I don’t believe in DNIs, but this blog’s content is mostly SFW (if violence and gore can be considered safe for work, lmao). The occasional nsfwhump will be tagged as such.
About me: Zipper (they/them), 20s, aro-ace
I take writing commissions! Find my commission sheet here!
My writing tag is #zipwrites. My current-ish projects are The Ol’ Ball and Chain, The New Roux, and On the Wing. Everything I post is some form of rough draft. Some go through more variations than others.
Archive of my writing: thezipperzone.blogspot.com
More about me n’ my blog under the cut!
Likes: lab whump, medical whump, hero and villain whump, dehumanization, kidnapping, captivity, pet whump.
Squicks: nsfw, cannibalism (please don’t ask me about these things)
My archived (unfinished, no longer being updated) whump series are The Animal I’ve Become, The Apprentice, Roux & Ambrose, and Box Bastards.
I usually tag trigger warnings with the “tw” after the content (ex: “blood tw”), or with the word “whump” after it (ex: “medical whump). I trigger tag my writing more than reblogs; you can expect to see/read gore and violence here, though, and if that makes you uncomfortable, feel free to unfollow or block me.
Feel free to send me asks or talk to me about whump stuff! Especially lab whump!
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god it’s so sad living in an allocentric world. There are so many relationships that are so complex and nuanced that are all put under the label of ‘romantic’ and immediately all the intrigue is taken from it. Like don’t you realize that these relations are actually ENHANCED by the fact that they are not romantic or sexual?
okay but it's so unfortunate how much bailey has hurt zipper and how much zipper hates his fucking guts BECAUSE they actually have so many overlapping interests. i.e. kinks. river gets so squeamish about a lot of the stuff zipper likes (gore and surgery, mostly) but bailey is INTO that shit. imagine fumbling so bad that the person who would've been so incredibly into you will now never touch you in a million years, not even with a ten foot pole.
tbh im not entirely immune to a villain with a tragic backstory but i do think villain origins are a lot more interesting when the focus is less "here is the original sin, the first big bad thing that happened to them that made them who they are" and more "here is the first time a person who maybe otherwise felt powerless in their life realized that they could hurt someone and get away with it"
you can get a lot more mileage out of analyzing a truly abhorrent character through the lens of like. what sort of conditions would allow or even incentivize this kind of cruelty? what kind of person benefits from those conditions and how? over the more typical who hurt them type analysis. imo.
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Anyway this disability pride month I would like to shoutout disabled folks whose creativity has suffered because of their condition. I’m talking people with hand tremors and pain that stop them from drawing, knitting, and playing instruments. People whose thinking has become so disorganized that nothing they write makes sense to other people. People with chronic pain who can no longer dance. People so over medicated in a fruitless attempt to maintain stability that the wells of their imagination have run dry.
I see you and I love you. You are more than your creative output. You are not a shell of what you used to be. You are a whole, complete person, regardless of what your creativity has been, is now, or will be in the future.
in general you can do a lot with torture tapes for living weapons if your future caretakers are investigating the enemy's weapons development without knowing it's y'know. People
Newly disabled Whumpee applying for benefits after the whump. Having to fill in questionnaires about everything Whumper took from them: their mobility, their independence, their safety. It's all in black and white in so much detail, and now someone in an office is going to read through it and decide if they've lost enough to be worthy of any help.
What if we were two sides of the same coin. What if i lived in your shadow all my life but found comfort in the darkness and dont know what to do once youre gone. What if youre the only person who understands. What if you have have no idea what i went through. What if we went through the same traumas but ended up with oposite conclusions about our suffering. What if i dont recognize you anymore. What if i see the ghost of my former self reflected through your eyes. What if it never had to go this way. What if this was the only way things were ever going to go
The truth of the matter is that if you’re going to seriously pursue writing, not every line can go hard. It can’t be hard 100% of the time, or the hard just becomes soft. Sometimes the line just has to get the writing from point a to point b.
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y'all i'm giving myself whiplash this week for how many different projects i'm cycling through. like technically this is par for the course for me but goddamn.
child assassin whose main birthday present/celebration is being "finally old enough for" their first kill. they knew it was coming (though they tried not to be presumptuous), and they tossed and turned with a pit in their stomach the night before. but everyone's nervous before a big milestone, right? once Whumper is there, so proud and excited for them, it's easier to be properly excited and grateful too.
i think it's compelling if this isn't an overtly evil and harsh 100% of the time whump setting (though i do love a pedal to the floor evil scenario). i'm stuck on the thought of Whumpee getting, like. cake. a genuine celebration with their caregivers (whumpers). presents, but clearly things tailored towards their assassin role; weaponry and associated equipment, exercise gear, etc. presents for the person Whumpee is expected to be. and of course, "getting to" kill someone, framed as an honour and in fact a treat.
Dog motif written by someone who doesn’t like dogs. calling somebody somebody else’s dog in that they’re badly trained and potentially dangerous but everyone coos over them and lets them walk around off leash and you know that if they try to maul you and you complain even a little bit you’re definitely going to be the one that gets yelled at
Stand-alone backstory. For wij day6, and for @highwaywhump , a little something from Pet Safety, some weeks before Adrian saves Blanca. Fair warning, Blanca doesn't have any agency in this.
Pet Safety Masterlist
Content/warnings: Blood (obviously), sadistic whumper, manipulation, implied drugging, living weapon whumpee (whumper), conditioned whumpees, gendered violence towards a woman, dehumanisation, humiliation, highly implied NONCON (m/f), forced to participate, forced to hurt, bbu setting, Jack Donnell's perverted (noncon) understanding of roleplaying. Hurt, no comfort. Dead dove. This is dark.
"What a freaking bloodbath."
With the heavy weight of two of his comrades kneeling on his back and limbs, Mac can't see the men speaking.
But he can see the blood. It's everywhere. It's on his hands, his arms, mixed with sweat, drying into a sticky film, coating his body hair and making it stick up. It's pooled on the patio tiles under him, in his clothes, soaking through the layers of his gear. It's in his face, a thrilling, nauseating taste on his teeth and lips. It's in his eyelashes, forming little dark lumps in front of his eyes that tint the world even redder.
When he blinks the lumps away, fights back the dizzyness of a knee pressing down on the side his neck, Mac can focus on the shape of the pathetic man whose blood it is that he's bathed in. Two paramedics are kneeling beside him.
He's not dead. He's not maimed. Mac bares his bloody teeth, flashes his enhanced canines at him. He would've done it. He'd have torn the man apart. Every fibre in his being had screamed for it. But there's rules that run even deeper than his hatred. That such a call is only for his owner to make.
All Mac is left to do is growl, a low rumble from deep inside his chest. Even separated by the entire width of the pool, the injured man flinches.
The paramedics flinch, too. They are working with nervous, hasty hands, gloves covered in blood, obviously sweating. Not because of the heat.
Because of Glen, carefully towering over the scene, making sure their patient won't leave.
That call, too, is for Mac's owner to make.
Finally, the whirring of helicopter blades swallows the echo of the man's labored breathing.
Before
Mac knows he's not supposed to take breaks his training regimen, he's meant to focus on his fitness and on getting ever stronger. But he's won his last training fight with ultimate ease, his comrades look up to Mac's impressive physique, and Jack actually does allow his Fighters some narrow lenience, when they perform well and aren't currently on protection duty.
Mac has been undefeated for weeks. And he's not on duty.
So he allows himself to step back from the weight bench and glance out of the window facing the deck around Jack's huge pool.
The auburn-haired Romantic is laying on a sunbed there, the pet that has been called Blanca once, but is Bacardi now. The pet who was kind to him once, and fears him now.
Refurb. She's done something bad, and now she's forgotten who she was and has been made good again.
Mac has seen her naked body before, and he's seen the new scars it features now. He knows what the refurb training entailed. Good, to Jack's taste, means scared.
And she is. Even though she doesn't act the part now, even though she buries all of it under a brave, sweet face. She plays the role Mac heard Jack order her in the morning, for one of his sickening games of play pretend. She's supposed to be a rich socialite, lounging by the pool, a little drunk and a little bored, so that Jack can watch her on his security camera feed and 'built up the tension' until he comes home.
Jack likes his scenes to start out domestic. They never stay that way.
But it will be a while before Jack comes home, and even though it fills Mac's heart with aberrant feelings that make him want to claw at his own skin, he stays at the window. Blanca - that's what he still calls her, that's who he met before - pretends to read a fashion magazine, carefully considering each page, even though everyone knows Romantics can't make sense of letters. She's wearing sunglasses, a big hat, pearls around her neck and a pristine white sundress. Jack chooses the dresses himself, as carefully as he picks the outfits for his Guards. The Guards' gear is meant to be both visually impressive and functional. The Romantic's dresses are meant to tear easily at the right places.
Mac clenches his teeth and because he knows she can't do it herself, he'll just do it for her - he daydreams that, right now, without Jack, without anyone there, she can be at peace.
That's when he notices the man.
Now
Jack embarks from the helicopter, striding towards the scene with large steps and a bellowing laugh. "Oh, Maccy-Mac, big boy, what have you *done*?"
Before as much as looking at the injured man, he bows down to Mac, slowly runs a finger across Mac's blood stained lip, down the titanium canine. Light red blood coats his fingertips, sparkling like rubies.
"That thing is a monster," the bloody mess of a man croaks, his words punctured by pained groans. It's a wonder he's still strong enough to speak. "It's not contained. I'll report you. That. I'll have it killed."
"No, Marty." Cowboy heels slowly click on the tiles, when Mac's owner gets up and strolls over to the stretcher. He's leaving bloody footprints in his wake. "You will not. I could get your ass for trespassing, you know that."
Before
Mac has seen the man before. He's a neighbour, an acquaintance of Jack. Marty. Tall, handsome, otherwise unassuming. Weak. Not a threat.
The fact that he's here, that far into Jack's grounds, means he's been vetted and checked. Probably here to borrow the big lawn mower. Glen is on perimeter duty; and even though they're all meant to act the same, they all know that Glen is the most thorough of them all.
Still. There's someone wrong. About the way the man pauses on his way to the shed. About the way he looks at Blanca.
Mac's lips pull back on instinct, teeth bared. He scans the area around the pool. None of his comrades are there. Nobody is on alert.
Well. One is. He can see Blanca's shoulders tense. Her fingers curl up in the magazine. She barely keeps up the appearance.
To any predator, Blanca is designed to look like prey.
Mac is a predator.
And it seems that the neighbor is as well. He kicks aside a pebble as he stalks towards Blanca.
Inside, Mac carefully picks one of the dumbbells.
The neighbor sits down on the sunbed next to Blanca. He says something that Mac can't hear. It doesn't matter. He knows what's coming, frame for frame.
Blanca replies, inching back from the stranger. His arm shoots forward, grabs her, wrestles her down. He swings a leg over her.
Teeth bared, Mac is over him, before Blanca even begins to scream.
It's the neighbor, who screams instead.
Now
Marty's voice falters. His face has turned an unnatural white. "No, Jack, you... you said I could-"
"Shhh," says Jack. "200k should cover for your trouble." Is not a suggestion. Whatever Jack says is either an order, or a threat.
The young man shivers, silent. Stays silent, when Jack's fingers roam his neck. Lets out a garbled scream, when they prod at the deep gash torn into his shoulder. Then again nothing. He's fainted from blood loss.
"Sir," one of the paramedics urges.
"Yeah. That's a good boy." Jack ignores her. He is talking to the unconscious man, tracing the dressing of another wound. "Beautiful."
With a contented smile, he nods at the paramedic and gives two quick raps on the side of the stretcher.
Glen folds his hands and steps back.
Everyone seems to hold their breath, as the paramedics hurry off.
"Now," says Jack and jovially claps his hands. "Get off of Mac, guys. And where's the seductive little thing that's incined this spectacle?"
The weight on Mac's back shifts, air streaming back into his lungs, as his comrades retreat. Instinctively he pushes himself into respect position. His forehead presses into slick wetness.
"Sir." It's Jim Beam's voice, and next to it Mac can hear Blanca's shivering gasp, her feet scurrying on the floor. "She's here."
"Good. Sit up, Mac. Look at her. Look at the perfect little thing you've clawed from the hands of that intruder."
He does, automatically stretching his neck muscles as he sits on his heels.
Blanca's usually light grey eyes are almost black, pupils blown with panic. Her hair is messy. There's a bruise on her arm, where Mac has pulled her away from the man. She's horrified.
She's just how Jack wants her.
"Sir," she whispers. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to-"
Settling himself on a sunchair, Jack leans back, one hand already fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Blanca follows, falls to her knees in front of him, desperately, silently begging for him to not follow through with whatever he's planning.
Jack clicks his tongue. "Of course you wanted to, manipulative little whore. I watched the feed. You got these horny guys to fight over you. And I guess we all know, who won." The wide grin on his face is sickening. Mac wants his owner to be pleased. He also wants him to be gone.
"Ah. Not now, pet." Jack lazily kicks out at Blanca, before he reaches into his pants and starts stroking himself. "I think, this once, I'll enjoy to just watch." He snaps the fingers of his free hand. "Mac."
"Sir," replies Mac, and the word is supposed to mean so much - a refusal, a plea, a demand, a cry of despair - but everyone else hears it for what it truly is.
Acknowledgement.
It tastes like blood.
Between the two men, Blanca scrambles backwards.
Nobody bothers. She won't get far. All of them know.
"Go on with the scene, Mac." Jack's white teeth shine bright in the sunlight. "Take her right there. Right where you defeated your opponent." He points at the scarlet puddle. "You look stunning, covered in blood. She will, too."
Mac steps forward to reach out for Blanca's arm and drag her up. His hand leaves bloody marks on her skin.
"Please," Blanca whispers tonelessly.
He avoids her gaze.
Jack wants her to fight. Not for show. For fear of her life.
Mac knows she will.
And they all know her resistance won't matter at all.
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