#captivating graphics | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

victimeyez · 4 months ago

Text

2 Missed Calls - The Professionals

Buck receives a voicemail from an accidental phone call that paints a stark picture of Tommy's life at the lodge. (Follow up to Bargain Price) The Professionals is a crossover of In the Woods Somewhere by @knivestothroats and Professional//Victim by myself CW: Long term captivity, violent whumper, many graphic threats, beating, ptsd, guilt, angst, the world's worst situationship ~

You Have (2) New Voicemails

(2) Missed Calls From: Fletcher

New Text From: Fletcher

Buck stared at his phone, a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He drummed his hands on the steering wheel, waiting for his car to warm up so he could head home from work.

They texted a little occasionally, usually just for planning visits. Things were…better. As hard as it was to go back to the lodge, it was a little bit like exposure therapy. Sure, he still felt nauseous the whole drive out, and an impending sense of doom. When he got there though, Fletcher didn’t hit him, or aim a gun to his head, or lock a collar on that matched Tommy’s and take off in his car to fake his death - again.

He was still afraid of Fletcher, and painfully aware that Fletcher still held the power in the relationship. But they had held to their word; Buck was free to go, and he was never harmed. The same couldn’t be said for Tommy, but he seemed to understand Buck was freed.

He unlocked his phone and opened the text, staring at Fletcher’s message.

Ignore the first voicemail.

Opened the voicemail. Stared at it. To delete, or not to delete? No, he had to know. It would probably just be a pocket dial. Right?

Buck pressed play on the first voicemail.

“-- nononono Fletcher, wait, please!”

“What? You want something worse than being grounded?”

The hair on the back of Buck’s neck stood up. He recognized Fletcher’s angry tone. The other person had to be Tommy, though his voice was high and distressed as he begged. They sounded slightly distant, neither of them talking directly into the phone.

“Please, please, anything else, I’ll – I’ll pay for the wall, and – and you can hurt me, please, please just don’t call him!”

Buck’s stomach sank. Tommy sounded so absolutely desperate, but if he had gotten his way, Buck wouldn’t be listening to this over voicemail. Hearing him offering his pain was nauseating. Tommy, what did you do?

“Oh ho, buddy, you are absolutely paying for the wall,” Fletcher snapped. “Do you know how long that’s going to take you to pay off? You can forget about buying anything any time soon.”

There was a pause, and a bit of rustling against the microphone. Then Tommy again, mournful.

“I…I know, I know, I’ll do it, but please don’t take Buck away.”

Buck knew Tommy got excited for his visits, but he wasn’t prepared to hear his heart breaking over it. He hadn’t thought about it like that before – but he had unwittingly played right into Fletcher’s game, becoming a reward for Tommy just so Fletcher could hold it over his head. He wanted to hang up. He didn’t want to hear this, but he felt paralyzed. As if it would be unfair to turn away from knowing what happened to Tommy when no one else in the world did.

As if hurting for Tommy could alleviate some of his pain.

“You said I could hurt you? What do you want me to do to you instead? What do you think is enough to make up for it?”

��Well, yes, I mean…..um…” Tommy was struggling to answer Fletcher’s scathing line of questioning. Buck didn’t envy him, having been in that position himself. He still had no idea what to say.

“You could…you could…beat me?..” Tommy tried timidly. Buck sighed, shutting his eyes as if it could block it out.

“I could beat you and still send Buck away,” Fletcher pointed out. “I can beat you for stuttering when you talk to me. I could beat you for anything, whenever I want. If you want me to change my mind, you have to come up with something enticing.”

Buck opened his eyes again, wide. He needed to see where he was. Needed to confirm he wasn’t back at the lodge. That while Fletcher was still there, playing with their food, Buck wasn’t on the menu anymore.

“You can… you can use a knife?”

“Yeah?” Fletcher asked mockingly. “I can use a knife? Can I take off patches of your skin with it? Can I wedge the point under your fingernails?”

Tommy didn’t respond. Buck was mashing the phone against his ear, trying to listen. He thought he could hear a whisper of Tommy’s breathing, laboured with his panic.

“Can I chop off a finger?” Fletcher continued. “One of your ears? Can I stick it in your eye? Can I open up your fucking veins? Is that okay with you?!”

“I… I…” Tommy stammered hopelessly. Buck wanted to scream at him to say something, to fight back, but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t hear Buck anyways - this was all past now, Buck was too late. He didn’t even know what he would do if he had picked up the call.

“What, you don’t want that? Well, can I do something else? What about your bones, Thunderbird, am I allowed to break those? Can I knock out your teeth? Can I hold your head under water?”

Buck pulled the phone away from his ear like yanking his hand back from a hot stove. It was too much. He could feel the pressure of water in his own sinuses again.

His thumb hovered over the end call button. Why should he have to drown again? He was out. Fletcher didn’t have the power to hurt him out here.

Buck thought about Tommy in the lodge, in his place, scared and hurting and alone. He put the phone back to his ear, as if that meant he could be there for him.

Tommy was sobbing in terror. “I – hic-- I’m s-sorry, I don’t –”

He was cut off by a sharp sound of impact, grunting in pain. Fletcher must have hit him.

“Fight back!” Buck gasped out loud. “Fight back, Tommy, do something damn it!” He felt so helpless. Frustrated, even, that Tommy was just taking it. It felt like his inaction meant choosing to let Buck suffer, too.

“Wise the fuck up, kid,” Fletcher snapped. “I can do whatever the fuck I want to you. Maybe it worked for you before where you bat your fucking eyelashes and get on your knees and you get out of whatever you had coming, but I don’t give a shit about any of that. You take what I give you.”

Buck’s stomach turned. Maybe the degradation wasn’t worse than the violence but it was just as difficult to listen to. He hated to think that Tommy was living with it day in and day out when he wasn’t around to keep Fletcher on their best behavior.

“Yes, Fletcher, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Tommy agreed miserably. He could barely find his voice. Buck strained to hear it.

“I-I’ll take whatever you give me. Can you p-please hang up now?”

“Oh shit,” Buck heard Fletcher mutter. His anxiety spiked suddenly, like he’d drawn the attention of a predator.

“Buck, you there?” Fletcher’s voice was clear now, speaking directly into his ear. Buck held his breath, trembling with anxiety.

–AT. SEVEN. THIRTY. EIGHT. PM. FROM. NUMBER SEVEN–” Buck dropped his phone, cutting off the robotic voice that startled him out of his spell. He looked down at the screen.

You Have (1) New Voicemail

(2) Missed Calls From: Fletcher

Buck sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. Wasn’t one harrowing voicemail enough? The second one was only twelve seconds long, at least.

New voicemail

“Hey, didn’t mean to call you the first time. Hit the button accidentally. But, look, I am canceling your next visit because Tommy is grounded. I’ll let you know when you can come back.”

Fletcher was clear now, intentional, but Buck swore he could hear a faint whimper in the background. If Tommy was still there, he could not speak.

–AT. SEVEN. FORTY. FOUR. PM. FROM. NUMBER SEVEN–”

Logically, Buck knew Tommy was tortured at the lodge, but he’d never had to face it. He’d seen bandages covering up the aftermath, bruising and fresh scars, but Tommy usually wore long sleeves and pants when he was around. It hadn’t occurred to Buck how much he might be covering up. He tried not to think about it. But Tommy was so infuriatingly obedient, Buck had hoped he kept out of trouble.

He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to shake off the secondhand horror. It felt so dirty to be used as a punishment by Fletcher. Every time he regretted agreeing to – offering to visit, he was plagued with guilt. Still, hearing it – maybe he hadn’t realized quite how dire those visits were to him. He still remembered how isolated he felt in the lodge. He didn’t want that for Tommy.

Tommy, who’d spent five years in a basement cell without contact from a single friendly face. Buck couldn’t wrap his head around it, couldn’t even begin to imagine what kind of captors Tommy was under that made Fletcher look like a saint. No wonder he was so fucked up.

Buck looked down at his phone again, chewing his lip. Maybe not a saint after all. It was impossible to say what was an act or what was the real Tommy. There was just no way to tell while Fletcher prohibited any time alone with him. It was easier to think Tommy was mostly happy there. It took the weight off of his shoulders. As awful it was, he felt a little relieved to not have to visit for a while. It would be weeks, maybe even longer, without a visit to the lodge hanging over his head.

And Tommy, alone, definitely hurt, with no idea when his lifeline would be let back into his life again. And here he was, relieved not to go. Somehow, Buck had crafted a personal torture for himself, and once again, Fletcher was the one benefitting the most.

He practiced square breathing while he took up his phone again, typing a quick message to Fletcher.

Is Tommy ok?

He got a response in ten minutes.

He’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it.

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

What did you do to him? He asked.

There was a typing notification for a few minutes, then it disappeared, reappeared.

He threw a temper tantrum so he’s grounded.

What does that mean?

What, you never got grounded as a kid? I sent him to his room and cancelled his play date.

I don’t believe that’s all you did. And what’s a temper tantrum here? Did he talk back to you or something?

He punched a hole through my wall.

Tommy? Tommy punched a hole in the wall?

Are we talking about the same guy?

Yup.

Buck was proud.

It wasn’t good, and it surely wasn’t worth it. He had to assume there was more to the punishment than he had heard.

But… Tommy showed that he wasn’t all meek and malleable. That there was still some fighting spirit in him. Maybe it was worth exercising that once in a while, just to make sure it’s still there.

What did you do to him? Buck asked again.

I told you; he’s grounded.

What else?

Why do you assume there’s more?

I know you.

Buck watched the typing icon appear and disappear a few times.

I let him work through some of his anger.

Just fucking tell me.

Touchy, touchy. I let him fight me.

Oh, fuck.

How bad is he hurt?

He’ll be sore for a couple days but he’s fine.

Okay, that was good. If it was true. Fletcher had been pretty evasive this whole conversation.

Can I talk to him?

Fuck no. He’s still grounded.

I want to know he’s okay.

I would tell you if he wasn’t.

Would you? I had to basically interrogate you to find out you beat him.

Hahahahahahahahahahaha

“Interrogate”

That’s funny, Bucky

But no. You’ll see him eventually. Anything permanent you would find out about then so there’s no point in hiding it.

Buck worried his lip, mulling it over before hitting send.

Do you have to be so hard on him?

Yes.

There it was. Fletcher would always be Fletcher, and there was nothing Buck could do to mitigate that. He wanted to argue, he felt like he was responsible for Tommy in some ways – but he was no lawyer, and Fletcher did not leave room for negotiations. There was a sick relief that came from that knowledge. Nothing he could do, so nothing he had to feel bad for not doing. Still, guilt gnawed at his stomach.

When can I see him again?

I’ll let you know. Few weeks at least. But don’t worry - absence makes the heart grow fonder.

@suspicious-whumping-egg @whumpyourdamnpears @generic-whumperz @lonesome--hunter

@whumplr-reader @theelvishcowgirl @sunshiline-writes @dont-be-gentle-please @galesgallery

@2in1whump @sparrowsage @apokolyps @whumpinggrounds

@morning-star-whump @leviiio @alexmundaythrufriday

@defire @jumpywhumpywriter @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees

@light-me-on-pyre @slightlydisturbedbeans @dislexiher @paperprinxe @desert-dyke

@just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi @burtlederp @whatwasmyprevioususername @cursedandtired

@whump-only @misspelledwitch @redstainedsocks @thehopelessopus @im-just-here-for-the-whump

@thatsthewhump @utopian819 @pretty-face-breaker @thesuffererrrr @technicallydeliciousdeer

#Long term captivity #violent whumper #many graphic threats #beating #ptsd #guilt #angst #the world's worst situationship #professional//victim #in the woods somewhere #the professionals

65 notes · View notes

okochamasensou · 2 months ago

Text

the captive transparent

#web graphics #png #render #transparent #identity v #idv #the captive #nathaniel norwell #night watch

11 notes · View notes

franticvampirereads · 1 year ago

Text

June has been interesting, I’ve read some great books and some just okay ones and I had a DNF. So it’s been a bit of a grab bag this month, but that’s okay! Here’s what I read:

Prince’s Gambit 5⭐️ {review}

Three Meant To Be 4⭐️ {review}

Fence: Rise 4⭐️ {review}

For The Fans-DNF @ page 30 {vague reasoning why}

The Alpha’s Son 3.25⭐️ (changed rating) {review}

Lore Olympus vol 1 5 ⭐️ {review}

Washed Up With A Kraken 3.5 ⭐️ {review}

That Time I Got Drunk And Saved A Demon -currently reading

On The Run -currently reading

My favorite books this month were Prince’s Gambit and Lore Olympus. Both were so good that I just couldn’t put them down.

33 notes · View notes

uniquexblogs · 2 years ago

Text

Craft Your Unique Brand Identity: Embrace Captivating Design Templates

Craft a distinctive brand identity with captivating design templates. Express your essence and stand out in the market effortlessly. Versatile and easy to customize for various business needs. Reinforce brand recognition and foster trust with consistency. Invest in the authenticity of your brand for long-term success.

Get it Now: Brand identity design templates

Section 1: The Power of Authentic Brand Identity

An authentic brand identity reflects the core values and personality of your business. It communicates who you are, what you stand for, and what sets you apart from the competition. Our captivating design templates offer a powerful canvas to express your brand's essence, ensuring consistency and resonance across all touchpoints.

Section 2: Crafting a Memorable Visual Impact

Visual elements play a pivotal role in creating a lasting impression on your audience. Our design templates are thoughtfully crafted with captivating graphics and attention to detail, making it easy for you to craft a memorable and impactful brand image. From stunning business cards to eye-catching social media graphics, these templates enable you to create a cohesive and visually striking brand presence.

Section 3: Embracing Versatility and Adaptability

One of the key advantages of design templates is their versatility. Whether you're planning a product launch or updating your marketing materials, these templates can be easily adapted to suit various business needs. With intuitive editing options, you can customize the templates to align with your brand's unique requirements, without the need for design expertise.

Section 4: Reinforcing Brand Recognition

Consistency is the key to building brand recognition and trust. By embracing captivating design templates, you ensure that your brand image remains cohesive and recognizable across all channels. Consistency in your brand identity fosters a sense of familiarity with your audience, making it easier for them to connect with and remember your business.

Section 5: Investment in Authenticity and Growth

Investing in captivating design templates is an investment in the authenticity and growth of your brand. By crafting a unique and impactful brand identity, you establish a strong and authentic presence in the market. A distinctive brand identity fosters loyalty among your customers and sets the stage for long-term business success.

Conclusion:

Crafting your unique brand identity is a journey that requires creativity, authenticity, and a deep understanding of your business values. Embrace our captivating design templates to powerfully express your brand's essence and stand out in a competitive market. With versatility, adaptability, and intuitive editing options, these templates empower you to reinforce brand recognition and resonate with your audience. Invest in the authenticity of your brand today and unleash its true potential for growth and success.

Get it Now: Brand identity design templates

#brand identity #design templates #professional branding #versatile designs #cohesive image #stand out #captivating graphics #creative marketing #business materials

1 note · View note

thedollmakersmasterpiece · 4 months ago

Text

The Doll Makers Masterpiece part ??

(post capture pre doll)

Masterlist Next part

Trigger warning: graphic descriptions of violence, torture, abuse, captivity, blood, self deprecation

(this is later in the story)

-----------------------------------------

Anya's chest heaved as she cowered against the wall, her tattered shirt soaked in her blood. Pierre's face was split into a horrific grin. “Excellent! A marked improvement! That brings us to sixteen hours! That's more than enough time!” He twirls the branding iron between his fingers, lost in thought. “Perhaps some training with a higher intensity…?”

“No!” Anya's voice cracks as she throws herself at his feet, tears streaming down her face. “P-please sir! I.. I'm at my limit!” her shaking fingers hike up her shirt revealing the angry and inflamed marks still lingering on her stomach. “I can't take anymore! Please!”

Pierre clicks his tongue, wrapping his gloved fingers in her hair as he inspects the marks. “Oh dear, What a disappointment.” He hisses between his teeth as he yanks her head up to meet his glare. “How can you ever expect to improve if you're just going to give up at the slightest sign of difficulty? And after all the effort I put into you?”

Fresh tears pour down Anya's cheeks, clearing trails in the dried blood. “Please sir! I.. I'm sorry! I'll do better! I'll BE better! I…!” She slams into the floor so violently she can taste blood before she even registers the pain.

“Shut up. Your whining is giving me a headache.” Pierre tightens his grip in her hair before grinding her face down into the concrete below. “If you weren't so utterly incompetent, we’d be done already! Instead, you make me waste my time teaching you something you should have mastered years ago!”

Anya screams as the branding iron is pressed into her back.“I.. I'm sorry! I…”

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry! Then do Better.” Pierre mocks as he twists the metal rod before pressing it down even harder. “And not only are you incompetent, but you're ungrateful too! Not once have you even thanked me for the hours of effort I've spent fixing your inadequacies!”

She can feel the hot metal melting past her skin, digging deeper and deeper into her muscle, the rod threatening to burn its way into her lungs. “Th-thank you sir!”

“Thank you for what?” The pressure on the back of her head increases to the point where she can feel her scull creaking in protest.

“Thank you for taking in a stupid, incompetent, brat like me! Th-thank you for putting up with my pointless whining and my idiotic questions! I'm sorry for being so ungrateful! Y-You deserve a more competent subject than me and I know that I'm only blessed with your tutelage because you haven't found a better option!”

The pressure on her skull lifts slightly as she feels him readjust his grip on her hair. “There we go~” she can hear the predatory grin in his voice even over the pounding in her ears. “You wouldn't get yourself into these situations if you just understood your place to begin with.”

She can feel chunks of her flesh tearing out with the rod as he tugs it free. “Now why don't you be a good girl and clean up the mess you've made?” the fingers leave her hair but she doesn't dare look up.

“When I come back, there better not be a single trace of any of this. Not on the floors, not on the walls, and most importantly…Not on you. Understood?”

Anya can't suppress a whimper as Pierre drags the tip of the rod along the marred flesh of her side. “Y-yes sir! Thank you sir! I’ll… I'll be ready for my lesson tomorrow!”

“Good.” Anya finches as the branding rod is cast into the corner, clattering against the stone tiles. “I hope by this point I don't need to show you where the cleaning supplies are”

“N-no sir!” The cleaning supplies are in the cabinet out in the hall. She's thankful most of her injuries are abdominal this time, wincing at the memory of dragging twisted legs down the hall.

She doesn't pick her head up off the floor until the sound of his footsteps fade. Sitting up slowly she takes stock of her body. She's covered in partially dried blood, her head is pounding, and residual burns and bruises litter her stomach. her fingers graze over them as she inspects herself causing little sparks of pain to shoot around inside her

She reaches around to feel her back, searching for the puncture. It's difficult to pinpoint givin the radiating pain and her tattered blood soaked shirt, but it's found suddenly when one of her fingers sinks inside her causing a flash of white hot pain.

She thinks she screams but she's not sure.

As the room stabilizes she takes a shaky breath, ever so gently pulling up her shirt. The strands of ruined fabric stick to her wounds and tug sorely. Fortunately it doesn't seem like to much has gone inside, but she has to get what did out before her body encases it

He fingers once again find the hole and she bites her lip, tasting more blood than she ought to. She's vaguely aware that her nose is leaking blood and a few of her teeth aren't as attached as they should be, but it doesn't matter, it's not a priority right now.

She carefully probes the injury until she catches the edge of the embedded fabric. Hissing in pain she loops the strand around her finger and tugs, slowly drawing it out of her flesh. It sloughs out with no more fanfare than a pained gasp.

She collapses back against the stone floor exhausted, the cool tile soothing against her heated skin.

Maybe she can rest her eyes for a minute before she drags herself out to the closet? Pierre shouldn't be back for a few hours so she should have time… God she needs some rest…

Her vision swims a bit as she looks up at the ceiling lights, head pounding. She must have lied down in one of the blood smears though because she can feel her hair getting slick and tacky.

A little nap should be fine right? He told her to heal and she needs energy for that! Maybe she'd be able to think about it more if the room would stop spinning… she's unconscious before she can give it another thought

----------------------------------------------------------

Masterlist Next part

#whump writing #whump #whumpblr #whumpee #healing whumpee #whumper #healing ability whumpee #The Doll Makers Masterpiece #tw torture #tw abuse #tw self deprecation #tw captivity #tw graphic descriptions of violence #writing

7 notes · View notes

altarfates · 5 months ago

Text

I was chatting with tobias about how like it’s easy to get swept up in the expecting blogs to have sexy aesthetic graphics in order to determine what the quality of their blog is like but the writing if the writing hits the spot then it’s always gonna be that first .

#if you write in a way that captivates me and makes me go OH YEAH #THOSE WORDS IN THAT ORDER brings joy #nothing else matters #unfortunately tumblr perpetuates this concept of cool URLs and graphics meaning ALOT but #if the writing doesn’t slap I’m less inspired to interact with it #it’s an interesting discussion at least #ooc.#I say this as someone who tries to evoke emotion when writing like not using intense descriptors just doesn’t hit the same

6 notes · View notes

whumpdrivethru · 2 years ago

Note

Can I get a uhhh… Defiant Whumpee with high-pain tolerance and a Caretaker who worries sick about them while Whumpee laughs at their own injuries??? Thank you!

Heyyy! Thank you for choosing the whump drive-thru! Enjoyyyyyyy < 3

Where Even Diamonds Shatter

TW: Blood, slightly graphic description of injuries, implied past captivity, implied past torture, bruises, angsty

It wasn't the rumbling thunder or the honking of cars speeding down the highway that roused Caretaker from their already fitful sleep. It was the frantic rapping at the door, that awfully distinct knock that tore them away from their sheets and cracked their eyes wide open.

"Ah, took you long enough," Whumpee quipped, smiling brightly at Caretaker, but there was nothing behind the eyes. Their whole body trembled, soaked to the bone in rainwater.

"Y-you look like hell," Caretaker rasped out, the concern still clear in their tone, even through their sleep-hoarse voice.

"I didn't imagine hell to be so wet." Whumpee let their lip curl upwards into a lopsided smirk as Caretaker frantically pulled them inside, unable to find Whumpee's jokes amusing the way they usually did.

Out of a force of habit more than anything else, Whumpee threw themselves on the couch, shrugging their boots off and tossing one leg over the other, the almost sarcastic groan too stoic of a reaction for the horrible state they were in right now. Their cheeks were hollow, and the bags under their eyes were dark and heavy, and they looked significantly older, even though Whumpee was barely an adult, much like Caretaker was. A patchwork of bruises in sickly shades of purple and brown marred their face, and scratches of various sizes littered their visage.

All of it made Caretaker terrified of what was concealed underneath the flimsy fabric of Whumpee's shirt as they mentally steeled themselves for the result.

"Spoiler alert, it isn't pretty," Whumpee quipped, their eyes full of mirth and amusement, and yet so unbearably empty as Caretaker lifted it up.

Ghastly. Horrifying. Gruesome. It didn't matter how many terrible words Caretaker used to describe the state Whumpee's abdomen was in, it would still be a sight burned into their eyes, engraved into their memory. Lacerations snaked across their body in various degrees of healing, the blood still fresh on some of them. The wounds were dull and ugly, clearly produced by a blunt tool, definitely not deadly, but fashioned to produce as much pain as possible. They looked more like the result of a vicious beast dragging its fangs through Whumpee's vulnerable flesh, slow and tormenting.

It wasn't that the wounds were simply unsightly; they were a reminder of all the torture Whumpee had been subjected to, of the extent of its brutality, and yet here they were, scoffing and laughing and making a show of rolling their eyes at every grimace and soft gasp that Caretaker gave. It amazed them, how they still managed to remain composed with injuries as deep as these.

"W-what did they do to you?" Caretaker breathed out softly, worrying their bottom lip in between their teeth, still unable to register what they were looking at, their eyes unfocused and glazed over.

"Ah this? Just a minor disagreement between civilised people, ya know. They say they want me to beg, and I say screw you. I'm not sure, but I don't really think they liked that," Whumpee replied offhandedly, laughing softly.

If it was anyone but Caretaker, they would've believed that laughter was genuine. They could see the hollow, lifeless look in their eyes, the way their muscles tensed, the subtle manner in which they clenched their jaw, all indicators of the severe pain they were in. They wished more than anything to scream at them to stop making a mockery of their injuries.

Instead, they went over to the bathroom, gathering medical supplies into their arms, only for Whumpee to raise an eyebrow at them sceptically. And just before they could let another snarky, ill-fitting joke fall from their lips, Caretaker tossed the supplies onto the coffee table, and their gaze turned steely.

"For the love of God, stop it! None of this crap is funny!" Caretaker thundered, their nostrils flaring as they picked up a few alcohol wipes and pressed them to Whumpee's many wounds.

"Oh come on, Caretaker," Whumpee drawled between hisses of pain as the antiseptic burned across their skin, the alcohol wipes turning crimson ridiculously fast, "would you rather I cry?"

"No," Caretaker bit out tersely, "but you shouldn't be making fun of it either."

"I shouldn't?" Whumpee hissed, voice dropping dangerously low, "Do you know how hard I bit down on my lips to stop myself from screaming, but I still did anyway? Do you know what it was like living a life where every goddamn moment is agony?!"

All their composure had disappeared into nothing, their walls broken down, the cold indifference replaced by a quivering lip and furious, shameful tears streaming down their face. Whumpee hurriedly wiped at them, as though acid was flowing down their face.

Caretaker's gaze softened as they crouched down a little lower, using the alcohol wipe in their hand to wipe the blood off their hands. They wiped the new tears off Whumpee's face with their fingers, blissfully cool against their burning skin. "I'm sorry, love," they whispered, carding their fingers through Whumpee's hair.

"You've been through a lot, I know. But it's okay to be vulnerable. It's okay, I swear. It doesn't make you weak or whatever crap they told you. You don't have to laugh when you don't really want to," they continued with the same gentle tone, cupping their jaw and giving them a fond smile that still carried a forlorn air to it.

"I just don't want any pity," Whumpee attested, gaze downcast and full of uncertainty.

"And I understand that. You are strong for managing to make it through all this. I want to offer you care and not pity, love," they added, ruffling their hair affectionately.

Whumpee tried for a few false starts, but they ultimately decided on a nod and sucking in a shaky breath.

Their breathing began to slow a little as Caretaker resumed patching up their wounds, and while they still tried to keep their pain well-concealed beneath a clenched jaw as a force of habit, something a bit of time could heal, they weren't completely averse to displaying vulnerability, feeling a lot safer than they ever had in their life under Caretaker's gentle vigilance.

Vulnerability is not an indication of a lack of courage. And, while it may be difficult to process, all one needs is a steadfast companion; someone to lean on when they have been holding their own weight up for so long the way a mountain does. People are not broken objects in need of rigid fixing to return to what they once were, rather, the steps they take to heal, no matter how undesirable, are all that they need, vital to even the most resilient of minds.

Today's server is Natalia! If you enjoyed this meal, we'd all be honoured if you come again <3 <3 <3

#Natalia #whumpdrivehtru #answered asks #whumpblr #whump community #whump writing #tw blood #tw implied past torture #tw implied past captivity #tw bruises #tw somewhat graphic wound description #angst #whump #whump blog

50 notes · View notes

khandakerhossain · 6 months ago

Text

"Transform your brand with exceptional, professional logo, brochure & flyer designs! I'll craft visually stunning designs tailored to elevate your business and captivate your audience. Let’s bring your vision to life with creativity and precision. Order now for designs that stand out!"

Order Now https://www.fiverr.com/leonhossain2580/do-awesome-logo-design

2 notes · View notes

sunlightfeeling · 1 year ago

Text

showed my parents Judgment by playing the prologue for them this morning

when the opening credits came on, they were both like “oh, so was that the game?” like as a genuine question not “omg, was that all? 🙄”

I don’t think they really believed me telling them that it was only the introduction until the “chapter 1” title card came on lmfao

#my parents got a bit captivated i think #by the graphics and all #also my mom was like ‘oh this game must be older because your guy looks younger…he’s pretty old now right?’#she’s such a dork lmfao 😭😂#HE WAS PRACTICALLY THE SAME AGE IN KILLING FOR THE PROSECUTION 😭😭😭#but its because rgg went hard with the de-aging and all

6 notes · View notes

aparticularbandit · 9 months ago

Text

Of A Fatal Captivity: Day One (I)

Summary: When do they decide that she can’t leave? That they’re going to keep her there no matter what she wants? That’s the day her captivity begins. Is that today?

Some of you will think that this beginning is a gimmick. Up to you! Think what you want! (It’s not a gimmick more than anything else in writing is a gimmick, which is to say, of course, it’s a gimmick, because that’s all writing is, really, isn’t it? A bunch of gimmicks? Some of them more successful than others? Isn’t that why we have tropes? The trappings of a Tragedy to tell us whether that’s really what the story is or not? (Do you know the story you’re in?))

Enough games.

You’re here for something better than that.

Or: Junko Enoshima’s factory reset may or may not be going as planned, and Ryoko Otonashi has plenty of things to say about that. Or will, once she realizes what’s going on.

Chapter Rating: M for Graphic Imagery. Fic Rating: M for Danganronpa reasons.

TW for Graphic Imagery.

AO3

previous chapter | next chapter

Book One

Four FIVE Days Ago.

Day Ten (of an…. Oh, who cares anymore? It’s over. It’s over.)

Kyoko stares up at stars winking at her through a sky far blacker than anything she has ever known and takes a deep breath of thickly polluted air and feels despair.

It’s an odd sort of feeling.

Not that she’s never felt it before – she has – but it’s different this time. Like something ice cold – the way a corpse feels, maybe, when she comes across it far later than she should, when all of the warmth has drained from its body and it’s just starting to turn – pools in the center of her chest, just where her heart should be, and spreads out slowly through her veins, as though it might reach her already aching fingertips. She can’t breathe through the ice beneath her skin, can’t breathe staring up at a sky she’d thought she would never see again, can’t breathe as the rocket-fueled mecha Monokuma disappears like the twinle of a winking star into that same sky, black on black on black.

Despair.

Kyoko knew she couldn’t save Junko from Byakuya’s mind wipe. She arrived too late for that; she and Toko both knew Byakuya would already have started whatever literal mind game he was playing with Junko before they made it, before Kyoko even got through the door. That was expected. It wasn’t an acceptable loss, but it was at least an expected one, one from which they could recover.

What wasn’t expected was a giant mecha Monokuma exploding through the roof.

What wasn’t expected was a girl Kyoko barely remembers stealing Junko away.

What wasn’t expected was—

Interfering with the memory erasure could lead to permanent brain damage. Wasn’t that what Byakuya said? And what could be more interference than a giant mecha Monokuma dropping down from the sky and literally ripping Junko out of her cradle? There’s no coming back from that, there’s no regaining Junko from that, there’s no hope that they might possibly have her back to something even remotely approaching normal – they stole her, and now they can do whatever they want with her when she wakes (if she wakes!), and—

The worst is the realization that Junko…. Junko planned this. She’d known it would happen even before wiping Kyoko’s memories. She’d—

“I really did love you. I really did.”

Kyoko’s throat cuts off. It burns, raw. She doesn’t cry because she doesn’t cry (not since Yui), because even if he’s been knocked out, Byakuya is still right there, and Hina’s…. Hina’s somewhere. Besides, if she didn’t cry over Makoto, she sure isn’t going to cry over Junko Enoshima. That would be so stupid.

So stupid.

Kyoko clenches her hand into a fist so tight that the leather of her glove creaks. Her gaze drops from the sky, and she forces herself to draw another smoke-filled breath.

Junko said she was going to die.

Fair enough.

She died.

Just like she wanted.

“...maybe, eventually, you’ll see me again, too. If you keep your promise, anyway.”

Kyoko can’t think about that right now.

Right now, she needs to get out of the wreckage Junko and her Ultimate Despair left behind.

Right now, she needs to find Hina.

Right now, she—

“M-M-Master!”

Toko races into the room, indestructible, sprints across the misshapen bits of concrete, dances around sparks and machinery that is somehow on fire, and cradles Byakuya in her arms. There’s a sharp cut across his forehead and blood (red blood) smeared across it, only growing more smeared as Toko brushes his hair out of his face. His glasses are gone, smashed under debris. Like this, he almost looks normal.

Almost.

Toko’s gaze doesn’t leave Byakuya to glare at Kyoko as she desperately tries to lift his body with her noodle arms, but there’s venom in her voice when she says, “What. did. you. do?”

“Look around you, Toko.” Kyoko stumbles away from her, closer to the door, closer to where she’d been standing with Hina when the Monokuma dropped. Her eyes sweep the wreckage as she does. “Do you really think I could do something like this?”

“I-I-I wasn’t here! I don’t know!” Toko struggles with Byakuya, unable to move him. She tucks her arms under his armpits and tries to drag him backwards, making it only a few steps back before she catches sight of the nearest broken wire still shooting sparks and gives up. (There’s a soft crack as she drags him. But there are a lot of sounds around them right now.) “A little help?” she calls out. “Please?”

But Kyoko isn’t paying attention to her. Kyoko’s paying attention to the other cracks, the shifts in the concrete, the wires and the sparks and the bits of flame, and the singular hand outstretched from beneath a huge, huge piece of—

Kyoko isn’t strong. She has never been strong, and the nerve damage in her hands hasn’t helped with that. But something in her snaps, something in her rips her own muscles as she grabs the chunk of concrete, as she heaves, as she digs in her broken heels, as she shoves it off of Hina’s body. (She’s done this before, and it tore her hands apart, and it’s tearing them apart again, and she was supposed to learn from it, and she didn’t learn anything at all, and it’s happening again, and it’s happening worse, and it’s—) The cold within her spreads, another numb stronger than the disconnect she normally needs for examining bodies, as she sees Hina, broken, before her.

(She doesn’t see Hina. She sees Yui. She—)

Blood trickles dark and red from one corner of Hina’s lips. Even from a non-medical professional, it’s clear that her spine has been shattered from the crooked way she lays along the ground, not that it matters much when her right arm has been smashed off, shards of bone sticking out through shorn muscle into nothing, not that that matters when Hina’s eyes are already starting to glaze over, their light fading. And yet still, she speaks, her voice a rasping creak, “K…K…Kyo…ko…?”

She shuts off.

She has to shut off.

To survive, she has to shut off.

(She can’t do this again. Not again.)

It isn’t fair to Hina. It isn’t.

But it’s not like she has any control over this sort of thing.

(She does. She does.)

“I’m here.” Kyoko kneels down in the debris, takes Hina’s remaining hand in her own broken one, and gives it as gentle a squeeze as she can. “I’m here.”

Hina searches above her, either not seeing Kyoko or not able to focus on her. “I…I…I didn’t…I didn’t think…I didn’t….”

Kyoko brushes a hand through Hina’s hair, torn from its ponytail, and traces her fingers along her face. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, even though it isn’t, even though it hasn’t been for a very long time, even though it might never be again. “You’re okay.”

That’s another lie.

“We couldn’t have known.”

That’s not.

Hina laughs – or tries to – but it turns into coughing. So much blood. So much blood, enough that it spatters a bit onto Kyoko’s face. (She doesn’t wipe it off.) “It…it…it was…was nice,” she struggles to say, her voice fading with every word, “to see…the…the stars….”

She doesn’t say anything else.

For a moment, Kyoko doesn’t move. She just kneels, holding Hina’s remaining hand in her own, running her thumb comfortingly along her skin, as Hina takes in that halting, stuttering sharp last breath emblematic of death – once, twice, then no more – as her body struggles to maintain what her brain has already given up. (Habit. Muscle memory. A refusal of belief.) Then Hina’s jaw hangs open, gravity pulling it down now that she doesn’t have anything to hold it in place. Someone else might reach over to close her eyes, but Kyoko leaves them open.

So she can see the stars.

(A body has been discovered!)

Then Kyoko stands, brushes the dirt from her skirt, smearing the deep red blood spattered across it, and turns to Toko, who continues to struggle with Byakuya. She hears another crack, sharper this time, as she walks over to her, carefully avoiding the wires and sparks, and sits down next to her. “Go get Hiro,” she says. “I’ll keep an eye on—”

“You g-g-get him!” Toko interrupts, spitting the words out. “I can protect Master b-b-better than y-you!”

After a brief consideration of current events and, more importantly, what Toko can do if something else should happen, Kyoko acquiesces. She nods. “Stay focused on him,” she says as she stands again. “You won’t like what you might see elsewhere.”

Toko glares at her.

“And quit trying to move him without help. You might make things worse.”

Kyoko feels Toko’s continued glare on her as she leaves, but she doesn’t hear any extra shuffling, which means she’s listened, at least. She doesn’t spare another glance for Hina’s corpse as she passes it by. Attachments like this will do her no good. Hina is dead. She needs to accept this. To let it go.

And yet.

Kyoko pauses just inside of the tunnel leading out of the now quite destroyed room. She turns, bends down, and finds that small plush bear buried beneath the rubble. His torn red eye somehow seems even more torn, as though the fabric sewn beneath the hole is beginning to bleed through, and the black, covered with dirt and dust, seems softer, lighter, while the white seems stained from overuse. Hiro will panic, if he sees this. (Hiro is panicking already. Kyoko doesn’t need to hear him to know that.)

She stares at the bear, brushes it off, and then tucks it into the inside pocket of her jacket.

Only then does she go.

Kyoko finds Hiro running about in the main hall, scurrying from one room to the other in his panic, yelling with his arms raised high above his head and his chunky sandals clunking along the floor. She calmly walks over to intercept him (it’s easy to be calm when she’s numb) and places a hand on his shoulder to still him. “Hiro.”

“AAAAAHHHH!”

Hiro jumps in his skin, bounds away from her, and whirls about with his hands up in some sort of attempt at a martial arts defensive stance. “Don’t hurt me!” he says, eyes squinted shut. “I know kung fu!”

Kyoko stares at him as he tries, blindly, to attack forward before easily stepping out of the way. “Hiro.”

Hiro’s eyes snap open at the sound of her voice, which he somehow hadn’t recognized before in his panic. “Kyokyo!” He rushes forward and grabs her in his arms. “I was so scared! And now you’re here!”

“Hiro.” Kyoko tenses at his touch and carefully disentangles herself from him. “I know that calm is not easy for you in our current situation, but I need you to remain calm.”

“Calm? Me? I’m always calm!” Hiro crosses his arms and fakes a laugh. “I’m 100% sure that I’ll survive whatever’s going on!” Then he leans forward, eyes still wild. “But the explosion? There was an explosion, Kyokyo! And you’re—” His eyes grow even wilder. “You’re covered in blood, Kyokyo—”

“Please don’t call me that.”

“Huh? But Kyokyo is—”

“Please don’t call me that,” Kyoko repeats, firm, as she grits her teeth together. “Ever.” She waits, waits for another counter to her words, but when Hiro doesn’t say anything else (surprisingly), she continues. “Byakuya tried to erase Junko’s memories. A mecha Monokuma—”

“A mecha Monokuma?!?!?!?!” Hiro echoes in a high-pitched shriek, jumping back again with his hands in front of his face. “Say it ain’t so!”

Kyoko ignores this. “—broke through the ceiling, allowing a few of Junko’s associates to take her with them.” She takes a sharp breath in through her teeth. “Hina is dead. Byakuya is hurt and unconscious. Toko needs your help to—”

“Hina��s….” Hiro cuts her off, voice soft. “Hina’s dead?

There are a lot of things Kyoko could say in this moment. She could explain what happened in more, excruciating detail. She could say just how she found Hina after everything. She could mention that maybe, if she’d searched for Hina first, instead of focusing on the giant Monokuma and the people who’d came for Junko and Junko herself, she might have gotten to Hina in time to—

To what? She isn’t the Ultimate Nurse. Even if she’d gotten Hina out from under the fallen rubble faster, there was nothing she could have done. Nothing.

(Mikan was the Ultimate Nurse. Kyoko remembers that. She could have done something. But she wouldn’t.)

((This is wishful thinking, Kyoko. Mikan couldn’t have saved Hina. Not from that. No one could have. Hina was dead the moment she betrayed you.))

“Yes,” Kyoko says instead, with all the finality of saying it during the previous incarnation of the Game (A body has been—), only there’s no Blackened, no one to punish for Hina’s death. (It wasn’t a murder. Junko may have planned for all of this, but it wasn’t a—) She tucks her hair back behind one ear, brushes her fingers through the much shorter pieces that once held a braid before Jack cut it off (she should have the ribbon, and now that’s gone, too, because she’d never had the occasion to go back for it), and then brings her fingers back sticky with a bit of Hina’s blood. Her ears ring. “We need to get Byakuya out.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Hiro crosses his arms with a perplexed expression. “So, uh. Where were you?”

It’s just as they make the turn into the last tunnel that Kyoko remembers.

“The door to the future will open before then.” “About halfway, I’d say. Halfway through the story.” Her eyes widen.

“They’re just through there.” Kyoko gestures to the broken door at the end of the tunnel. There’s no need for a code anymore, which is good because Hiro is so overcome to be exploring the secret tunnels that she’s not sure he would remember it to get in. “Can you make it from here?”

Hiro pauses halfway to the door and turns back to her, blinking in confusion. “Yeah, but…but what are you doing?”

Kyoko doesn’t respond with any sort of chagrin, but there’s something of Junko in her when she says, “The same thing I do every time, Hiro.” She can’t quite complete the reference – she’s not the sort to try and take over the world, unlike some people she could name – but there’s something warm and almost comforting about saying it. Something that breaks her heart.

But she’s not thinking about that.

As she turns away, Kyoko hears Hiro behind her, “Yeah, but what is that?”

Honestly, sometimes there’s no helping people.

For all that a huge mecha Monokuma smashed through part of the school, the rest of it doesn’t seem too terribly damaged. It’s as though whoever designed the old building – or, at least, whoever created all of the hidden tunnels and passageways in the first place – wanted that particular room, meant for experimentation, segmented away from everything else. So Kyoko makes her way through the rest of the building back to the Data Processing Room, back to the Monokuma Room, and back down the hatch without any particular trouble.

And finds the mirai door – the future door – wide open.

Inside, Kyoko sees two people. One of them is a boy with fluffy white hair and a thick chain about his neck who she has never seen before, leaning into a chair with a curious, bemused expression on his face, his hand on his chin. She looks at him and senses nothing but discomfort. Of course, she does not dismiss him outright, but her gaze is drawn much faster, much stronger to the other, to the boy who is supposed to be dead.

“Makoto?”

He startles, having not noticed her entrance, and looks up at her, an awkward sort of smile crossing his face. “Kyokyo! I, uh. I didn’t die!” He bites his lower lip and scratches the back of his neck. “Sorry?”

Kyoko stares at him. Blinks. Tries to process.

There’s just so much. Too much. Happening all at once and all together.

Her brain short circuits.

“What…what did you call me?”

3 notes · View notes