hi! i’m kantilen, and i use he/they/it. i like to draw, write, and hurt pretty boys >:3 i did have another blog, but it’s a sideblog and it was hard to manage. so now i’m here!
i have a couple of stories, but writing brain has been slowed down for a while, so writing might not be very frequent. i will, however, post character profiles and any thoughts i may have about them
general dni:
-standard dni criteria (homophobes, transphobes, racists, etc)
-terfs (i will kill u)
-strictly nsfw/18+ blogs (im a minor so this a no for now)
i’ll come up with a more elaborate tag system later, but for now #k.txt is for any text posts i make, #k.png is for any photos i post, #my writing is for any writing i post, and #my art is for any art i post :3
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A human caretaker is in the hospital, and vampire whumpee can’t visit them because visiting hours are throughout the day and there’s no way to get there without avoiding the sun.
Content: Recovery, whumpee eats food that shouldn't be eaten, [past] captivity.
"I... I didn't know it wasn't supposed to be eaten," Whumpee whimpered, curling up in their bed as they began to feel sick again. "I just wanted food and- and you said I could have whatever was around."
"Whumpee... look at the box," Caretaker groaned, pointing the label towards them. "It says, in big bold letters, not to eat the contents. You can't keep doing this or you'll end up seriously injuring yourself!"
Whimpering, Whumpee buried their face between their knees. "I never got to pick what I ate when I was with Whumper. I lived in the basement and just ate whatever was put in front of me. This is new and scary! Why do they even make non-edible things that look edible anyway? It's so stupid!"
Caretaker finally sighed, running their hands over their face to try and release some of the tension inside of them. "What am I gonna do with you, Whumpee?"
Content: Past failed escape attempt, defiant whumpee.
"Do you remember what I said would happen if you tried to escape again, Whumpee?"
"Yes, sir," Whumpee nodded firmly. "You told me you'd make me regret it, but so long as I am around to be punished for it, I will never regret trying to get away from you."
With a smile, Whumper crouched down and took Whumpee's chin into their hand. "Is that a challenge?"
"Of course not, sir," Whumpee smiled right back at them. "It's a promise."
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An angry Whumpee tells Whumper to leave them alone. Whumper, surprisingly, decides to grant their request. They lock Whumpee in small, dark space, and they leave them there—completely alone, just like they wanted.
After all, Whumper can be patient. They’ll see once a day or two has passed whether Whumpee really wants to be left alone.
tall whumpee in a small cage. their big hands grasping at the cold metal bars, body tensed up in frustration and fear but totally at the whims of their captor. a cornered animal.
they're too tall to stand upright. instead, they huddle in the corner in a mess of long limbs and wide torso. they look tame like that, subdued, their massive body curled up into itself. they look smaller than they are. whumpee wishes they were small. it would be easier; they could hide, make themself inconspicuous, but they're too big and bulky for that.
when whumpee is finally let out of the cage, they still slouch. they try to make their big body as small as possible. it only serves to gain them more attention.
One thing I really like about the whump community is that whumpers, so basically the "villains", are not redeemed. Some characters are just evil.
I enjoy the villain-is-actually-just-misunderstood or has-a-tragic-backstory but sometimes evil is just evil. Even if whumper might have been a whumpee at some point.
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As good a time as any to remind folks of the 14 properties of "ur-fascism" (described by Umberto Eco, who grew up in Italy under Mussolini, in his 1995 essay Ur-Fascism). Not all need be present for single regime to be fascist, but a Venn diagram of all fascist regimes will cover them all.
CULT OF TRADITION. The old ways are best. The New is not worthwhile.
REJECT MODERNISM The development of Western philosophy post-Enlightenment is seen as a descent into depravity. See also : Reject post-modernism, which is seen as an even greater descent into irrationality.
ACTION FOR ACTION'S SAKE. Action is to be taken without reflection or introspection - that's for weaklings and degenerates. Often seen in a derision of "intellectual elites".
DISAGREEMENT IS TREASON. Analytical criticism cannot be allowed. A pantomime of discourse may be allowed, but only within the accepted framework and only if reaching the foregone conclusion.
FEAR OF DIFFERENCE. Outsiders are your enemy. Those who are different are evil and want to corrupt you and destroy all you hold dear.
APPEAL TO A FRUSTRATED MIDDLE CLASS Capitalising on genuine frustrations by pointing them toward convenient scapegoats. Real concerns used a recruiting tools.
OBSESSION WITH A PLOT. There is a conspiracy run by THEM. You are besieged by THEM. THEY are behind all your ills. THEY are working in the shadows to enslave and destroy you.
THE ENEMY IS BOTH STRONG AND WEAK. When rhetorically convenient, THEY are all-powerful. When rhetorically convenient, THEY are feeble, stupid, weak. The rhetorical focus shifts regardless of self-contradiction, because all that matters is positioning the enemy where the speaker's goal requires them to be at any given moment.
PACIFISM IS THE ENEMY. LIFE IS ETERNAL WAR. There must always be an enemy to fight. When that enemy is defeated, another must be found. When they cannot be found, they must be created, even from within. There is always the promise of a Final Solution bringing Ultimate Triumph, but it can never be achieved.
CONTEMPT FOR THE WEAK. Elitism disguised as populism. Everyone of US is superior to THEM, cockroaches and drains on society that they are. But people are sheep who require strong leaders, who are by their nature superior to others.
EVERYONE IS TAUGHT TO BE THE HERO. A CULT OF DEATH. Where in myth the hero is exceptional, in fascism everyone must be the hero. They crave heroic death, the reward for heroic life. In seeking it, they send others to die. (See also: Militarism).
MACHISMO. Disdain for women and femininity. Intolerance of non-standard sexuality and gender expression.
SELECTIVE POPULISM. The People are viewed as a monolith with a single will, as interpreted (in reality, determined) by the leaders. Democratic institutions are viewed as illegitimate because they run counter to the narrative of the existence of a single Voice Of The People.
NEWSPEAK. Vocabulary cannot expand. If anything, it must shrink. Variation and nuance in dialogue means variation and nuance in thought. This cannot be allowed. Therefore categories must be binary. Definitions are simple and limited. If it cannot be boiled down into snappy catchphrase it does not exist.
Could you write an AU where Berkeley was never caught and he recaptured wren for revenge?
[SV-240 masterlist]
contents: recapture, defiant whumpee, tied to a table, death threats, torture, knives, carved mark, non-graphic fingore/amputation.
~~~
"Rise and shine, sweetheart."
Wren flinches, blinking slowly but not seeing much, still groggy after… whatever happened between him being out and about and waking up here, wherever here is.
A firm slap to the face sobers him up. He wishes it hadn’t.
He’s tied up again - or rather tied down, lying on his back on something, probably a table, his wrists and ankles held in place by coarse rope. He’s shirtless, vulnerable, and the air is cold against his skin. Pulling at the restraints achieves nothing, and he starts panicking, struggling to breathe, because this was supposed to be over, he was free, and now he’s been kidnapped again by-
“Daniel taught me how to tie a good knot, so don’t bother. I’m sure he’d send his regards if he could.”
Daniel. Sweetheart. Whoever this is knows, must have known his tormentor, and when Wren turns his head to face the source of the familiar voice, his breath catches in his throat, his eyes go wide and his blood runs cold.
Berkeley.
He looks different - his hair has been shoddily cut short and dyed brown, he’s wearing colored contacts to hide the blue of his irises, and his freckles are concealed, but Wren still recognizes him immediately. Just like the last time he saw him there’s fury in his eyes, but no more hysteria or fear; only something dark and resigned.
“My disguise is no good, is it?” he snorts. “Is it my voice? Or is my face just burned into your mind? Or is it because I’m the only other person who knows what Daniel used to call you?”
This can’t be happening.
“You know you won’t get away with this,” Wren says, trying to mask the trembling in his voice.
“Is that really the best you can do?” Berkeley rolls his eyes. “Fuck, you’re pathetic.”
“This isn’t like that.” Wren shakes his head, but his heart stutters for a moment when Berkeley swears, as if that, not the kidnapping, not the restraints, not the unnerving expression, was proof that something was wrong. “People know I’m not dead. They’ll find me and finally lock your cowardly ass up.”
“They haven’t found me yet, though, have they? So I’d say we have some time for ourselves.” Berkeley shrugs and approaches slowly, step by step - and once he’s right by the table again, in a blink of an eye he wraps his hands around Wren’s throat and presses down, making him gasp.
“I could kill you.” He tightens his grip, and Wren’s hands twitch as the restraints stop him from instinctively reaching up to grab his attacker. “That would be it, Daniel would be avenged, yada yada. But I don’t give a shit about Daniel.” The corners of his lips rise slightly, a half-hearted remnant of his usual smirk, as he takes in Wren’s panic, wide eyes, frantic gasps. “I told him buying you was insane, but he convinced me. Then I told him he was too lenient with you, letting you wander around like you were free just because he wanted to play house. Of course I was right, and now he’s dead, and I’d just call it karma if you hadn’t ruined my life too. Everyone I worked with has been locked up. I’m being hunted.” His voice wavers a little bit. “And it’s all thanks to you, Rackham.”
His grip gets even tighter, and Wren’s eyes glaze over with tears. He’s still struggling, but he doesn’t control it; it’s pure instinct trying to save him from something he can’t be saved from.
Berkeley lets go, takes a step back and watches as Wren starts coughing, turning his head to the side to avoid choking. He’s still panting, his chest rising and falling rapidly, when he glares at Berkeley and asks, in as defiant a tone as he can muster:
“So what do you want from me?”
Berkeley laughs - his laughter is different, not genuine like it used to be, not hysterical like during the call, but completely dry; the laughter of someone completely disillusioned, with nothing to lose.
“I want to make you suffer. I want to see you cry and beg, because that’s all you’re good for, isn’t it? And Daniel’s not here to stop me from hurting his precious little sweetheart too much.” He lays his hands on the edge of the table, close to Wren’s side, and leans over him. “I don’t know how long I want to draw it out yet. I feel like no matter how much you’ll scream and cry and beg it will never be enough to make up for what you’ve done, but when I feel like the time is right… that’s when I’ll finally kill you.” He can’t help but smile at that, and a shiver of excitement runs up his spine.
No. Wren has to press his lips together to stay quiet, avoid protesting out loud, but his heartbeat is painful and deafening. If the air in the room was cold before, now it’s downright freezing. No, no, no, not again, I was safe, I survived, I can’t die now, I can’t die like this.
“Hey, don’t worry, Rackham,” Wren flinches, still staring at Berkeley in horror, when he pats his cheek, smiling. “Like I said, I won’t kill you until I’m through with you, and I haven’t even started. So, what should we do first…?” He runs his finger down Wren’s chest, making him shiver, and cocks his head to the side, thinking. “I guess I should warn you that Daniel is- was,” he lets out a dry chuckle, “better at this than I am, so there’s a chance I’ll kill you by accident, or something. I want to start with something safe, though, so we can have more fun later.”
Wren is more than familiar with the meaning of the look in Berkeley’s eyes, together with his smirk - the gleam of an idea he’s not going to like at all.
“There’s this word you don’t like, right?” Berkeley walks over to a counter lined with various tools he’d found in the hideout. “Daniel told me to stop using it after my first visit.”
He picks up a knife and lifts it up to let his helpless captive take a good look at it; he inspects it with narrowed eyes, humming to himself before deciding that it’s the right tool for the job. He takes a rag and some antiseptic as well and turns around, delighted to see terror in Wren’s eyes, obvious despite his attempts to hide it behind a glare.
“I think it’s fitting, though.” Berkeley returns to the table and sets the knife aside for the time being. “After what you’ve done.”
“You’ve always liked the sound of your own voice,” Wren says, eyeing the knife anxiously, knowing exactly what Berkeley’s talking about but not wanting to accept it.
“Maybe.” Berkeley smiles; it's easier to smile now, when he can escape from his bleak reality back into the thrill of being fully in control. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear your voice, and by that I mean your screams. Feel free to do that as much as you like. No one’s gonna hear you here.”
The good news is that Wren is fairly sure he won't give Berkeley the satisfaction of hearing him scream; Daniel - whom Wren hasn't thought about this much in weeks, but he has more pressing matters to worry about right now - had cut him so many times that it had become part of the routine, such mundane torture. He’d be terrified if Berkeley plunged the knife into his abdomen with full intention of finishing what Daniel had started, but apparently the plan is to keep him alive.
For now.
The bad news, of course, is that he’s been kidnapped, brought somewhere no one can hear him scream, and he’s going to be tortured all over again.
I’m on Earth this time. Everyone knows I’m alive. They’re going to save me.
He closes his eyes.
Before it’s too late.
He flinches when Berkeley wipes down his chest with the rag, which he must have dipped in the antiseptic. When he notices his captive’s frown, he shrugs.
“Just to be safe. I can’t exactly take you to a hospital if something goes wrong, can I?”
"Why not? I'm sure everyone would be happy to see both of us," Wren says, fixing his eyes on the ceiling. "You could still do a good deed and not be charged with murder on top of everything else."
“So you think this is going to be my first murder,” Berkeley snorts, and Wren’s eyes snap to him in shock.
“You-”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.” He shrugs, amused. “It’s just funny you assumed that. Anyway, Rackham,” he says as he grabs the knife and grins, “let’s get started.”
It doesn’t matter how much Wren had gone through with Daniel. It doesn’t matter that this shouldn’t affect him. He starts shivering, and he decides to blame it on the cold. He doesn’t want to close his eyes and show his torturer how scared he is, so he goes back to staring at the ceiling; the downside of that is that he can see Berkeley lowering the knife in his peripheral vision.
The sensation of the knife cutting into him is familiar, but so much time has passed that it still comes as a shock. It’s just a short line, the knife is dragged downwards and then raised, all but confirming Wren’s suspicions.
I.
It’s just a word. A stupid word. Soon to be carved into him, sure, but he is going to be found soon, and surely the cuts will be healable then, they will be gone without trace and that will be it.Â
He still has to blink away tears when the knife returns. A line, a semicircle, then another, separate line.
D. I.
“So,” he says through gritted teeth, “now it’s your turn to leave your signature on me, huh?”
Berkeley rolls his eyes, but can’t hide a smile.
“Very funny, Rackham.”
“Thanks.”
O, cut out agonizingly slowly - and yet Wren doesn’t scream, barely even whimpers. It’s his tiny victory, not giving Berkeley the satisfaction he was hoping for. No matter what he does, it won’t be worse than what Daniel used to do.Â
“How about I make a pun? I’m disappointed you’re not delivering.” He grits his teeth when the knife pierces his skin once more to carve the final letter, and he has to stifle a groan. “Alright, I got it: Your lack of appreciation for my jokes cuts me deep?”
Berkeley snorts at that and shakes his head. “Alright. I do appreciate them, for the record, cause I know what you’re hiding behind your idiotic humor.”
Wren frowns, but it’s not like he can argue with that. As the last line is added, he has to blink away new tears.
T.
Idiot.
Berkeley takes a step back to take a critical look at his work - even bloody letters on Wren’s chest, where he’ll have no choice but to see them, impossible to ignore unlike the brand on his back.
“Smile for the camera, idiot!” He snaps a few pictures, making sure to capture Wren’s expression, so desperately blank, but tense with pain and emotion, until he’s happy with the result. “Perfect. I can add these to all the damn photos Daniel had sent me. Maybe I’ll show you someday, take a trip down memory lane, hm?”
“I’ll pass,” Wren spits, glaring at Berkeley as he leans against the side of the table.
“You should still see this one, though,” he says, holding up his communicator - found in the hideout too, modified to be impossible to track down - with one of the photos displayed.
Just like when his mouth was stitched shut for the second time, it’s seeing the effects of the torture in a picture that finally hits. It’s not a picture of a survivor - it’s a picture of a hopeless, powerless captive at his captor’s mercy.Â
It was supposed to be over. I was supposed to be free. I won, and it doesn’t mean shit.
“This is what your body will look like when they find it,” Berkeley says in the tone of casual small talk. “I mean, I’ll probably make a couple more modifications, but this” -he runs his finger around the carved letters, careful not to touch them- “is the first thing they’re going to see. A completely normal word for them. They’ll probably wonder why I’d choose something so mundane and… tame, but it doesn’t matter, does it? We know why, and that’s enough.”
Trying not to dwell on the promise of more modifications, Wren follows Berkeley with his eyes as he pushes himself upright and starts pacing to and fro: three steps, heel turn, three steps, lost in thought.
“You know, you disappointed me, Rackham,” he sighs.
“I’m so sorry,” Wren says, trying to sound unbothered, yet his heartbeat picks up the pace. It was supposed to be over. What else does he want?
“I wanted to hear you scream, remember? And you didn’t deliver at all.”
Wren swallows when Berkeley stops to pick up the knife and twirl it in his fingers.
“I should've expected that, honestly. It’s not your first time, and Daniel had cut you more times than you can count, hm?”
“It’s kinda what you signed up for when you sold me to a sadist.”
“Guess so,” Berkeley laughs, looking at Wren with narrowed eyes. “In that case I think I should try to come up with something Daniel never did to you, to really keep you on your toes.”
Then he smirks, and Wren knows he’s doomed.
His thoughts are racing when he follows Berkeley with his gaze as he circles the table, gently tapping the tip of the knife with his finger. Something he’s never experienced - or at least Berkeley thinks so, because he can’t know about everything Wren went through on SV-240. Even though the last thing he wants is to recall Daniel’s voice, Wren desperately tries to remember any torture methods Daniel had told him about, lamenting not having the means to try them out, but his mind draws a blank. He doesn’t have much time to try and predict what’s going to happen to him anyway; when Berkeley finally stops by Wren’s side, his movements are so fast that Wren barely has a chance to process what’s happening.
Berkeley takes his right hand.
Cut my hand?
Straightens out his fingers.
But it’s nothing new.
Grabs his pinky.
Wait-
Holds the knife right above the joint connecting the finger to the palm.
No, no, he can’t-
“You were complaining about the lack of puns.” Berkeley smiles down at Wren, who stares back at him with wide eyes. “So here’s one: keep your fingers crossed that the cut is clean.”
“No-”
It takes a second or two for Wren to get past the initial shock of having his pinky cut clean off, and when he does, the pain catches up to him, new and nauseating.
This time, much to his captor's delight, he does scream.
Caretaker sighed. They had rescued Whumpee over a month ago and Whumpee was still as shy and skittish as they had been the moment Caretaker found Whumpee in Whumper’s lair. Whumpee had been curled in a ball, chained to a wall. They had screamed when Caretaker reached out to them, scooting as far away as the chains would allow.Â
And they had melted into Caretaker’s touch the moment Caretaker touched them. Melted and wouldn’t let go.Â
Now that Whumpee was healed physically, the only remnants of their painful time with Whumper was the thick scars around their wrists from where the cuffs had rubbed the skin raw so many times. But Whumpee still needed help. And so Caretaker continued to let Whumpee stay with them.Â
The night that Caretaker had told Whumpee they could stay as long as they liked, they had thrown themself at Caretaker’s feet, sobbing and mumbling words of gratitude. “Thank you, thank you, I can’t thank you enough. Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”
Caretaker had felt uncomfortable with how intense Whumpee’s response had been. But they had understood that no one had done a kind thing for Whumpee in a very, very long time.Â
And so when Caretaker stumbled upon Whumpee staring out the window, clutching themself tightly as they silently cried, Caretaker knew that they had to do something more. “Whumpee?” Caretaker said carefully.Â
Whumpee spun round, hands instantly going to wipe way the tears on their cheeks. Their sleeves fell back exposing the painful scars that marred the delicate skin on both their wrists. “S-S-Sorry, Caretaker. I-I-I didn’t hear y-y-you.”
“There’s no need to apologize, Whumpee. Do you want to go outside?”
Whumpee’s eyes dropped instantly. “Whumper….Whumper didn’t let me see outside. I-I-I haven’t seen outside in a long, long time.”
Caretaker could hear tears in Whumpee’s words. Hear the longing and the immense sadness. “We can go outside. No problem. But first, is it ok if I touch you?”
Whumpee looked up, no longer bothering to conceal their tears. “Please,” they whispered.Â
Caretaker bridged the distance between the two of them and pulled Whumpee into a tight hug. Whumpee melted into their touch, sobs wracking their body once more. “It’s ok, Whumpee, it’s ok. I’ve got you, it’s ok.”
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“There’s a legend about a Chinese painter who was asked by the emperor to paint a landscape so pristine that the emperor can enter it. He didn’t do a good job, so the emperor was preparing to assassinate him. But because it was his painting, legend goes, he stepped inside and vanished, saving himself. I always loved that little allegory as an artist. Even when it is not enough for others, if it is enough for you, you can live inside it.”
— Ocean Vuong, from an interview with Zoë Hitzig in Prac Crit
Yo, I know transphobes love to go on and on about how dangerous it is to casually introduce "transgenderism" to children because they could "get the wrong idea" but lol, to any kids wondering, yeah! You can be transgender! You can be transsexual! Today! For free! It sounds fun? Give it a shot! "But what if I'm not" But what if you ARE, love? Life's too short not to fuck with gender a bit, enjoy yourself!
