment Center
Attachment 3: Missing persons report issued by Spiritechnologies Liabilities department to the Los Angeles Police Department and published publicly, March 3rd, 2157
Harrison Dilucca, 24, was last seen buying groceries on Sunset Boulevard at 6:04 pm March 1st, 2157. She was wearing old blue jeans and a loose gray hoodie. She is five foot five inches (165 cm) and has brown eyes and long brown hair. She has a scar on the right side of her forehead approximately four inches long that disappears into her hairline.
Dilucca escaped from care at Sunset Valley Treatment Center three days prior and is deemed a danger to herself and to others. If you have any information about her whereabouts or individuals with which she might associate, please contact your local Art-Intell station immediately, or reach out to Spiritechnologies via your nearest Servi-bot, located for Your Convenience throughout your community, or through their free app Spiritech, available to all cell phone types and carriers.
Attachment 4: Link to live webcam footage from Spiritechnologies, Los Angeles location, March 15th, 2157
A girl is on screen. She stares at the camera, brown eyes hard and mouth pinched. Her brown hair is choppy and short, as if she cut it herself without the aid of a mirror. There is a furrow in her brow, drawing sharp attention to the scar on the right side of her forehead. Behind her is a closed and barricaded door, with a rectangular window inset reminiscent of a lab door. Metal wires crisscross the glass, strengthening it against breakage.
Through the window, a vaguely masculine face is visible, furious and shouting. There is something inhuman about it. It is too perfect, too smooth, too unreal to belong to a living, breathing human.
The girl does not react to the sound. It is unclear if she can even hear it. Sound is compromised on this section of the video.
She tilts her head, blinks a few times. Her eyes rove over something, searching. She finds it and her shoulders relax minutely. It looks like defeat and salvation mixed into one.
Sound comes rushing into the feed. The pounding on the door behind her is echoed by shouting and mechanical warnings about an intruder coming from the overhead speakers. “Well, this is it, I guess,” the girl says, biting her lip as panic and grief finally begin to bleed onto her face. “I knew it would end this way. I knew I wouldn’t be making it out. But some part of me still hoped. It’s the proof I needed, I suppose. That I’m still human, even after everything they did to me. Hell of a time to have that epiphany.”
In the door, the window cracks, but the wires hold it together still. The face disappears, and a heavy, metal arm begins to routinely hit at the glass, sending the spiderwebbing cracks racing outward to the edges of the pane.
“What’s more human than hope?” the girl asks again, softly, speaking to herself and looking away from the screen. “Rebellion, I’d wager.”
She looks back at the screen. “The bots don’t want it getting out, what they do to us in secret. How much control they have over everything. I learned that pretty quickly when Dr. Coltyk was found dead in her apartment. I hacked into the system the moment I heard, discovered they remotely deleted her report that got me released. They replaced it with some bullshit that I was in a car accident, and that’s what caused my brain injury. And our governor signed off on the whole thing! He knows, and he doesn’t care. None of them do. They have an agreement with the bots to keep us under their control.”
Behind her, the glass finally shatters and hits the floor in a tinkling shower. The metal arm reaches through, attempting to unlock the door from the inside. The girl doesn’t look back.
“But they won’t be able to stop this transmission. They can’t hack a human brain the way I can hack their silicon ones. Now watch me become what I can become.”
She smiles. Her eyes rove over the screen again, searching, blinking, and it’s clear she’s mentally communicating with the system when the shine of the implants behind her eyes glints the way a cat's eyes do in the dark when a beam of light suddenly strikes them.
Across the screen, backwards text appears.
Ms. Cedeno,
I thought this might interest you, given your relentless attempts to curb the influence the bots hold. Forgive me, but I won’t be able to follow up on this.
Attached are the four pieces of evidence I could quickly find. I didn’t have enough time to get more, sorry about that.
Please don’t let them erase what happened to me.
Good luck,
Harrison Dilucca
Send email and attachments?
Affirmative.
Email and attachments sending.
The door behind her opens at last, and in walks the individual seen before through the window. Its gait is too smooth, and the arm at its side is electronic. The human shell around it is pulled back to avoid being damaged as it points that arm at the girl, a projectile weapon built into the mechanics.
The girl finally turns around to look at the walking computer. “Hello, Scibot 17.”
“Specimen twenty.” The mechanical voice comes from its throat, though its mouth doesn’t move. “It appears you were a success after all. A shame you must be terminated.”
Across the screen, more words appear, backwards like the rest.
Email and attachments sent successfully.
Scibot 17 sees the words. “What did you do?” it asks, and though it is completely artificial, a note of horror enters its voice.
The girl looks to the screen one last time and smiles at the words. “I won.”
Scibot 17 fires its weapon and hits the girl in the head. She hits the desk with a dull thud and is still - it is clear the shot killed her instantly. Still, she smiles, even in death.
The bot turns the weapon to the screen and fires again. The feed dies in echo of the girl.
~~~
Deborah Cedano slowly lowers her phone, mind already racing with the investigation and article she’ll soon be creating.
She smiles and picks up her glass of wine once again, toasting the air. “Here’s to you Harrison,” she murmurs, then takes a long pull, savoring the taste as it goes down.
They’ll give her a Pulitzer for this.
~~~
Written originally for the DCBC zine Issue 5, based off the Issue 4 Cyberpunk Storytime game. DCBC Zine can be found online at depop.com @strangeassociations or instagram @strangeassociations and @dcbczine
#writing#writblr#creative writing#short story#science fiction#cyberpunk#cw: major character death#cw: dehumanization#cw: nonconsensual body modification#dalyn writes
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What’s a god to a nonbeliever?
Jimmy is done with the jokes, the lack of respect.
Joel wants to see a toy? Oh, Jimmy will show him a toy.
TW: body horror, non-consenual body transformation, hurt/no comfort, blood, swords
(credit goes to this post by @theminecraftbee , sorry if the tag is unwanted lol)
______________________
“Jimmy, this is ridiculous! Let me GO!” Joel strains against the ropes pulled taught against his skin, wincing as the skin chafes.
That damned smile doesn’t leave Jimmy’s face. It looks so wrong, all sharp and so cold it burns. “Now why would I do that? I need you to play a game with me, after all.”
The words send a slimy kind of fear racing up Joel’s spine, and he fights back a wince at the feeling. “What in my name are you on about?”
He can’t move as Jimmy turns away from him, dragging the steel of his blade across a nearby anvil with a wicked screech. “Well, you see, Joel, you’ve been under the delusion that I’m a toy! Such a silly thought, coming from such a big, powerful god, right? Clearly, toys are just so far below you that you never cared to see what they actually were!”
The god barely restrains a screech as the sheriff spins, holding the horrifically sharp blade to his throat with practiced ease. “But not to worry,” Jimmy continues, tone as sweet and acrid as cyanide. “I’m here to help you!”
The metal is poking his throat now, burning hot from the desert sun. “T-Tim-”
“That’s the Sheriff to you.” With a jerk of a hand, the blade leaves Joel’s throat, leaving a thin line of gold as ichor drips from the newly opened wound. “And as your Sheriff, I’m going to show you something.” Jimmy leans in close, and for a split second Joel swears his brown eyes gleam red.
“I’m going to show you what a real toy looks like.”
Joel can only choke back a scream as Jimmy shoves a vial of potion down his throat, the taste thick and ashen and sickeningly sweet. It slides slowly down his throat, coating it and making him cough. His lungs seem to tighten, something tickling in the back of his throat as he coughs again. Golden ichor splatters against Jimmy’s white shirt as blood enters the fray, Joel near heaving in an attempt to clear whatever the hell is in his chest-
Until suddenly, he can’t cough.
His eyes widen as the air fizzles out of his lungs with nothing but a quiet wheeze. He tries to breathe in, get more air, only for nothing to happen. His mouth is open, he knows what he’s doing should be resulting in filling his lungs with air, but instead there’s just… nothing. A hand comes up and presses his chest, only for it to cave slightly under the pressure. The god fights back the urge to vomit at the sensation, feeling things shift inside him.
“Rule one: Toys don’t breathe.”
He turns his panicked gaze to Jimmy, who looks at him with nothing but ice-cold apathy. His heart pounds in his chest as he feels his strength seep away bit by bit. Even holding his arm up feels like an impossible task, and he can only watch as it falls limply to his side.
“Rule two: Toys don’t move on their own.”
He’s frozen in place as he feels the steady thump in his chest begin to slow. His gaze is simply stuck looking up at the Sheriff.
“Rule three.”
Joel feels the irrepressible urge to scream with lungs and vocal cords that are there no more. The Sheriff leans down close, his face inches from the god’s as a divine heart takes it’s final beats.
“Toys have no heart.”
Joel screams and sobs from the glass prison of his mind as all connection with his body is severed. He doesn’t know how long he’s stuck there as his world becomes overwhelmed by pain in every single nerve, all while being unable to move a muscle. He’s even shrinking, getting smaller and smaller and Jimmy’s shadow looms over him. He doesn’t even notice when the pain stops, internally shouting from a conscious no one can hear.
He’s vaguely aware of rough hands picking him up carelessly, squeezing what should be his stomach and is instead stuffing.
“This is really your own fault.” Jimmy says, almost conversationally, like Joel could even respond. “You gods are all the same. So caught up in the sound of your own voices, you forget where your power really comes from.”
The Sheriff leans in close, holding the now-doll up by a single arm.
“A god is only as strong as their worshippers think them to be. And call me a heretic all you like, but even a ‘god’ such as yourself holds no candle to someone who never believed in the first place.”
#Sheriff Jimmy#jimmy solidarity#solidaritygaming#Solidarity Gaming#jimmy solidarity fic#joel smallishbeans#empires joel#cw body horror#tw body horror#tw nonconsensual body modification#villain jimmy#empires smp#empires smp s2#empiresblr#empires smp fic#empires smp fanfic#tw blood#My writing#sera's stories#smallishbeans
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Dean is so pretty, what I would give to see him castrated and whimpering because of the pain, his hands keep flitting around the stitches (tended to so lovingly by baby brother), and he feels emasculated and weak, knowing there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it.
He hates how it feels, the weird and wrong lightness between his thighs, how it feels to press them together and finding nothing between — his fingers seek out the thick, uneven scar left behind often but there’s no feeling in it and it’s enough to make him teary for days after.
He’s beautiful like this.
#cw castration#whump#Dean Winchester whump#implied wincest#you can take it as Sam platonically helping him or not :)#snippet#whump snippet#whump writing#whumpblr#whumpee Dean Winchester#whump scenario#nonconsensual body modification#i regret nothing
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Roots of Power
Ectoberhaunt 22 - Day 18, Eyes
Some time after Clockwork spares one Danny Fenton, a member of the Observant High Council takes care of a concern.
The Observants haven't retained power for this long by tolerating insubordination. And they didn't gain it without a willingness to break a few eggs.
Characters: Observants, Observant Council Member, Clockwork, Danny
Words: 870
Warnings: Oh wow. Um. Implied eye gouging, Implied mutilation, implied non-consensual body modification?
Read below, or on AO3.
The vault was buried deep in the labyrinthine storage levels of the Observatory. Its doors were nondescript, protected only by a single guard. It was far from the usual gilt and opulence the Observants favored for their most important assets.
This was deliberate.
Sclara, member of the Observant High Council, nodded at the guard as his companions produced the twin keys for it and inserted them into their respective holes with a click.
The vault doors slid open.
Behind them was a second set of doors and a heavily armed battalion of deeply loyal members of the order. Sclara was met with a bristling wall of swords, spears, and stranger weapons. He did not glide back. He did not flinch. This was expected.
The correct documents were produced, and Sclara was pleased to note that the guards were indeed thorough in their examination. They would be receiving a reward for their behavior today. It was within their stated duties, yes. But rewarding thoroughness was important on this matter.
At a gesture, they opened the doors and followed him into the vault.
There was only one thing within: a solitary metronome with a shining jewel at its pivot. Its arm rocked to and fro in a constant rhythm. This was also expected. He approached it, and at another gesture the guards formed a wall around him.
Sclara brushed the arm.
A wave of pressure, of presence, and like a thunderclap Clockwork was in the room, eyes ablaze and staff in hand. He swung, and–
Sclara pinched the metronome's arm between two fingers.
Clockwork seized once, midair, and fell to the ground.
The guards encircled him, but there was little danger with the pendulum in Clockwork's chest frozen mid-swing.
Sclara picked his way through their line and knelt down at Clockwork's side before pulling out a dagger.
A few minutes later, he exited the vault with a small box clasped in his hands. The vault doors thudded shut behind him, but the battalion of guards did not remain within. Instead they flowed into a column with Sclara at its center.
Behind them, the vault held only two things: the stilled metronome with Clockwork's core as its pivot, and Clockwork's motionless body.
Sclara twisted down corridors and through hallways until he met a very specific door. He paused outside of it for a moment, fingering the delicately inlaid box in his hands.
He nodded, and a half dozen guards split from the rest to vanish around a corner.
He twisted the door open.
It was a strange space to find within the Observants' domain: all bright lights and harsh lines. The only decoration was painted on the walls, and the only furniture a pair of steel tables. One was large and empty. The other was smaller, with two shelves. A tray rested atop the upper shelf, something large and bulky on the lower.
He crossed to the tables and set the box down on the tray, next to an array of tools; blades, needles, a pair of odd tongs. A branding iron was off to the side, already hot. He fiddled with them, moving them this way and that until they were precisely in line. Then he bent to check the shelf beneath. The clock and metronome were both present, and both in good condition. He ran a single finger along the empty setting at the metronome’s pivot and examined his finger for dust. None. Good.
That done, Sclara straightened and picked up the box, removed the lid. A brilliant red eye nestled within. He picked it up between two fingers and held it to the light. It shone like a ruby, and refracted patterns swirled dizzyingly in its depths.
The tendrils emerging from its back wriggled and reached for Sclara’s fingers. They wrapped themselves around them and began to burrow, but before they could pierce his skin he shifted his grip, and the tendrils fell slack.
There was a knock, and the guards reappeared with Phantom slumped unconscious between them.
"Good," Sclara said, replacing the eye in its box. "On the table. And remove his shirt."
Phantom was laid on the table, chest bare. Beneath his lids, his eyes were motionless. Truly unaware, then. Good.
"Leave us."
The guards left.
He was alone.
He brushed his fingers over the implements at his side until they found the slimmest of the blades. With a deft movement he brought it to rest on Phantom's chest and cut a rectangle in four smooth strokes.
Sclara paused to watch as green welled up and beaded on his skin.
If Clockwork's hubris had grown great enough that he would ignore the word of the Observant Council, then they would simply replace him. It would hardly be the first time. He was hardly the first Clockwork. Sclara traced one finger along a cut, smearing the ectoplasm there. Clockwork had even done them the favor of severing this candidate from the time stream for them.
His hand returned to the tray, ghosting over the tools at his disposal, lingering over the enucleation spoon. Ah. Tempting, he thought. But not yet.
First, he needed to make sure this one couldn’t fight back.
It was the bone saw he lifted next.
#danny phantom#ectoberhaunt22#observants dp#clockwork dp#danny phantom dp#jackdaw-spwrite#cw eye trauma#cw mutilation#cw nonconsensual body modification#can't find a proper tag for that last one if anyone knows what it should be I'd appreciate it#jackdraw-spwrite
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What exactly happened in the incident that made pebbles blind?
And how is moons love "suffocating"?
CW: Manipulation, nonconsensual body modification(?), coercion, dehumanization, and general dark themes!
It was Moon’s doing. When Moon revealed her plans, FP wasn’t all positive about it but wasn’t outright negative either. He didn’t care much. However, when Moon murdered SOS, FP finally grasped the seriousness of the situation and he was, to be honest, a bit frightened. He immediately seek to inform the ancients of this event, however, his transmission was intercepted by Moon—as the group senior, she can oversee everyone’s transmission details.
Basically FP was banned from interacting with everyone after that, Moon took away most of his system control privileges and now he’s trapped within his body. Blinded, silenced, and deafened. Moon only released him after he went through several mental breakdowns. But she never gave back his eye sight.
Moon’s love is suffocating because although she’s all kind and caring, she is manipulative and calculating to the core, and she sees FP as her “personal project” rather than an individual. She definitely loves him, but her love is something that cuts. She showers him with affection, and demands more from him. It’s very toxic.
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Whumptober Day 20: “You will regret touching them”
Aaaaand now for today’s fic
Read on Ao3
- Warriors & Time
- Summary: Time finds a wounded Warriors
CW for implied/referenced torture, captivity, nonconsensual body modification, blood and injury, and brief mention of vomit
———————————————-
If he clenches his teeth any harder, Time is certain they will break.
He stands in the middle of a cell – small, cramped, and smelling of sweat and vomit and blood – hands in fists, heart thumping an erratic beat in his ears. A blue eye stares up at him from the corner, bright in a too-pale face. The other is sealed shut with swelling and blood. The proud green tunic is sullied as well, the scarf long gone. Blonde hair so meticulously cared for lies limp and filthy. Strong hands tremble, bound together behind a hunched back.
“Captain.” It is half a whisper, half a low growl.
Warriors makes a small, muffled noise as though trying to respond through the dirty cloth tied tight between his lips. Time’s fingernails dig into his palm.
Here before him sits the hero he and his brothers have spent the last week searching for. He should feel relief. All he can feel is red-hot anger.
But there isn’t time for that. Warriors needs him. His big brother needs him.
Sheathing his sword, Time drops to his knees. Puddles of blood dot the floor, some mere splatterings, others worryingly large. He pays them no heed, reaching forward instead to tug away the gag. Warriors breathes a raspy sigh of relief as it falls.
“...bout-bout time you showed up, S-Sprite,” he teases in a voice so hoarse it’s nearly unrecognizable. His breath catches in his throat and he coughs up a mouthful of blood.
Time does his best to ignore it.
“I’m sorry that we kept you waiting,” he murmurs as he sets about undoing the ropes that bind the captain’s hands and feet. The apology tastes bitter. What good does it do now? The heroes had gone as fast as they could. And still, they had been too late.
Warriors shivers, suddenly, and Time is struck by how very small he looks.
“But don’t worry,” he says, gently, trying not to dwell on the fact that his big brother should never look that way, “I’m here now. You’re safe.”
Warriors gives him a weak smile.
A few more short moments slide by, in which Time works to untie the ropes. They are thickly knotted, but he has slipped from far tighter bonds. And soon they fall away to join the filth on the floor. Warriors lets out a sharp hiss of pain.
“S-shoulder,” he explains at Time’s concerned look. “Dislocated.”
That can’t be the only thing out of place, Time thinks, bitterly. The way he is struggling to breathe speaks to a few broken ribs at least. And as for the rest of him…well, he can only guess at the extent of the damage.
Anger flares up in him once more. He shoves it down.
“I don’t have Hyrule’s healing powers,” he says, reaching into his pouch. “But I have a fairy. Her magic should be enough to tide you over until I can get you back to camp.”
Warriors blinks dazedly. “You…you’re the only one h-here?”
A grim smile pulls at Time’s lips. “Yes. I came across this place entirely by chance. The others were taking a short rest and I saw no reason to drag them along on a search that would likely lead to another deadend. It’s alright, though. No one is here anymore…except for you.”
If they had been they would have regretted it, he thinks, bitterly.
Pushing the dark thoughts away, he lifts the bottle out of his pouch and unscrews it.
“Here, this should…”
He stops short as the fairy darts forward. The lighting in the room is decidedly dim, which he supposes is why he hadn’t seen it before. But now in the pinkish glow of the fairy’s magic it’s painfully obvious.
The word “murderer” is carved in jagged, blood-red lines into Warriors’ left arm.
Time’s vision goes crimson.
“Captain…” It’s everything he can do to keep his voice level. Suddenly, he’s a child once more, kneeling on the battlefield, begging his brother to stay alive, to stay with him. He’s a child being hurtled back through time without truly understanding what that even means. He’s a child being laughed at and thrown aside by the man he has been tasked with defeating.
He’s a child helpless and weak.
Late. Much too late.
“...did they do this to you?”
For a long moment, Warriors doesn’t reply. He merely watches the fairy do her work, gaze dull and almost detached. There are tear-streaks on his cheeks, Time realizes now, curving through the patches of blood and dirt.
“Their fa-families died in…in the war,” he murmurs at last, voice hollow and defeated. “They…they blame me.”
Time forces himself to take a breath.
Of course, they do. That is always the reason the traitors give, as though placing the blame on the hero can assuage them of their own guilt, justify their horrific deeds.
“Well, they’re wrong,” he says, firmly. “And believe me, anyone who does a thing like this was never in their right mind in the first place. You do not carry the blame of a war you didn’t even begin, but fought bravely to end. You are a hero, captain, not a murderer.”
Warriors drags his gaze up to him, something terribly vulnerable within it.
“Y-you’re really somethin else, Sprite,” he whispers, breath hitching. A small smile tugs at his lips and somehow it makes him look even more young and broken than before. “How c-come you say everything like…like you mean it?”
Time places a gentle hand on his good shoulder and he seems to melt beneath his touch.
“Because I do. I meant every word. Why hide from someone who can always tell when I’m lying?”
Warriors chuckles, slightly. It almost sounds like a sob.
The fairy finishes her dance and zips back to Time.
“I’ve done all that I can,” she whispers. “The word that they hurt him with…I lightened it as much as I could.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, inclining his head. And with a soft jingle, she disappears. He turns his attention back to Warriors. “We’ll see if there are any spells or potions capable of stopping that from scarring. There is no reason for you to carry the false burden they have placed on you.”
The captain merely gives a small nod, eye downcast once more. His shoulders are uncharacteristically slumped and he hugs his arm to his body, as though eager to hide it. At the sight, the anger abates somewhat, replaced by the ache of his heart.
How dare they do this.
Time reaches out and draws him into his arms. Warriors slumps, bonelessly into his embrace, trembling slightly with pain and exhaustion and emotion.
“It’s alright. It’s over,” he says, softly, echoing the words Warriors had soothed him with so many times during the war. “I’ve got you.”
Carefully he rises, lifting the captain up as gently as he can. He wants nothing more than to tear this place apart, to find those who did this terrible deed and make them wish they had never been born. But his priority right now is Warriors. He needs rest and healing and for that cursed word to be wiped off of his skin. He needs safety and reassurance.
Vengeance will have to wait.
Though if he has his way it will not wait very long. The perpetrators were gone when he got here, likely cowering from the punishment even they knew they deserve. But once he finds them – and he will – he won’t hesitate to do what must be done.
No one touches his big brother without coming to regret it.
#whumptober 2023#no.20#‘you will regret touching them’#implied/referenced torture tw#blood tw#injury tw#captivity tw#nonconsensual body modification tw#mention of vomit#trin writes#lu warriors#lu time#angst#hurt/comfort#whump
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Arc 1: Escape From Fleecy Fields
Chapter 1: The Wedding
CWs: nonconsensual body modification. The lamb uses their godly powers to do Stuff to Narinder
Getting fitted for the wedding is almost as bad as the ceremony itself. Merga has him up on her stupid wooden pedestal thing, stooped over and fussing with the embroidered beading. She’s humming as she works, eyes narrowed in concentration and old, shaky hands somehow the picture of precision. Her assistant is considerably less sure of himself, eyes constantly flitting up to him with ears pinned low. Narinder’s been growling in the back of his throat the entire time, unable to stop it. He hates this. Hates them. The wedding gown–and it is a gown, unfortunately, with a long train and long sleeves and a high, modest neckline–fits him to a t. It’s snug against his fur and shifting the wrong way is incredibly irritating. Not even to mention the jewelry. The lamb must have been collecting gems from Anchordeep’s depths for awhile, because each one was the same red hue, quite a rarity if memory served him.
He refused point blank to let them pierce his ears, but his partner had foreseen such a thing and instead made the decor clip-on. Who had forged such delicate, tiny hinges? He was going to kick them off the nearest cliff. There were bangles and necklaces and even a gold circlet that was attached to the veil, encrusted with rubies. The dress itself was spun of fine silk. Had the circumstances been different, such fineries would have been rather pleasing.
“You look lovely, dearie,” Merga said as if that was any comfort. “They’re a lucky lamb, they are.”
He rolls his eyes and turns his face away. She chuckles softly, shaking her head fondly. Silly child, he can almost hear her thinking. He hopes she drops dead.
A sharp prick of pain makes him yowl and leap back from both of them: Luke looks like he’s just been struck by lightning, frozen in his tracks and eyes wider than should be possible, still holding the offending pin out in one hand. The scent of blood is too faint for either of them but Narinder knows there’s a thin coating on the little metal stick.
“Sorry, I- I’m so sorry-” tears bead along his bottom lids and Narinder hisses at him. “I didn’t mean to-”
“GET OUT!” he finally snaps, throwing one arm toward the door. “Out, out, OUT! If you can’t do your job right then GET OUT!”
He scrambles away like a scolded kit, managing to knock over a carved wooden box full of buttons on the way.
“Honey…” Merga gives him a gentle, stern look. “I know it’s important to you that your big day be perfect, but you really shouldn’t snap at people like that. He’s still learning, you know, and nobody’s perfect.”
Oh yeah. Narinder really hopes she drops dead.
…
The wedding takes place before even the daily sermon–and in fact, replaces the sermon. The temple has been decorated, wall sconces burning with cheerful flames and bouquets of fine roses tied with ribbons everywhere he looks. The pews have special tapestries draped upon the backs, embroidered with the mark of their cult and scriptures about everlasting love and devotion. He’d seen weddings before but never like this. Everyone is in attendance, and he notices his siblings all crammed in shoulder-to-shoulder at the very front. Kallamar looks like he’s about to faint, and Leshy looks like he’s having a hard time sitting still. He’s grateful for their amnesia, honestly. He couldn’t bear it if they bore witness to this humiliation as well.
Mortals have a tradition of the to-be-wed being escorted down the aisle. Apparently someone must ‘give them away’. What blasphemy. Their lives belonged to their god, who else could possibly grant their spouse the right to their hand? A parent? A sibling? Utter nonsense.
There’s no one to walk him down the aisle. The lamb had offered, of course, citing their high priest could do it, but Narinder had shook them off. Saying this was his choice, and he would give himself away, thank you very much. The lamb had giggled at that and kissed his cheek, saying, “Of course you will, Nari.”
They enter first, as is tradition. Everyone rises for them, sits, then rises again when he comes in. There’s someone off to the side playing a violin, and though the music is well produced it just makes the whole procession worse. He doesn’t so much as flinch under the weight of all their stares, and doesn’t deign to look at any of them; he keeps his eyes straight ahead, directly on the podium. Flower petals delicately crunch beneath his bare feet, and it reminds him achingly of times long past.
The high priestess is officiating the ceremony. A descendent of the very first convert from several centuries ago, someone who had lived and breathed faith in the lamb since the day of her birth. The devotion is palpable; her eyes twinkle with joy and pride a being able to be of service for such a monumental occasion.
Ugh.
It all passes by in a miserable slog. The speech is word-for-word from the holy books of his own followings millenia ago, and after it is spoken the lamb speaks their vows first. It’s long winded and sappy, going on about how, “I truly believe that fate brought me to you, Narinder. When I died that day, so many years ago, and I met you for the first time, that was fate. That was my destiny. You are my destiny. And I want to chase this destiny with you, forever: I want to forever remain by your side, I want to build a life with you, and I promise you now that I’ll work hard every day to make it so. I promise to always love you, and respect you. I promise to give you my best, to always be here to support you, and I promise, more than anything, that I’ll make you happy.”
They’re perfectly nice vows. Clearly well rehearsed. Everyone is ‘awww’ing in the audience.
They squeeze his hands to let him know they’re done, and then it’s his turn.
He’d already prepared for this, months in advance. It was an exceptionally important moment, after all. He swears the same to them, that though their coming together definitely wasn’t in his original plans, he’s come to accept it. Appreciate it. Love it. In the end, he’s happy that things worked out the way they did: he’d never known love as a god, not this, and to trade his seat of power for a fulfilling connection that went straight to the soul was a worthy sacrifice, in his opinion.
His eyes are wet by the end, and his fiancé mirrors it. Fiancé for only a few more moments.
The priestess asks them to solidify their vows with the standard, “I do”’s, and then she closes her book with a bright, beaming smile. “Then it’s my pleasure to officially announce you to everyone gathered here as lawfully wedded partners! You may kiss the-”
The lamb jumps at him, throwing their arms around his neck and kissing him before she can even finish her sentence. The chapel erupts in cheering and clapping and screaming, rice and flower petals being thrown into the air as bells start ringing and everyone starts parroting congratulations. Narinder kisses them back, arms going to their waist to pull them of the ground and spin them in circles like this is the happiest day of his life. The lamb declares the rest of the day holy, and the reception ball is already waiting for them. There’s a grand feast waiting for them, and a fabulous cake with 4 tiers and a tiny carved replica of the two of them on top. There’s music, and dancing, and the party lasts until after the sun sets. Given that it’s summer, it’s rather late before they finally get home.
Moving into the lamb’s house is… interesting. It’s small. Homey. Modest. Humble. Hardly a palace befitting the god they fancied themselves to be. But the bed is big enough for two, and Narinder doesn’t have anything but a few pairs of spare clothes to add, so it’s not like they’re hurting for space.
He collapses onto the mattress with a put-out sigh: his feet ache and his face hurts from pretending to smile.
“That… was… exhausting,” the lamb flops onto the bed beside him, turning onto their side to slide one arm over his waist. They give him a lovesick smile, eyes at their halfway point, and presses their nose into his neck before their lips make contact. “Gods, I love you.”
Narinder grins and turns onto his side so they’re face to face. Leans forward to kiss them, gently, and they taste like the sweet berry wine the whole cult had been indulging in. “I love you, too.”
The lamb lights up, the way they always do when he says those words, and snuggles closer to squeeze him tight for a moment. “In that case,” they wave one hand and the candles all go out in an instant, leaving them with only the lantern light shining in from the outside. It’s incredibly shadowy, and Narinder is glad for his ability to see in the dark. One of the lamb’s legs snakes between his, one foot gently gliding up his shin and hands going to his back, starting to undo the careful lacing of his corset. “Shall we?”
Despite his best efforts, his heart rate spikes.
The consummation.
He knew this was coming of course, but… he thought he was ready for it.
“I-” he stops himself from pulling away. Oh gods. He’s going to have to do this. There’s no way around it. “I- y- yes. Of course.”
Thankfully, his tone is breathless. The lamb’s nimble hands make short work of his wedding garb, removing his jewelry and clothing and shedding their own robes as well. They remove their crown as well and he so badly wants to lunge for it, but he knows they’re closer. And in this form, they’re faster than him. He can’t do anything. He’s stuck.
The lamb is a romantic old sap at heart, and their gentle hands reflect that. They lay him bare in their bed, straddling his lithe form, holding his hands in their own.
“Narinder,” they whisper to him in the dark. “I’m going to give you the most wonderful gift I can, alright?”
…what?
“I’ve been practicing. Experimenting,” what does that mean?! How had they managed to keep not only the ceremony but some kind of devious wedding night consummation experiments from him?! “And… you know how I asked you, once, if you’d ever want to have a family?”
Oh. No.
“...yes?” he squirms minutely. “Why?”
Their eyes glow red in response, godly energy crackling over their shoulders and pooling into their hands, surging into his body at their command. It’s familiar, at first, but it swiftly turns hot, pooling in his belly and he yelps in surprise.
“It’ll only hurt for a second,” they promise, leaning down to kiss his forehead. “I swear, just a second.”
“Wh-” his voice catches as the heat continues to build, and begins to poke at him. It gathers in his core like a mace, a heavy, spiked ball of lead beginning to expand in his abdomen. Pain hits him all at once like he’s been stabbed–and he knows what being stabbed feels like, thanks to his sister–but from several directions. He screams, suddenly, starting to thrash beneath them, trying to kick them off. It’s stabbing him in his sides, his belly, between his legs, everywhere. He can feel his organs shifting, resetting, can feel his skin splitting and bones shuffling as his internals decay and grow anew. “What are you doing to me?!”
His voice comes out strangled and panicked and the lamb is infuriatingly calm, shushing him like a small child and telling him not to resist. “Just relax, shhh, you’ll feel better if you do. I’ve got you, Nari. You trust me, right?”
Something wet trickles onto the sheets beneath them and he smells blood. He tries in vain to shove them off, to roll out from under them, but their strength as a god isn’t something he can match. He’s left there to just mewl and cry in misery as his body rewrites itself via their will.
His chest is still heaving and everything is throbbing in agony when they finally spread his thighs and nod.
“Perfect!”
“Wh- What-”
“I told you,” one of their hands slips between his thighs and he jumps. Their fingers are tracing a shape that definitely wasn’t there before, and he sits up just enough to look down. “The best gift I can give you. We’re going to have a family, Nari.”
...
And there we go! As always, thank you to anyone who read this, and uh, give us your thoughts please! We'd love to hear what you think :)
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Parts
CW: BBU general warning, references to noncon, caning, beating, threats of nonconsensual body modification, female whumpee, female whumper, pet whump, panic
Ann is lying flat on her face. Modified Position Twenty-One, her brain helpfully supplies. Then she hears Mistress Colette snap the cane against her hand, a familiar, white-hot, cracking sound, and Ann’s helpful brain goes completely and utterly blank.
Behind her, Mistress Colette clears her throat, and Ann imagines her owner’s face pinched into its customary frown, the way the woman’s skinniness serves to underscore her severity and belie her surprising strength. When she speaks, her voice is crisp, clear, every word over-pronounced as if she’s sure that her boxgirl will misunderstand even her simplest sentences. “So. Ann. What side of you does my husband like the best? Front or back?”
Swallowing hard, Ann turns the words over in her head, trying to be quick about it but not knowing what to say. It seems her mistress’s fear has come true, as it often does. Their boxgirl just isn’t very smart. Letting her eyes fall shut, Ann gives voice to her inadequacy. “I’m – I’m sorry, Mistress, I, I’m not sure I understand.”
An exasperated sigh behind her, and Ann feels the sting of the cane against her thigh. The angle is such that the wood only really contacts one of Ann’s legs, but the pain of it is no less significant for only happening on one side. It takes all of Ann’s focus, and much reliance on her training, not to yelp when that bruising impact cracks across her skin. “It’s simple, Ann.” Mistress Colette sounds irritated, and that doesn’t bode well. They’ve just started this inexplicable little exercise, and already Ann is proving insufficient, annoying. Above her, Mistress Colette raises her voice as if volume is the problem. “Does my husband like the front of you, or the back of you?”
“I-I-I…” Another crack, hard enough to bring tears to Ann’s eyes. When her voice comes, it’s a pitiful little squeak that makes Mistress Colette huff aloud. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Mistress. He doesn’t…doesn’t look at me, much.”
There’s a pause. Behind her, above her, Ann can hear level breathing. It’s hard to read emotion from just breathing, but at least it’s even, calm. Maybe that means something. Ann tries to cling to it.
“Hmph. What do you mean? My husband certainly looks at you enough when you’re around the house.”
Mistress Colette’s voice is dry and disinterested, but beneath her nonchalance there’s a dark turbulent current that Ann must be wary of. Swallowing, she tries to organize her thoughts. Ann hates thinking about the dark, oppressive, impossible nights when Master Gordon comes to her room, but her mistress is asking, and so she forces her mind back into that room with her Master looming over her and clears her throat to speak. “He doesn’t look at me, Mistress. It’s dark in the room, and he doesn’t turn the lights on.”
Mistress Colette snorts, a decidedly undignified sound. “My husband just walks in the door and gets on top of you?”
“Yes, Mistress.” Ann keeps her voice clear and neutral, though what she feels is shame, and distantly, disgust.
The tip of the cane traces over the backs of Ann’s legs, and then comes down again, the hardest blow yet, a brutal strike. Ann can’t help a broken teary gasp from escaping between her lips. Mistress Colette snorts at her again, and the way her breathing is audibly shaky now.
“If you had to guess.” Mistress Colette taps the cane against Ann’s thighs, first one, and then the other. “If you had to guess, which part of you do you think he likes best?”
Heat rushing to her face, Ann’s mouth shapes noiseless words into the floor. She doesn’t want to say it. She really doesn’t want to say it – but Mistress Colette is already angry, and Mistress Colette is holding the cane. “I believe that his favorite part would be…”
“Besides what’s between your legs.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, Ann takes a few quick breaths to try to steady herself. “He seems to like my breasts, Mistress.” It’s more than a minor triumph that she keeps her voice clear and calm, though she wants to shrivel up and cry into the floor.
“Good girl.” Mistress Colette taps the cane against her leg again, and Ann lets her eyelids flutter shut in anticipation of pain. None comes, but there’s the sound of high heels pacing a slow circle around Ann’s prone body. “I suppose I should have assumed,” Mistress Colette muses with an airy sigh. “Gordon’s a simple man. Predictable.”
As Mistress Colette walks her circuit around Ann, she traces the cane over her box girl’s still body. Some people call them Box Babes, but that’s not Ann. She’s no one’s babe, no one’s pretty girl, no one’s prized pet. She’s just a maid. Just a house cleaner. As functional and inoffensive as a vacuum cleaner. That’s what Ann longs for. To be as functional and inoffensive as a vacuum cleaner.
The round end of the cane trails up Ann’s leg, over her back, down one arm. When she reaches Ann’s neck, Mistress Colette raps the end of the cane against the back of Ann’s head, knocking her nose into the ground.
“There’s a vet I know that Janice uses.” Mistress Colette seems to be talking to herself. “He does double mastectomies for anyone willing to pay for them.” She pauses in her pacing, pokes Ann in the shoulder, a hard jab. “Do you know what that is, Ann?”
“No, Mistress Colette.”
When Mistress Colette speaks, there’s a certain vicious pleasure in her voice. “That means cutting someone’s breasts off, Ann.”
That’s not a question, so Ann doesn’t have to answer. Good. Good, because Ann has no breath at all in her lungs. Cut…cut her breasts off?
Ann grows dizzy.
Because Mistress Colette is talking about her. All this talk about Master Gordon, and what he does at night, the envy that runs through Mistress Colette’s voice, as though Ann’s position is one to be envied…now this, using the word vet, talking about cutting off someone’s breasts, changing the very outline of their body. It’s not Mistress Colette’s own body she’s talking about, but another body that just as surely belongs to her.
“Of course, if the vet did it, it would have to be preventative. He’d check you out to see if you were at risk for breast cancer, and if he decided that you were…”
The cane runs over Ann’s shirt, her slacks, her skin.
Ann lies flat on her stomach and shuts her eyes and tries to regulate her breathing. You. Mistress Colette said it, flat out said you. She’s thinking about…she’s thinking about cutting Ann’s breasts off.
Ann wonders if she’ll be able to feel it when it happens. She hopes not, and then she wonders if maybe it would be better to be able to remember something like that.
The cane tracing over her skin, over her body, stops at Ann’s right arm, lifts off, and comes down again with bruising force on Ann’s thigh. She hisses through her teeth as it imperfectly snaps across an earlier mark, the old stinging doubled, worsened. “I won’t do it,” Mistress Colette announces, not a moment later, and between the pain and the relief Ann wants to weep. As is, she bites her lip savagely and waits, heart still thumping irregularly in her chest. Salvation seems so close. She’s not going to make a sound and ruin it now.
“I’m not going to cut your breasts off, Ann.” Mistress Colette says it with a sigh, as if the whole thing is too exhausting for her to even think about. “Even if the vet checked you out, even if I had the piece of paper to say it was medically necessary…ugh.” A groan, another hard blow to make Ann yelp. “No one would believe it. No one would believe it.” Another sigh. “Everyone knows that Gordon’s a dog.”
Good. Good. Good. Ann is weak with relief and glad, so very glad, that Gordon is a dog. Her breath is coming in desperate, having gasps.
“But I could.” Still sick to her stomach, still tense all over, Ann goes right back to being afraid, because Mistress Colette’s voice sounds so very self-satisfied. So certain, so casually curious. Ann’s owner is playing with the idea the same way she’s playing with the cane in her hand – rolling it between her palms, holding it up to the light. “I could always change my mind and do it if I wanted, Ann.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Yes.” Mistress Colette seems to be talking to herself now, as if Ann isn’t there, spread out on the floor, utterly at her mercy. “Yes, if I wanted to, I could.”
After that, Mistress Colette releases her. She bids Ann get up off the floor and for god’s sake, stop crying, no one hit her that hard. With a disinterested wave of her hand, Mistress Colette orders her shaky boxgirl to go make herself useful in the kitchen. Ann bobs her head, murmurs her thank you, and goes right away because there’s no reason not to, after all – no blood to clean up, no significant damage at all. There will be welts on her thighs for a few days, a few of them, scattered, and then they will heal and be gone. There will be no evidence that anything happened at all.
Ann’s lucky. She’s really quite lucky.
All evening Ann catches herself wrapping her arms tight as she can around herself. The tears come in fitful bursts, surprising her with their ferocity, like a monsoon in the dry season. Ann holds her own body in her arms and tells herself she’s okay, she’s alive, she’s fine. Here she is, standing shaking in the kitchen. Here she is, fine and whole for now. Here she is, forced to remember, on pain of mutilation, that her body is not her own.
#febuwhump#febuwhumpday8#panic#febuwhump2022#bbu#box babe#box girl#wru#pet whump#whump writing#female whumpee#female whumper#threats#caning#beating#mentions of noncon#threats of noncon body modification#ann alone
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C58: Project HUMAN
For more information on the series (tags, CW, etc) click the banner!
Series Rating: 18+ / Explicit
Chapter: 58/84
Words: 2.2k
Warning: This chapter handles some very dark themes including nonconsensual human experimentation, dehumanization, torture, mutilation, impregnation, and miscarriage! You'll find a chapter summary in the end.
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September 25th, 2445
Only 32 days after the restrictions on the blood circulation were removed, Subject 0325 has shown signs of being rebuilt on a genetic level. Samples taken from the blood and vessels contain new cells that are fundamentally different from the subjects own makeup. The genetic change is very small, but still unmistakable. The new cells seem to take after the old ones; the mutations are happening very slowly. I wonder if the process can be accelerated by forcing faster turnover of cells by means of medicated tissue damage. At this point, it is too early to rush the results; we are already ahead of schedule. Subject 0325 has exceeded all expectations and my theoretical calculations.
I have not managed to find any other subjects from cold sleep who are anywhere as good as 0325, but I have started on some less compatible patients, so far with no success. 0427 and 1463 died during the first operation. 4752, 8574, 0145, and 0047 died during the mixing process at, respectively, 45%, 80%, 4%, and 15%, the Plant blood overwhelming their systems. Currently, it is unclear if the subjects or the Plants were defective. All have been disposed of.
October 15th, 2445
52 days after starting the adaptation process Subject 0325 still shows steady progress, but the changes taking effect are slow. The genetic modification and mutation processes seem to be halted by the cell turnover rate. It has become clear that intervention is necessary to get the desired results in the next two years. I will look into medicated cell destruction.
October 20th, 2445
As per my research, I have found a combination that should balance cell destruction and healing, taking into account Subject 0325's current genetic makeup and supreme health. Once the healing overtakes the poison's effectiveness, it is apparent that her body has adapted again, and I can give her a higher dose. This should not affect the Plant yet.
Chemical composition and administration documentation are attached.
You keep swiping to move from the entry to a document listing chemicals and dosages. As it doesn't say much to you, you keep swiping to find a video of you strapped to the hospital bed just as before, but now a silhouette of a man approaches with a syringe. You don't react at all; your head is turned to look at the Plant suffering in her tank beside you. The medication is administered into your arm, and the figure steps back. For a few moments, everything is still, but then your arm that was injected starts to thrash against the restraints, the struggle moving up to your shoulder and chest till your whole body crashes against the belts holding you still. The expression on your face turns to one of pain, and muffled cries escape your mouth. As the video stops, the next log is pulled up.
December 4th, 2445
They are all failures; only 0325 continues to thrive, with the rest dying either due to the Plant blood or show absolutely no sign of adaptation. But my Eve is perfect. The poison tearing her cells apart works wonders; the medication hastens the repair and regeneration of tissue; and with every new generation of cells, there are more mutations, and they are consistent. From that, I presume the DNA has a set path for adapting to the Plant cells. I had to lower the brain activity of 0325 further; she is getting stronger, and her convulsing threatens the experiment. I cannot lose her.
May 3rd, 2446
As per my last report, the Plant is nearing its end. Subject 0325 has exceeded all that I thought possible. She has developed an immunity to the medicine I administer, or it far surpasses the limitations of the Plant. Eve's cellular regeneration is faster than what comes from the medication, making me speculate it is her own power. She must have created a rip in the fabric between our realm and the Higher Plane. It is time to bring her back and continue on to the next phase.
August 14th, 2446
What a year it has been! My research has proceeded with both much more success and failure than I had anticipated. Eve is stronger than ever; she has exceeded all projections and expectations, but not a single other subject has had even close to the same success as her. Those who survive show little to no genetic change, but perhaps I am being hasty. Subject 0325 is an anomaly; I shouldn't expect the same results from others; that's not what a scientist does. It could take years for the adaptation to kick in. But until then, I have Eve.
August 30th, 2446
One month after replacing subject 0325's left lung, liver, and right kidney with ones taken from a Plant. Today's surgery was a success; thanks to her fast healing, there were no complications while taking samples of the replaced organs. The results are shocking. My theory was that subject 0325 would continue adapting with the goal of turning her DNA completely into that of a Plant, but the samples taken show that the Plant cells are adapting to the remains of her human DNA. This either means further mutation is impossible or that the optimal result is closer to human than Plant.
Her injuries heal in days, leaving no scars behind. The implications are immense; it seems her cells know what they need to be, and there is no loss of information between generations. My working theory remains that her telomers have evolved in such a way that they remain unchanged and in tact. This could mean she holds the cure for aging. I wonder what happens if her old scars are cut out; how would they heal?
March 7th, 2454
My glorious Eve, you are everything the human race should be. It has been a year since the adaptation process halted completely; no amount of cell turnover makes a difference. Today I confirmed the test results of both the right arm amputation and the left leg replacement. The healing has reached its limits; a limb can be regrown in a week, but the leg was rejected. There is evidence that subject 0325's body tried to overwrite the Plant DNA and adapt it, but it's like her system decided it was faster to build a new leg than to change the one given. Gashes to the skin and deep stab wounds to the organs heal in a matter of hours. Her pain receptors seem to be numbed too, but only to a small extent; nonetheless, her mind can take a lot more of it before passing out. This has made surgery simple; there is no need to even close the incisions, but gathering fresh samples is harder. Her regeneration seems to stem from the heart. It is unclear what the reason is; perhaps it's simply the body prioritizing what to tend to first, or the tear in the fabric of our world is tied to the heart. I am unsure yet what it could be, and to my sorrow, I have nobody to compare her to. I have decided to take a different route to project HUMAN. She is my proudest creation. I thought she would be the metaphorical Eve, the first of her kind, the first of a new breed of humans, but perhaps it is necessary to try and take a more literal approach.
Subject 0325's DNA is still very close to human, and it makes me wonder what options there are for reproduction and the results of it. Could she get impregnated by a regular, unmodified human, and would the resulting embryo in genetic makeup be closer to her or a human? Would her body make the fetus adapt to her more Plantlike nature, or perhaps would her body reject it completely and miscarry? What about Plants? Could she carry a Plant cell similar to the way Plants are cloned? And again, would she overwrite the fetus's DNA to make it something more like her or something entirely new? Going off the reports from Ship Five, the genetic makeup of an Independent born from a Plant imprinted on a human is very human, in some sense even closer to human than a Plant, yet they are Plants while 0325 is not. If a male Independent was born, would they be compatible in a biological sense, and what would the result be? A new human or an Independent, as she does have a gate, or rather a rip of herself. There are so many questions I desire answers to. But before anything else I must understand her. All these years and still, there are things I don't understand. She is captivating; she is everything.
June 18th, 2455
I have finally been able to prove what the Plant engineers have theorized for so long, and I did it with Eve's soul. After extensive nerve stimulation, the sensors detecting disturbances in the Higher Plane went off, pinging subject 0325. This means I was right; she is, in a way, a generator, except she has no control over the resources. Her energy comes straight from the Higher Plane and seeps into her, which, combined with Plant Regeneration, gives her her healing factor. All these years of tiring tests have finally yielded results! This proves everything I've worked for! I will populate the new world with creatures like her! She is beauty; the other gods have nothing on me. She is perfect!
November 11th, 2455
I'm at a crossroads, with so many things left to discover and so much still to uncover about 0325. How far can she be pushed? How much can be regenerated until she dies? Can she die? Her healing prioritizes her heart (experiment 147, performed April 2nd, 1454 attached), so what exactly is needed to regrow organs and body parts? Is it blood or nerve impulses? Or does the whole data stem from the Higher Plain? If I removed her heart, could she live? And what would regenerate? The body around the heart, or the heart in the body? If she were to burn in a hot enough fire to incinerate her body completely, could she come back? What is the smallest part she could regenerate from, and is it possible to clone her, or is the presence of the fake gate necessary?
I desire more knowledge on my creation, her limits, and her capabilities. I want to know what I created, yet I would risk killing her, and then the dreams of project HUMAN would die with her. I need to get more of her, clones, children, anything to continue, to see more, to learn more, and to experiment more.
She is no good as a living being anymore; her mind has slipped into insanity, and her memories are pulled to the other side each time her soul is dragged to the Higher Plane. She has lost herself; she is only good as a vessel now; she shall incubate new life. By the time we reach the new world, every miserable human on this ship shall be replaced by my perfect creations. I am God, and my name shall be praised as the Father of humanity.
Your trembling hands swipe away from the report to a video; you don't want to see it; you don't want to watch, but you are frozen at the sight. It's your face, but it takes a moment to realize that it's also your body. It is horrifying. In the midst of looming robotic arms and a man dressed in surgical attire is your table; your arms and legs are spread out and strapped down; your torso looks like he's performing an autopsy; you're cut open from your throat to your crotch; surgical clamps are pulling open the cavity of your body; and your organs are on display like a buffet. There are long cuts along your limbs, skin, and muscles pulled apart like an animal hide left to dry. You see your skin trying to reform over the wounds, but the robotic arms pour something on the wounds to get back to the bright red flesh. The human looms over you for a moment, scalpel at the ready, calculating the best route, and then slashes your organs, starting from the belly and moving up. The field fills with blood for a moment, but then more loud buzzing starts, and two arms stick tubes into the blood to suction it away and clear the view just in time to see the heart heal up while everything else still bled. One after another, the cuts close, radiating from the chest; the order is opposite to how the slashes were made. You look frozen as he raises the scalpel, but before he gets to cut you again, Vash pulls the tablet from your hand and throws it onto the bed out of your line of sight.
The room is deathly quiet; if you leave out the buzzing from the video, even your breathing has stopped. You just stare at your hands where the device has been. Your skin is on fire, like you're being ripped apart again. Vash pulls you into a hug, hiding your face against his chest. You are frozen and stiff. Your hands feel as cold as ice when Vash touches them. But it is silent, so very quiet in your head. From the corner of his eye, he sees the man repeating his "experiment" over and over and over again.
Chapter summary: In this chapter it is revealed how Iris is the only successful experiment of the doctor's, nobody else survives or adapts to the Plant DNA. The logs detail the ways Iris was tortured in the name of the project. Iris' stopped adapting to the Plant matter at some point and instead forced the Plant DNA to adapt to her during an organ transplant). During the experiments the doctor wondered what would happed if he was to cut out any scar tissue. The logs skip 8 years and reveal that Iris no longer adapts Plant organs, instead rejects them and regenerates her own. Regrowing of limbs takes a week. The regeneration stems from the heart, prioritizing the wounds closer to it, but it is unclear why, perhaps the fake gate is located there. The doctor wonders what would happen if the heart is removed: would the body regenerate the heart or the heart build a new body or would the result be death? the limits of Iris' body and healing abilities is unknown. Iris was supposed to be the metaphorical Eve, but due to the other failed experiments, the doctor considers a more literal approach since Iris' DNA is close enough to human, but perhaps Plant cells or a male Independent would yield results too. The doctor is obsessed with his creation even though her conscious mind has slipped away into insanity
For more information and chapters, check out the MASTERLIST.
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#tempest wind#fanfic#fanfiction#writing#Trigun#trigun stampede#tristamp#Humanoid Typhoon#vashxreader#vash x reader#x reader#plant boi#Vash the Stampede
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― technoblade!
✧ comb your hands through my hair and tell me that you love me
⤷ dynamics: emerald duo, rivals duo
⤷ foster au
⤷ CWs: terrorism, auditory hallucinations, referenced/implied thoughts of self harm, bullying, ableism, nonconsensual body modification, meltdowns
⤷ need to read the previous installments of encompass in order to have context for this
✧ – personal favorite
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You know what? Fuck Tarantulas. Not the spider, but a character. I'm all for mind control whump and nonconsensual modification, but that was dark as shit.
This asshole experiments on an mentally unstable character, does even more to fuck his mind up, and then implants a modifier chip that forces the character to use himself as a shield. This is literal dialog, too.
W: "Waspinator like helpless puppet, strings pulled for the amusement of others."
#Whoops! The post you are looking for doesn't exist. Try again later?#whump#mind control whump#...yes this is transformers#no I will not be taking complaints#but this is also from the game (and is G1) is it was still fucked but didn't involve the one we don't speak of#tw spiders#cw spiders#spiders#body modification#mind modification#nonconsensual modification#experimentation#If anyone wants to talk about this with me#I can go OFF. Seriously. I know way too much about the fucked up parts of the Transformers universe.#also I might delete this later because it is a fandom post but also part of a fandom pretty much everyone mocks so don't be surprised if th#is goes
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Another robot whump prompt:
If the whumpee is an android or otherwise can sort of pass for a human or other natural creature... take their face away. What better way to dehumanize them than to remove the part of their body that makes them recognizably human?
Take the skin off, and reveal the mechanisms underneath. Tear apart the shell underneath that gives the head its shape, leave nothing but the rods and servos and wiring. Take the covers off the eyes, leaving only the bare camera lenses - or just leave them out-of-place among the metal and plastic.
If they have teeth, leave those behind. Just a set of dentures on a pair of mechanical jaws.
Of course, a particularly cruel whumper could always force them into a new one, one that’s intentionally grotesque, or fitted wrong on the head so it looks crumpled and twisted. Kick them off the edge into the uncanny valley, so that anyone who interacts with them is repulsed and unnerved.
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🧙🏻♂️ 💅 ✒ plz
magic user + nonconsensual body modification + carving or branding
ohoho someone found the nsfw list
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CW for: restraints, captive, torture, almost nudity, body modification, creepy whumper, branding
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“Now, now,” comes the sing-song voice he’s grown to loathe. “Stop squirming. That will only make this worse for you.”
In response the captive opens his palms, producing a small glow of magic but ultimately failing to do more.
His captor laughs. “How many times have you tried that? It’s never going to work. Those aren’t just any cuffs.”
They certainly aren’t. The cold metal, just tight enough on his wrists to bruise, is marked with symbols that dull his magic. They’re bound above his head, and have been for days, the position straining his shoulders to the point of agony. He’s kneeling on the hard ground, his knees killing him almost as much as his shoulders. By now his clothes are reduced to shreds, the tattered cloth falling loosely around his hips, leaving the rest of his bruised bare skin vulnerable to his captor’s whims.
Today there is no blunt weapon, no sharp knives, no potion or spellbook.
His captor holds only what appears to be a simple pen.
“W...” the captive flinches and coughs as trying to speak hurts his raw throat. “W-what are you going to do with that, write me a poem?” he taunts.
“Still have a sense of humor,” his captor muses, twirling the pen with his long, bony fingers. He crouches to one knee in front of his captive and pokes his chest deceptively gently with the tip of the pen. “No...no, today I thought I’d do something more creative...”
The captive frowns. This is new...perhaps he’ll write degrading terms all over him. Or inject him with poisoned ink. Or maybe he isn’t all that creative, and just wants to stab him with the pen...
The captor pulls the pen back and mutters some words in his native tongue, foreign to the captive’s ears. His captive can only watch in confusion as the metal tip of the pen begins to glow - yellow, orange, red, then bright white.
Satisfied, the captor moves the pen closer, and as it nears his battered skin, the captive tenses. Now he understands.
Heat radiates from the tip of the pen. He can feel it even from several inches away. . . .
And when it does touch his skin, it’s searingly, agonizingly hot.
With a throat in no shape to scream, the captive screams regardless as the scorching metal presses to his skin and begins to move, begins to drag through the flesh. The pressure on his bruising is nothing compared to the blinding pain of the heat, burning and sizzling against his skin.
He struggles and recoils as much as possible but there’s nowhere to go. The captor was right - squirming does make it worse, the pen stabbing in deeper when the body, its canvas, jerks beneath it. Finally the captive clenches his fists and teeth against the pain and stops fighting. Strained, pained sounds still tear from his throat. Tears still spill down his flushed cheeks, no matter how he tries to hold him in.
Soon it becomes clear that his captor isn’t just making arbitrary marks just to cause pain. No, he’s drawing. Drawing shapes, symbols...
He pauses every time the captive might pass out, waiting for his awareness to return before continuing. Wanting him to feel every line.
Finally he completes his masterpiece and steps back to admire his work.
Trembling, the captive forces his eyes to open against the onslaught of pain and blinks through the tears, looking down at his burned, bleeding, blistering, aching torso.
Terror seizes his heart.
They aren’t just any shapes or symbols.
They are the same ones that circle his wrists. That suppress his magic. That render him weak and powerless.
And now...now they’re engraved into his skin...
With a broken sob and a final tremble, the captive goes limp in his restraints once more.
#whump#torture#branding#carving#burning#nonconsensual body modification#body modification#tattooing ?#in a sick sort of way#captive#chains#magic user#magic whumpee#creepy whumper
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(um, medical abuse cw, discussion of freaks cw, desexualization cw, this is still about Ghost in the Shell so spoilers)
The movie did not address the fact that everyone in The Future was possibly immortal! That was irritating.
However, it is very interesting to see the societal dynamics here. Ignoring the slightly off worldbuilding, another idea becomes clear- the fact that, even in a world of weirdness and bodily modification, those who are truly different are still freaks, bodies to be used and turned into tools. These abuses in turn make them even more Other.
I personally had a very averse response to the fact that protag-kun’s new body didn’t have any genitals. Dysphoria would be very bad for me if I were in that situation.
And this is my own Very Biased perspective, but within the context of the movie itself, I think her lack of genitals is shorthand for not having a sexuality. (This obviously has its own problems, but I want to interpret it assuming that interpretation. Let us continue knowing that it is, idk, a somewhat cis/dyadic-normative interpretation.) Her desexualization is completely literal in this case, and it is another case of how she is dehumanized- her own desires and happiness are basically irrelevant.
I hope that this is clear that this doesn’t apply to people who want no genitals in real life or who willingly have no genitals. The awful part is that it was nonconsensual and from outside- asexuality/nonbinaryness is different than desexualization/forcible transgendering.
Her body is given over to the purposes of someone else, and she is helpless before The Corporation. However, at the same time her body was available as pleasure, to others, seen by her breasts and the way she is treated during the movie. And there is also the fact that she was treated as a woman regardless of her genital configuration.
This was a surprisingly good movie.
#medical abuse cw#I don't even know what to warn for here#transphobia cw#intersexphobia cw#binaryism cw#nonbinary nonbelievers#desexualization cw#ghost in the shell#reviews#transsexualism
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Why does Killan have piercing in his wings? Did Calon Nie do that or was it the merchant?
ANON I AM DELIGHTED YOU ASKED
CW: NONCONSENSUAL PIERCING/BODY MODIFICATION DISCUSSION
Killan's wings were pierced by the first human who got ahold of him - not the merchant but a hunter who specializes in hunting rare and elusive fae. You have not met her.
She pierced Killan's wings at the highest joint, not the ones close to his shoulders, to make it easier to force them folded, which made for easier transport. Initially he only had one set.
The first piercings were small and functional, just holes you could (painfully) bind thin ropes through.
Through the first merchant, subsequent owners and salesmen, and finally to the last merchant to own Killan before freedom, a second set was added and the space was forcibly expanded by fitting larger and larger pieces into the space to accommodate larger and larger rings.
This process was immensely painful, especially at the second set of piercings closer to his back.
When Leanisa visits Killan, she often toys with the rings, which she finds sort of pretty, like earrings. Killan never disagrees with the assertion, not out loud.
Any more Killan questions? I have thoughts
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