#captivity cw

[adrift-in-thyme]

the tags for your three sentence ask game said ‘its wednesday so send words’ so maybe it’s only on wendesdays.. if so feel free to ignore this for a week.

anyway what about the word trade or trader?

I meant to answer this the day you sent it but it slipped my mind. I’ve been very scatter-brained lately. Sorry!!

“Who are you and what do you want with us?” Legend snaps, hardly bothering to pause in his desperate thrashing; Hyrule is mere inches away from his clawing talons, inches, and if he can just reach him maybe they will be alright.

But the net is thick and unwieldy and it entangles his fins with the sinister slice of a skulltula’s web; the harder he struggles, the deeper its serrated edges dig into him.

The woman standing tall above him watches with a quirked brow and disinterested gaze. “A trader,” she says, simply, “that is what I am. And that is all you need to know.”

[minayuri]

** from Dr. Mabuse, der Spieler by Norbert Jacques, Chapter 14 **

[minecraftfan11onscratch]

@whumpuary's Whumpuary 2024

Day 1-2: Captivity - Snow - Secret Revealed

Happy New Year! I accidentally made a banger! ^v^'

Anyhow, I'll essentially try to both draw and write for this event. Starting off with a bit of a personal headcanon-driven thingy for into Dreams.

[CWs: Captivity, implied feelings of claustrophobia, implied guilt and self-hatred] (note: feel free to point out if these need changing)

---

They should feel good, knowing that the Visitor with blue hair got his Ideyas back with their help, and had at least one more night to dream. Should feel good that the boy's next Nightopia, a wondrous snowland with a lively train passing by, could peacefully manifest. Feel good with the hope that perhaps, with the aid of this boy and the girl, true freedom could be in sight.

And yet, there was no way.

It was always while no Visitor or Nightopian was in sight, and/or her fellow Nightmarens were not paying attention. It was always then that staving boredom away by sharpening her acrobatic skills wasn't enough.

She knew the boy from the duo of Visitors who were proving themselves to be uniquely fabled was coming. Obviously, he was just taking the free fall to enter his dreams. She just wished he could come much sooner. If only so this... dread, of never being able to escape this prison of a gazebo could leave her alone. The fear of something terrible happening to the duo, with her being helpless to do anything.

Then again... would the duo ever help them again, if both of them knew that they were from the same kind that haunted their dreams?

The girl, on a surface level, took it well. But there was a sense of mistrust in her eyes that made the jester curse their own continued existence. The boy still remained oblivious - he finally arrived, rushing to meet the jester with a wide smile in spite of only his red Ideya remaining unscathed once again.

---

[jaeyleo]

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 7

YOU CHOSE: REACH OUT FOR CHASE- “Why did you make me do that?”

Your decisions leave Pink at the forefront of the mind. Chase tugs at the strings left behind, but your past obedience leaves him wondering if being dormant is safer. You’ve left your character confused, and searching for a guide.

cws: non human whumper, captive whumpee, brainwashing, dehumanization, whumpee forced to drink soap water, whumpee forced to drink whumpers blood, emesis, descriptions of emesis, descriptions of blood, descriptions of self made wound (just a small cut on the finger), implications of whumper bathing whumpee (platonic), delirium, hallucinations, sickness, descriptions of dismembered human body parts

Link to part six.

. . .

Chase is quiet for a few more moments, mindlessly scrubbing a plate with a soapy rag. He finds the strength to speak his mind.

“Why did you make me do that?”

Pseudo doesn’t stop washing his dish. Nothing about his countenance changes. “Make you do what?”

“W.. what you did in the cellar yesterday.”

“You chose to come downstairs with me, Pink. I didn’t make you do anything.”

Chase stops washing his dish, heart turning inside his chest. He feels like he should keep his mouth shut, like he should accept the truth, that Pseudo is always right, but something else tells him to speak up. He deserves to speak up.

“You could’ve just told me to go inside, I- I wasn’t in my right mind…! You hypnotized me!”

The monster rinses the soap from the plate, and sets it on the dish rack to dry.

“Watch your tone, pet,” he warns, grabbing a glass to wash next.

“But-“ Chase turns to look at Pseudo, bewilderment and hurt spreading from his brows to his breaking heart. How can he really be in this situation? How is this his life??

Inside his head, he feels a shift. Pink takes a step back, and in turn, Chase takes a step forward. The man cannot balance between the two for long, so he must shift to the weight of whoever is stronger in that moment. For the time being, Chase is allowed to take control.

“NO!” he yells. His entire body faces his monster now, and Pseudo gives him the courtesy of eye contact. “You had me hypnotized! I wasn’t in my right mind to make a decision- you never let me make a decision, and the first time I’m allowed to in months is when I was in a state so mentally fucked that I couldn’t even put two and two together that I was helping you lead an innocent man to the cellar! And instead of telling me to go inside and wait for you, you let me walk down those stairs and sit through three! Fucking! Hours! Of torture! You made me stay because I can’t fucking think on my own when I’m in that state, you- why can’t you just answer me!! Why did you make me do that!!?”

At his last two words, Chase slams the plate and soapy rag against the ground. Glass flies across the kitchen floor, and water splatters and puddles at their feet. Pseudo stares at the mess, and slowly rakes his eyes up the body of his captive puppet. When their eyes meet, Chase knows he’s gone too far. There’s no going back now.

“Pick it up.” says Pseudo.

Chase is motionless. Every inch of his body screams to obey, but he must stand his ground. He’s waited too long to be heard like this.

“Pick. It. Up.”

While he cannot muster the courage to say it, an unspoken “no” lays between the two bodies. Chase’s breath is at a stand- still, and his disobedience comes with his frozen body.

Pseudo turns his attention to the sink again, filling the glass about half way up while the remaining space is taken up by soap bubbles from the rag. Once full, he sets the glass on the counter.

“Statue, Pink.”

And against his will, Chase is left without the ability to move.

“I’m not sure where this little outburst came from,” the monster crouches to roll up the legs of Chase's pants, just above his knees. “But I wont tolerate it.”

He stands back up, placing both hands on Chase’s shoulders. With a hearty shove, the puppet’s bare knees come colliding with shards of glass. He hollers as the pain of it shoots up to his hips, and his blood doesn’t hesitate to taste the sweet freedom of air outside the skin. He wants nothing more than to fall to his side and rip the glass out, but he must stay still.

Pseudo presents the glass of soap water Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”

Chase clamps his jaw down, eyes wandering up to meet his monster’s. He shakes his head. How stupid.

“Aww,” Pseudo coos. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”

The monster shifts his hand so his pointer finger is above the liquid. Then, he reaches to the set of knives placed nearby and cuts a small knick in his finger. Thick black poison drips into the glass, eating the soap bubbles like candy as it passes through. The water turns to look like a cloudy sky, ready to tear apart whatever it comes into contact with.

Chase’s jaw tightens up further. Pseudo's blood is a thick and awful poison, not meant for human consumption. Even a few drops can make him sick for days on end. The monster lets five globs hit the drink before bringing the wound to his mouth, licking the blood clean. What remains drips down the side of the cup.

“If I have to say it again-“ Pseudo starts to chuckle, amused and annoyed at the puppet’s resilience. “I’ll make you drink your vomit, too.”

“I—,” Chase whines, shame heating up his face. “I’m sorry, I-“

“Stop it.”

Pseudo pushes the glass to Chase’s lips, tilting up his chin with his other hand. In turn, he tilts his own head downward, reinforcing a stronger path of eye contact. He waits, giving the toy a chance to redeem his disobedience.

Chase turns his attention to the cloudy mess inside the glass. There's no point in fighting. There never was.

The water is warm when it enters his mouth.

A sour sting takes up every space it can. His face scrunches up in disgust, and a pathetic little noise escapes his throat before being drowned by the dirty water. Once the soap has passed and the blood reaches his tongue, he recoils, but Pseudo is quick to catch him. The hand on the puppet’s chin darts to grip his hair instead, forcing him to keep contact with the glass. It stings his tongue and makes his teeth rattle and chatter, while everything inside him screams to spit it out.

Gulp after shivering gulp, the contents of the glass are emptied. Pseudo sets it in the sink and covers the toy’s mouth with his hand. Trembling, Chase forces himself to swallow the ick, and his monster sets him free.

With no water to wash it down, it’s a heavy thing burrowing down his throat, like a slug squirming its way through his esophagus. Chase gags, slamming his head into Pseudo’s thigh and curling his fingers into his pant leg.

“I’m sorry,” he pleads, tears burning his eyes. He can feel the blood almost eating him inside. Fire ants. “I’m stupid and clueless and you know what’s best, you didn’t m- mm- make me do anything, anything, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry..!”

Pseudo reaches a hand to pet his toys hair, hearing glass crunch under its knees as its weight shifts back and forth. “You’re only sorry because I punished you,” he says cooly. “I know you, Pink.”

The man gags again, feeling his stomach bubble and churn with the poisonous blood. He buries his face inside his monster’s leg, regretting every decision he made in the past ten minutes. He is a weak, pathetic puppet, and he needs to start acting like one.

“I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I’m sorry, I’m-“

Chase gags once more, feeling bile rise up into his chest. Instinctively he covers his mouth, shaking as he feels his insides writhe.

“Sorry?” Pseudo finishes for him.

Pink opens his mouth to respond, but pukes into his hand instead.

The monster watches the mess grow and grow, vomit now covering his socks and pant leg. He does nothing to comfort the doll, instead leaving him to heave and choke on his own. Glass has wormed its way deep inside his knees, and now, on all fours, it has made a home inside Chase’s palms as well.

Once his breakfast and punishments are painted across the ground, Pseudo perches on the balls of his feet as he crouches to get a better look at his puppet. He takes the doll’s chin in his hand once more, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“Pick it up.”

The monster lingers in his gaze for a moment, making sure the command is understood, before letting go to change his own clothes. He takes off his soiled socks before stepping into the other room, leaving his puppet to obey in solitude. Perhaps some time alone will help him think about what he did.

. . .

Staring at the mess in front of himself, Chase can’t help but vomit even more. He is a shaking, disgusting mess by the time he’s just dry heaving, and he cries like a child while he tears glass from his bloody knees and hands. His composure is yet to come, but there is no room to wallow and feel sorry for himself. He must do as he’s told, and prove to Pseudo that he deserves no more than what he’s already been given.

Chase takes a deep breath. His body shakes and his teeth chatter again, and he wants nothing more than to lay down on the cold and dirty floor. Sick, sick, sick, he feels. Stupid, puppet, stupid, he knows. He pushes himself up, leaving a dotting trail of blood as he drags the trash can to the mess.

He mops the sick up first, with the rag he tossed carelessly on the floor. Glass is next, threatening his already bloodied hands with sharp edges. He tries to use the rag to keep the smaller shapes from entering his skin, but he can feel the larger ones poking through.

Finally, he uses the clean rag on the counter to get rid of any germs left over. The hot water and soap burn the cuts in his hands, but he has to ignore it.

Another trail of blood follows him as he sweeps the floor. He is clumsy, miserable, sick. His vision blurs and his insides churn, but he hasn’t the strength to let anything come up again. Chase sweeps up as much as he can, before mopping up his blood to finish everything off.

He feels feverish. Sick, sick, sick, sick sick sick sick sick.

Blood clots begin to dry on his skin, stinging in the cool air of the cottage. He lies down on the floor, and although he freezes in the cold, he sweats as though overcome with heatstroke. Chase whimpers like a kicked puppy, waiting for his master to return to the kitchen. He holds his stomach with one arm and his shoulder with the other.

Minutes tick by. The puppet’s eyes close.

Sick, sick, stupid, sick.

. . .

Chase wakes up on the couch, wrapped warm in a heavy blanket. His hair is damp and his entire body feels soft and clean, smelling of vanilla and shea butter. There are bandages on his knees and hands, and Pseudo sits in the chair across from him, reading silently. Chase blinks and squints his eyes, trying desperately to clear the blurs and occasional black splotches in his vision. He sits up-

And falls right back down.

His head swims and he feels a nausea from hell bubble up inside him. Flies and slugs and fire ants swarm inside his stomach, and his whole body cries out in aching bones and wailing muscles. He feels like a popsicle left on the porch in August heat. Cold and melting at the same time.

He groaaaaannnnnss, covering his face with clammy hands. “Pseudooo,” he tries. “Pseudo..”

“Yes, dolly,” replies his monster.

Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

The toy takes his hands away from his face. His shoulders creak and whine, or maybe those noises came from his throat. He can’t quite tell.

“Mhm… you still have to help me in the garden.”

Chase rocks his head to one side, feeling his brain turn a mushy, uncooked pancake. Perhaps shaking his head no is not an option.

“I caaaaaaan’t,” he whines, like a child at the doctor’s. “I can’t, I can’t, I feel sick-“

Pseudo clicks his tongue three times before closing his book. He sets it to the side, stands, and grabs at Chase’s blanket.

“Come now,” he croons. “Up we go.”

Somewhere, he feels it, Chase is lifted up to stand. His body is ten miles behind his head, or maybe his head is ten miles behind his body? He can’t see straight. Sick sick sick, Chase’s stomach threatens violence in the form of a dry heave.

“Please, Pseudo, c- can I lay back down?” He practically hangs off the monster as they walk through the house to the back door.

“Not yet, Pink. Pick up your feet..”

. . .

When they reach the outside, Chase is quick to sit down. He slouches like an old stuffed toy, with his body hanging pathetically over the dirt. Gardening gloves and a sun hat wear him with pride, happy to be placed on such a sick little thing like him.

“Awfully stupid this one,” the sun hat whispers. Her voice is higher pitched and soft, like a bird. “Haven’t you learned by now? Stupid, stupid puppet.”

The gardening gloves giggle.

“Stupid stupid puppet!!” their voice hollers, wiggling sounds sprouting from his fingertips. Their voice is smooth and slimy like worms. “He deserves this, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” Chase answers, before the sun hat can.

“Yes, what?” says Pseudo, confused. He has a small bag in his hand. It looks like crushed up candy.

“Yes, Pseudo,” Chase replies, though it’s something automatic. He isn’t sure Pseudo has said a word yet, as it would be rude to interrupt the hat and the gloves. Pseudo isn’t rude.

“Idiot, puppet,” the gloves hiss.

The sun hat spits at his shoulder. “Are you even paying attention?”

“Im trying..” Chase rubs at his eyes. Pseudo takes his hands and places the bag of candy inside.

“Spread it across the dirt,” he says, and picks up a bundle of lollipops.

For a moment, the toy thinks its rather odd to spread candies and lollipops across the garden. But he’s learned his lesson on questioning his monster’s authority. The sun hat and gloves approve, whispering sweet praises as he tosses the candy about.

“Ask him what kind of candy it is,” the sun hat requests, and Chase obliges.

“Pseudo? What kind of candy is this?”

“That’s blood meal, Pink.”

“Oh…. Then what kind of candy is that?” He points at the lollipops in his monster’s hands.

“These are Richie’s fingers.”

“Oh.”

Pseudo worms the fingers deep inside the dirt, and plants seeds right above where they lay. Several vegetables and fruits display a proud selection of food across the entire garden, whispering old screams of those lost inside the soil. Richie should be pleased to sprout zucchini.

“Pseudo?”

“Yes, dolly?”

But Chase does not respond. He mutters the name over and over under his breath, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, and nothing more. The sun hat and gardening gloves enjoy singing along.

Chase sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He rests his chin in his hand, yawning.

“Sleepy?”

When the puppet opens his eyes, he finds himself in the kitchen. He is set in his place at the table, with no hat and no gloves to whisper in his ears.

“Hhh-“ Chase sits up, fumbling for his senses. When did they come inside? What time is it?

“How did I get in here??” the puppet asks. His stomach growls, but not with hunger.

“You walked inside,” says Pseudo. He cuts the crusts off a turkey sandwich and pours a glass of homemade strawberry lemonade.

“I don’t remember…”

The monster carries the dishes to the doll, setting them in front of him. The sandwich has tomatoes and lettuce from the garden. The drink has strawberries and lemons from the garden. The garden has victims from the cellar. Chase begins to wonder how many people he has indirectly eaten.

He stares at the glass, watching ice cubes bathe themselves in pink.

“Here, drink,” says Pseudo, presenting the glass to his lips. “I know you’re thirsty.”

The puppet hesitates, but obeys.

Sugary sweet and delicious and cool. The lemonade is easy to drink, sour in the good way. Not the soap way.

He keeps drinking until he feels something warmer and softer than ice hit his top lip. Did Pseudo put fresh strawberries in it?

The puppet opens his eyes to look, and sees one staring right back at him.

“AHG!”

Chase spits the lemonade across the table, shoving the glass as far away from himself as he can. The drink comes pouring onto the sandwich, and the lettuce screams and cries as it is forced into a cold shower.

“Thats cold!!”

“Eye, eye, eye!!!” Chase cries, standing from his chair. Tears stream down his cheeks, stinging his eyes and blurring his sight. He falls dizzy back into his seat.

“You what, Pink?” Pseudo asks, setting the glass on the table in a puddle. He reaches one hand to gently push at the puppet’s arm, watching it struggle to regain its balance.

“Noo, eye!!” Chase points at his own, hyperventilating. His mind is spinning. He vaguely remembers helping Pseudo plant eyeballs in the dirt last year, beneath strawberry seeds. He wasn’t Pink when it happened, he was Chase.

“Oho,” Pseudo chuckles. “Yes, eye. Nowww I’ve got it.”

“I can’t drink that!! I won’t!! I c-“ Chase covers his mouth, screaming into his hands. He rocks softly forward, side, backward, side again, unable to collect a stable posture.

“Shhh,” Pseudo hushes. He tries to pry Chase’s hands away from his face, but they are glued to where they sit.

“Hey, heyyyyy, it’s okay, look at me, Pink..”

Chase shakes his head. He can feel other memories tugging at his mind, but he’s terrified to open those doors. Part of him pleads to keep them shut, to listen to Pseudo’s words and sink back down into the comfort of Pink. Part of him claws at the handles- he’ll wretch those memories from underneath the doors if he has to.

[sparksinthenight]

K but like I’m 80% sure Vei has an underage girl in his basement

[bwtsims]

Pick ‘N Choose June: Dark Alien

[whump-in-the-closet]

The light fades from a characters eyes in five stages

Denial. This isn’t real. You want me on my knees? I mean, if you ask nicely.

No, I’m not apologizing, I didn’t do anything wrong—

Forced to their knees anyway.

Anger. Snapping at the hands that tie them down.

Resist. Resist. Resist. This isn’t right.

Blood on the floor, iron-bitter blood in their mouth, knocked to the floor. Up again. Back down.

Fuck you, you’d have to kill me to shut me up—

Bargaining. If I lick your boots will you give me my clothes back?

If I stay still, can I please sleep tonight?

Please?

They just have to stay strong. Stay alive. Until their friends come.

— god, that’s too far— you can’t make me— anything else? I’ll do anything—

Funny, they thought they had a say in their choices.

Depression.

….

….

They aren’t coming

….

….

No more screaming.

The guards realize they can get away with a lot more when they’re dealing with the quiet prisoner.

Doesn’t matter.

Acceptance. Whatever you say. Sir.

They never had a choice to begin with. Fated to fall from the moment it started. The only thing they could control was how long it took.

It took a while.

But now?

Yes, sir. Immediate.

[thunderpot]

Another one I should've posted here before! These are the full versions of all 4 captive prince fanjackets I did over a period of a couple months (the alt text serves double duty for these, since describing the pics spills out my symbolic reasonings for the covers).

This was a project so dear to me and I hope you enjoy!

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2024 Day 26: Breakfast Table

To survive for the cause.

---

Something like briefest thought? on dying for your cause vs. continuing to live to desperately see it through yourself.

[vintagewildlife]

Mulberry silkmoths mating By: Fredric L. Frye From: Captive Invertebrates 1992

[contamination-zone]

Giving him a little kissy on the forehead :-]

[the-dye-stained-socialite]

The Regent of Hats Hearts, or Favoured in Two Courts, or Is and Is-Not

A piece of my OC Elias Leroux, the Regent of London, and Bride of the Red-Handed Queen.

Based on the official Marvellous deck of which i shall someday aquire a Violant copy

Happy four years, Elias! 🎉

[ladybyakuya]

| JAZZ & JASMINE + SYLUS. 

+cw. — fem!(captive)reader, fluff, teasing, humor, sexual tension, highly suggestive.

+wc. — 0.6k 

+syn.— sylus makes an attempt to soothe you in his own way as your suffer from a nightmare.

+notes. —sorry but his flirt game is so bad that it makes me cry. thnaks to sam ( @hayatoseyepatch ) for beta reading this piece. | redirect to blog navigation.

You have been tossing and turning in bed yet Sylus made sure not to keep up the pin-drop silence you needed to rest, to get used to your surroundings. Sometimes it is amusing given how sensitive you are to him but apparently, not now. 

You wake up in a frenzy feeling the thumping of your heart inside your ears, eyes wide open like it has not slept for a while. The first thing you see is Sylus hovering above you. “Get off me,” you try to swat him away but he does not move a bit but the back of his fingers tilts his face under the influence.  “What did you do now?” You ask but all you receive is a raise of one of his eyebrows.

“Relax.” He walks around the bed. Your eyes follow him as he halts, one of his hands still tucked behind his back. Is he hiding something? He is standing at the foot of the bed, now with both of his arms neatly tucked behind his back. You scoot away towards the head side. It puts a smile on his face. There you are, as lively as ever. Not a moment passes by when you are not scared of him or resisting him. He walks around the bed stilling as he comes near the bedside table. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.” Sylus finally reveals what he is holding behind his back “Here.”

Eyes embedded with ruby-like pupils grew linear as you posed a question while staring at the bouquet of Jasmine. “You got me flowers?” You lean a little closer as he holds the bouquet. No. It doesn’t smell suspicious. It smells like Jasmine indeed. 

“Why you don’t like it?” You raise your eyes at him, lips forming a pout. Your attention falls on his pecs and muscles. He is in his night robe which means either he was sleeping or working. He grows impatient as you do not take the bouquet away from his hands so he keeps it in the water-filled vase.

“Why’re you awake?”  you ask so many questions. Ever heard of, “Curiosity killed the cat.”

Sylus looks at you, inspecting, and then jocks down in a flash almost closing the gap between you and him. “You see, his fisted hands rest on the mattress of the bed creating dips, I’m a creature of the night.” Is he even wearing anything underneath that loosely tied robe?

You lean closer. “Like a vampire or something ?” You whisper lest if someone hears.

His eyes trail off to your slightly parted lips while he wets his bottom lip. “Wanna find out? I could be something deadlier. . . ” Sylus notices as you swallow. Why are you so afraid of him? What did he ever do to you, huh?

“Good God.I’m just teasing. Relax.”He moves away from you turning around and pressing the bridge of his nose. This is not going anywhere. But you beg to differ.

“You’re going to sleep?” Sylus turns his head towards you and seeing you sitting at the edge of the bed surprises him, gives him a little hope so he follows it.

“Oh, how can I when someone else has occupied my bed.” Aah! perhaps not that fast.

“Like it's my fault as you lose your sleep,” you tartly reply looking away. Apparently, you are but he will get to that later.

He lets out a chuckle and sits on the lounge chair nearby crossing his legs. You are forced to rake your eyes away because you are sure that he is not wearing anything else except that night robe. “I’m not going anywhere. Go to sleep.” He takes the book and his specs from his reading table.

Like hell, you can now.  

[whump-in-the-closet]

Whump prompt idea!! (If your open to writing it)

whumpee just gets so scared of whumper they pass out. Just the idea of their body shutting down, not even able to handle it anymore psychological. Whumper finding it amusing how whumpee has gotten to the point of passing out due to fear.

mmm I love this. Whumpees body literally going into a freeze state is good shit 10/10

Whumpee has never been very brave to begin with. They’ve never liked conflict, or discomfort, or dealt well with pain.

However they are very good at pacification; they’ve been described as charming, having a silver- tongue, or as whumper calls them “a lying little shit”

But once the knives are out, whumpee goes silent. Slack-jaw in horror. No no no no. Their voice is dead in their throat.

Worse is the hammer. The shock collar is pretty bad too.

“Aren’t you going to sing for me?”

Whumpee tries to salvage the situation (their dignity) “why don’t we talk this out? I promise I won’t sue you, you’ll be safe if I’m safe.” They’re lying, they’re lying, they’re lying, they’ll come after whumper with the best fucking lawyers in the city.

But Whumper won’t stop. They keep going. Whumpee reached their breaking point when they were twelve and their dad yelled at them for not mowing the lawn. What Whumper’s doing? They can’t deal with it.

The panic attacks get worse. If they hear Whumper’s footsteps, they start crying. A reflex, they can’t control it. They’re so scared, they can’t think straight.

Whumper has a god awful grin. “I’m having a blast, what’re you crying about?”

There comes a point, after they lose their finger to Whumper’s knife, when they black out when they see them.

Whumper loves it. They don’t have to do a thing and their captive will slump forward, eyes glazing. It’ll last for a minute before Whumper slaps them awake, or grabs their hair and twists

“Wake up, sleeping beauty”

Whumpee is shaking, voice hoarse. “Please— please no—“ they much prefer the aching nothingness.

[redd956]

Characters Holding Each Other In Whump

This is my demand to see more characters holding each other in whump, but also my opportunity to go on about characters holding each other in whump.

I need more of it, it's so warm, and great when it's characters dependent and safe to one another. Or it's creepy and harrowing when it's between whumper and anything.

I need more of

Caretaker finally reaching whumpee, and pulling them to their chest. Now that they are within each other's arms Caretaker is not letting go.

Multiple whumpees who cannot see each other directly, but hear their voices and reach their hands just far enough to feel each other's touch. Maybe they're reaching out between cell bars, perhaps there's a hole in the walls of an enclosure, or an open slot to a lab. Either way, they've found a hand to hold.

A distraught whumpee crawling over to their only friend, and waiting to be pulled into someone's lap.

When a known threat (whumper) approaches and a protective character pulls another into their grasp to shield them.

Two shivering characters latched onto each other, removing as much space between themselves as possible. After all, what if someone separates them again?

Whumper holding whumpee from behind, swaying them back and forth, listening to the subtle sounds of fright.

Two words: Bridal Carry. Whumpee nuzzling their face into caretaker's chest for bonus points. For extra bonus points, latching onto to caretaker's clothing despite being carried.

Whumpee trying to escape from a whumper they've pummeled thoroughly, only for the half-conscious whumper to grab whumpee one last time. Is it a pleading? A don't go? Or just a final act of terror?

Caretaker sitting on the bed next to a whumpee, and bringing them into their grasp as they whimper.

[howlsofbloodhounds]

I think Color is a very good storyteller and making stories up on the spot. This what he and Gaster often did to try and stay sane in the Void, and keep their minds active.

They also tried to retell past memories, to try and remember who they are and not forget, but it got harder with time; details kept getting changed and forgotten, and these moments often made Color’s paranoia worse—and of course he’d lash out and take out on Gaster.