#death wish tw

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Hand in Hand (part eight)

@whumptober Alt. 12: Broken

cw: broken bones (didn't see that coming did you :) ), death mention, deathwish

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~ ~ ~

He's on the verge of sleep when he hears noise outside the room; shuffling, muted voices, the click of the lock.

It's time to act.

Dan knows nothing is optimal about the situation; he'll be outnumbered for sure, and even if he wasn't, he'd already be at a significant disadvantage from his physical condition. Surprise is the only tool he has, and once he uses it, he knows he can't hesitate. It's all or nothing. Escape now, or die trying. Better that than this unlife Swift has him trapped in.

He'll wait for them to unlock his restraints, of course. He'll probably even let them get a good distance down the hall, let them sink into the complacency of routine, then he'll make his gambit. If there's only two guards this time, he stands a fighting chance. Hell, even with three, he might just be desperate enough to pull it off. And if he fails... if he fails, he can only hope that she doesn't let Wes suffer for it for long.

Dan closes his eyes, breathing slow and quiet as the door swings open. If he feigns sleep, will they be put more at ease?

"Good afternoon, Mr. Melchior."

His eyes fly open, and he turns his head fast enough that his previously-subdued headache flares back to life, making him wince.

The guards are here, but they aren't alone. Mercury Swift is at their side, smiling down at him.

A sick feeling begins to coil in his stomach, his body sensing a wrongness before his mind can catch up. It's okay, he tells himself. Don't panic. Let her say her piece and save the plan for next time.

But what is her piece? She's never come directly to his room like this, he's always been brought to her. Is she here to make threats? Tell him how she'll be puppeting him at the next meeting?

"Is it already afternoon?" he replies, the words scraping against his throat as they leave it. He doesn't care.

"Ah, forgive me. It must be difficult to tell the time from in here."

"What do you want?" He's too tired to carry the banter for long. He just wants her to spit it out and leave him alone.

To his surprise, she doesn't chastise him for being impolite. "Straight to the point, then." Her smile widens. "I've been doing some thinking these last few days."

Dan's heartbeat is speeding up, thrumming in his chest. He tries to ignore it.

"Since your little... escape stunt, I've realized it's not possible to be too careful."

Breathe. Keep breathing.

Swift turns to one of the guards. "Alright, send him in."

The Riot King leaves, and Dan's chest tightens. Him. Wes? Is she about to force him to watch another fucking demonstration?

But when the door swings back open, it's just another guard, this one holding a heavy metal pipe. His stomach drops.

"Right leg, I think," Swift says to him, then sits back and watches Dan pull uselessly at his chains as the man and the weapon close in on him.

"No..." He needs to think, needs to find a way out of this. "Swift, please," he gulps down air, mind frantic for any words that might sway her. "You've already punished me for the escape, th-this isn't necessary--"

"It isn't a punishment, it's security," she murmurs, sounding disinterested.

"What about the meetings?" he tries. The man reaches the bed. "What will your allies think?"

"You don't need to walk to be useful to me," Swift says. "And is a broken leg really so uncommon?"

The pipe raises, and Dan isn't sure if it's the Riot King holding it that's dragging out the moment, or his own panic. Any plans he has, any hope of making it out, will shatter with the bone. Forget fighting, how will he walk? How will he carry Wes?

"Please!" he cries, jerking on the chains, causing nothing but a sharp clink. "Please, don't do this, I won't do it again, I swear--"

"It's your leg or your friend's," Swift replies. "Make your choice."

The obvious choice is Wes. If Wes can't walk, that's fine. Dan can take care of him. If Dan can't walk, they're both doomed. But even as he opens his mouth, he can't say it.

Spare me. Hurt him instead. Break his leg, make him scream and tell him it's because of me.

He can't. His body is recoiling more from the thought of that than the thought of being hurt.

He can't be responsible for any more of Wes's pain.

He inhales shakily. "No. Don't hurt him."

"That's what I thought."

Dan closes his eyes.

He hears it before he feels it. A brief whoosh as the pipe cuts the air, followed by a sharp sound that's more crunch than crack.

At first, the pain is surreal. A distant, impossible explosion, so bright it hurts his eyes. The air in his lungs freezes, the air in his throat chokes him, and for a moment he can't even scream. His leg, just below his knee, is engulfed in something jagged and inescapable, like someone is taking a cheese grater to the bone.

He barely feels himself being unchained, trying to hold as still as possible to avoid making his leg any worse, and when a hand closes around his wrist, yanking him off the bed, he doesn't even think to fight it.

His now-broken leg is the first thing to hit the ground, and Dan screams, crumpling into a heap. He bangs his head on the bedframe in his haste to take weight off the limb, but he doesn't feel it. Hands catch hold of him from either side, hoisting him back up, and even though he's careful not to let his bad leg touch the ground, the pain is almost enough to steal his consciousness.

He wishes it would.

The guards start walking, dragging him with them, and every little shift is enough to make him cry out. Every bit of strength that remains in him is devoted to keeping the bad leg off the ground, no room left for wondering where they're taking him, wondering what comes next.

Somehow, there's still room for fear. Not the overthinking, frantic planning Dan's used to, but a blind, pain-driven panic.

The movement suddenly stops, and then he's being shoved forward, into colder air, onto rough concrete. The impact with the ground goes right to the shattered bone, sending a sharp wave of nausea through him, and for a long while he can do nothing but lie as still as possible and gasp for air.

He doesn't know how long it takes for his body to get used to the worst of the pain, his consciousness finally pulling back its focus from his leg as it accepts this as his new state.

He's in the cell. Subconsciously, he already knew that, but now that he's actually aware of it, he lifts his head, eyes sweeping the dim room until they land on Wes. The other man is curled up tightly, with his back to Dan. His ribcage is heavily bruised, his skin layered with unhealed welts. Every breath must be agony, but he is still breathing. Still alive. Dan isn't sure if that's a mercy anymore.

He inches towards Wes, pulling on the concrete with his hands, pushing off with his good leg. The movement, however slow, is excruciating, grating against the fragmented bone like the teeth of a predator, but he keeps going, breathing through tightly clenched teeth, not trying to stop the tears from pouring down his face.

This might be it. This might be the last of the time he has with Wes, and he isn't about to waste it. Inch by inch, foot by foot, Dan drags himself across the cell floor, the pain in his leg building to a howl long before he reaches his friend.

But he does reach him. Shuddering, panting, crying, but he's there.

"Wes..?" He reaches out, carefully lays a trembling hand on his shoulder. There's no indication that Wes is conscious, but his bare skin is cold, so Dan shifts again, wincing through the movement, until he's tucked up behind him, chest to back, one arm draped carefully over his side. His leg is throbbing, but Dan holds as still as he can, not wanting to agitate the wounds on Wes's back, the ones he caused.

Fuck, how did things get this bad?

How could his own men hate him enough to let them both suffer like this? How could Swift be so cruel? How could he be stupid enough to let it happen, to let Wes drag himself into it, to not escape when he had the chance? How?

He's truly lost all control. The plan he'd had was a last resort brought on by desperation, but it was still his, it was still something he could've done, even if it was destined to fail.

Now there's nothing he can do. He's whatever Swift wants him to be, and if he isn't, she has no trouble breaking him apart until he's the perfect puzzle piece. He can do nothing---

He could kill Wes.

The one kindness he has the power to grant. He could kill Wes, and ensure Mercury can't drag this out any longer.

He could, but he can't, he knows he can't. He knows Wes will die either way, but he's still not strong enough to at least make it as painless as possible.

"I'm sorry," he mumbles.

"D...an?" the voice is quiet and broken and small.

"I'm here," he says, trying to keep his own voice steady. "I... I can move though, if y-you want."

"Stay. Please."

Dan doesn't need to be told twice. He inches closer still, pressing his face into Wes's neck, wanting to say I'm sorry again, because it's hard to think of anything else when everything hurts and they're both going to die here.

But he doesn't. Instead, Dan holds Wes close.

"It'll be okay," he lies. "We'll be okay."

@kira-the-whump-enthusiast @kixngiggles @shywhumpauthor @whumpsday

~ ~ ~

[whumpwillow]

Hii I was reading some of the royal whump asks you answered and got inspired lol I hope you like it <3

“You will die here,” Assassin promised, their grin turning up at the edges, like paper curling in a fire, “And no one but me will know the truth.”

Whumpee summoned up all the energy they could muster and looked up at Assassin, still digging their hands into the rug to try and maintain balance.

“O- uh-“ Okay, Whumpee has wanted to say, but their mouth wasn’t cooperating, still numb from whatever Whumper had drugged them with.

“No one here to save you, princess.” Assassin laughed, and effortlessly pushed Whumpee back down with a foot to their shoulder. Whumpee grunted as they hit the floor hard - even with the rug, it wasn’t forgiving against their weakened body. “Can’t go crying to your daddy. You’ve lost.”

Whumpee glared at Assassin, at their stupid smug face that was beginning to appear slightly blurry…

“Admit it.” Assassin hissed, squinting at them, “That I have defeated you.”

Whumpee blinked blearily, fighting against the tiredness threatening to pull them under. They’d been told such scary stories about death, that it snatched the hopes and dreams of all living people. But that simply wasn’t true. Death was a whisper, a soft breath against he back of their neck telling them to fall back and that it would all be alright. No one ever said things like that to him, positive things, and meant it. ‘You’ll be fine’ was always code for fuck this up and you are dead meat. And now it didn’t matter. They could fuck it up - they wanted to - and no one would give a shit. They could let death take them and no one would bother them.

“W-what good-“ they coughed, “Would tha-that do.”

Assassin’s victorious grin darkened, and Whumpee could see their jaw clenching, like a predictor zoning in on its target.

“It would do me some good.” They smiled, “And I’d leave you alone in your pathetic final moments.”

Whumpee would’ve laughed at this, had they had the energy. Now everything felt fuzzy.

“Never.” They whispered, down to their last breath. “You will n-never win.”

yo this slaps

[ormspryde]

Time to rest

[distinctlywhumpthing]

two truth serum questions for aiden bby, curious what he’ll say vs. think:

do you remember your ‚past-you‘ and if yes, what do you miss about him?

if you could design a day for yourself, full control of everything, what would you do?

Unintentional 20

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As always, beta-read by @alittlewhump <3

CW: BBU, institutionalized slavery, dehumanization. Explicit language. Trauma. Surgical/medical whump/experimentation. Emeto/vomiting. Wanting death to end torture. Drugging mention.

He had the length of two squeaking strides after whatever door slam or key jangle had woken him before Harrison slapped him across the face. “Wake up.” 

“Fuck off,” he growled. “You don’t need me conscious for your depraved game of operation.”

“I miss the delightful company, even if you are at your best drooling all over yourself.” 

He opened his eyes to glare at Harrison, ignoring the uptick of the heart monitor, but he wasn’t in his line of sight. Turning his head to look was out of the question with the head frame on. The anchor points had only just stopped hurting. There was a lot of space behind where he lay strapped to the table in the middle of the room anyway. The clang of surgical steel was unmistakable though. 

Inhale, exhale, smooth and steady. The monitor slowed its alarm and he tried to keep himself calm while waiting.

Harrison was never quiet for very long anyway. “We’re placing the electrodes today.” 

So much for controlling his pulse. “What? I thought—”

“I can’t lose a day just for the Drip. We’ll do it at the same time.” Harrison was at his side now, adding another bag to the IV pole. The lines clacked lightly as they were rattled, movement echoed in whispered tugs to the needle inserted beneath his collarbone. 

He curled his hands into fists. The restraints became too tight around his tensed muscles, edges suddenly harsher against his skin. “Let me guess, mad scientist extra credit activities aren’t getting you onto honor roll like you wanted?”

“I’d show you my grades but…” Harrison didn’t even look to see if he’d forced a reaction, just went on tying a band above his elbow, another needle in hand for the Drip. 

Tiny prick and a beat later cool liquid ran into his bloodstream. He doubled down. “It’s not about impressing the teachers with your grades though. You want to be fucking valedictorian and stand up in front of everyone else so they know you’re smarter, you’re better.” 

“You’re certainly no expert. Don’t worry, I’m sure you didn’t miss much at your high school graduation.”

He grit his teeth. “Do they tease you? I bet they tease everyone, it’s just what they do. They’re all idiots. But you know it’s different when it’s aimed at you.” 

Harrison met his eyes. “What exactly happened with the last friendship you had? Sweet Mira, was it?”

The air left his lungs but he sucked in a breath and kept pushing. “You’ve never been one of them, have you? And that’s why you’re down here every day with me, trying to prove something. But you know what? They will never see you, they’ll never accept you for who you really are. You’re not one of them and you never will be.”

There was a clang beside him, just beyond his line of vision. Instruments being fumbled. “That’s enough.”

He smirked. “You’re—”

“Do you want to find out what it’s like to have a scalpel as an eleventh fucking finger?” Harrison stepped into view holding one up, face and tone as stoic as ever. 

He swallowed.

Harrison raised his eyebrows.

“No, doctor.” 

“Enough then.” 

“Yes, doctor.” 

Harrison nodded absently before returning to the preparations outside his field of vision. 

His palms were damp as he curled his hands back into fists. One was weaker than the other, arm full of WRU’s proprietary cocktail. God, fuck he could feel it starting. This was the fourth—fifth?—time, and each one brought a fresh dimension of suffering. Like there wasn’t actually anything formulaic at all about what went into that blue liquid. For all he knew, there could be another lab even deeper than this one where someone even more depraved than Harrison was just tossing together random combinations of chemicals for shits and giggles. 

Harrison had rambled his ‘best theory’ off one time, in a monologue that had clearly been designed to impress an audience more coveted than his surgical guinea pig. A bit of something toxic but not lethal, just to do some baseline damage; a bunch of -aites and -ines; definitely something that made you a little high but not high enough that it could ever be mistaken for a pleasant trip. 

The first time had been unyielding as it blacked out everything he had, everything he was. Condensing it into a nothingness with enough weight and mass to become his new center of gravity. It was drowning in frigid, oppressive, infinite water and being hung out to dry in aching, blinding heat. It was having everything at once with absolutely no control. 

He had no memory of the second time, when they’d brought him back. It had been before Harrison intervened, he thought. There’d been less than two years to eradicate instead of seventeen and he hadn’t even noticed. 

Not until the third time. That was when the reliability—or was it validity maybe…

God, he could remember the stupid yellow index card he’d written in eleventh grade to differentiate the two before an exam. 

Instead of giving Harrison another clean slate, it drew things out. He’d cried the entire time. It was like each fragment of memory had to be peeled from whatever inanimate, lifeless form it had been reduced to. Except somehow it was his brain being scraped against a cheese grater. Each little shaving of his former self painfully extracted.

Except he’d never be able to make that comparison work, in any reality where the stupid Drip didn’t fucking work like it was supposed to. Not since the time that Harrison had taken him by the wrist. Sanitized his hand so that his raw cuticles stung. Brought his fingertips to prod his own parietal lobe.

And he’d thought it was weird that some of his friends had to touch their eyes every day to put contacts in.

He’d vomited and passed out.

Woke up to Harrison still puppeteering his index finger to trace the oblong circle of the craniotomy. His stomach had been empty that time but it had tried its damndest. If you think this is bad, we should see how you do holding your own intestines. He’d bit straight through the inside of his right cheek that day but he’d managed to stay quiet until Harrison was finished. 

Anyway, that third time on the Drip, it was clearly not right. Within the first ten minutes, Harrison had left him alone, couldn’t work with him “weeping like a fucking widow”. He’d remembered exactly what had happened to bring him back to this place. Exactly what sins he’d committed, why he deserved to be returned, to be sent for refurbishment, and to wind up with Harrison completely unmissed. 

He’d lost his voice crying and screaming like he could scare it all away with words or volume alone. He hated to have it back. To have her back—himself with her, back. He didn’t want to know that person. He didn’t want to feel that life.

Harrison didn’t seem to care that it wasn’t rendering him devoid and malleable anymore. On the outside he was the number-less, name-less, Nothing being cut apart. Inside, he was anything but Nothing. He was Bo, who had been Beau, who used to be 359. Each time more pieces of an even greater life coming to light. He didn’t want to remember more. He couldn’t handle more. The memories, the grief, the anger—the entire life that had been signed away to this place. The hopes and dreams and promises.  

He hated that real person fiercely, along with all the lesser ones. He hoped every time that the Drip would work again and deliver him back into ignorant bliss. Nothing Harrison did had anything on this. At least with the physical pain, he’d eventually pass out or there’d be drugs or it would fade to something else. This was relentless and it was overwhelming and he just wanted it to stop.

A whine escaped his throat and he wrestled against the restraints. 

“Do you have somewhere you’d rather be?” 

It took some effort to string together a retort. “Under your scalpel already,” he managed to grit out. 

“You can’t rush perfection.”

His hands were throbbing from how much he was cutting off his own circulation by pulling against the restraints. “I hope you kill me.” 

“Sadly, that’s not on the menu today. No drugs either, I need you conscious to make sure the electrodes are in the correct positions.” He held out a square of folded blue fabric. “Bite down on this.”

“But it’s going to happen sooner or later.” He was erring on the side of desperation but he didn’t care. “You’re not that good or you wouldn’t be some fucking outcast basement Dr. Jekyll.” He paused but Harrison just waited, holding out the towel. “It’s going to be even worse than before when you have some botched Frankenstein. Just—”

“Enough. I applaud the dedication to your newfound death wish.” Harrison reached out to blot his cheek with the corner of the towel. He hadn’t realized he was crying. “I really love this journey for you.”

“Fuck—”

“Shut up and reconsider my offer—that I am generously extending a second time—before I just let you bite your fucking tongue off. Something I’m sure we’ll both regret tomorrow when you sound like a romantic reciting the WRU commandments around a handler’s cock.” 

He swallowed and opened his mouth to let Harrison place the square of folded blue fabric between his teeth. 

Harrison didn’t waste any time and started cutting through some of the sutures in his scalp. Releasing them one by one. 

“It’s true, eventually I might kill you, by accident or on purpose.” 

Percussion of the scissors being dropped onto the tray beside his head.

“But you’re already nothing. Your life is nothing, your pain is nothing.”

Scalpel biting into his flesh to reopen what had healed. Suction to keep the incision clear.

“You are Nothing. So it really doesn’t matter.” 

Whir of the drill.

He blinked through tears but it didn’t seem to do anything to improve his field of vision so he just kept his eyes closed. Tried to focus on breathing evenly through his nose. This wasn’t anything worthy of really screaming for but it was still nice to have something to bite down on. He’d definitely done a number grinding his teeth enough already. 

“Alright, come on. You can cry over your haunted past on your own time.” Harrison tugged the cloth out of his mouth. 

His tongue felt too dry and too thick. He didn’t feel the tears anymore but his vision was still blurry. “I thought I was Nothing and had nothing?” 

“You’re such a good listener. Keep talking while I place these electrodes.” 

“I’m out of ideas.” 

“Bullshit. You’re just being a little stick in the mud.” 

“Really,” he insisted. 

He couldn’t control anything in his head. It was just images and faces and feelings rushing past in a blur. Peeling back layers of obfuscation from his memories like onion skin, crinkling along with the sanitary medical packaging Harrison was opening next to him like this was any other day. Procedural, methodical, predictable. He wasn't sure how many packages Harrison had opened or if he was somehow just stuck in a loop of replaying the sound again and again for something simple to hold onto over the torrents raging in his head. 

Thankfully, Harrison never kept his mouth shut for very long. “I need you talking. Why don’t you describe your perfect, ideal day?” 

“Impossible,” he slurred. “It’s still happening.” 

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[whumppmuhw]

morally conflicted whumper

contains: moral issues, electric chair/electrocution, torture devices mention, restraints, torture mention, interrogation mention, death wish, implied death threat, lady whump

so basically what if whumper didn't like whump (but had to do it anyways. I'm emotionally whumping the whumper)

yeah I don't have a name for the other character so X it is

...

"Whumper! Good to see you!" X grinned as they set down the device they were working on. Their cheerful face was in direct contrast to Whumper's disheartened frown and cheerless body language.

"Yeah, good to see you too." He was sincere, and both of them knew it, but it had a grumpy, dismissive tone.

"Why the sad face? Are things not going well for Whumpee?"

"She doesn't like it here, and wishes daily that she could get out. She says that things are unfair, and that this never should have happened to her. Every time she looks in the mirror, she sees a shell of who she used to be. She's depressed, but can't do anything about it."

X had known their friend for a long time, and knew when something was going on. Whumper was never direct about his problems, and would rather avoid talking about them entirely, but his expressions and mannerisms would always give it away. "You're not talking about Whumpee," they accused.

"Mhm."

"How's she really doing? More importantly, how are you doing?"

Whumper decided to focus on the first question, and skip the second altogether. "Fine, I guess. Your electric chair is very effective, and I've been able to get a lot of information out of her."

X didn't show their prideful grin, though they loved hearing good things about their torture devices. "What's her day-to-day like?"

"She sleeps on the floor, no blanket, no nothing, in a cell with her ankle chained to the wall. She gets meals twice a day, and water every waking hour. Mostly I use the electric chair on her, she can't stand being electrocuted, but occasionally I'll use other things on her to mix it up."

Whumper sighed, and X didn't reply, allowing Whumper to continue.

"Don't tell anyone this, but I hate seeing her like that. I hate the way they make me treat her. I hate the way they treat me." He was pacing in a circle now, on a roll. "I don't want to be mean to her. I hate the sound of her screams. Every time she's defiant, I want to take her side, but I can't, so I hit her just to make her shut up. I don't like that either, but I don't want to face the problems. And the bad part is, she'll only ever remember me as the bad guy. I wish they never would have given me this job. You would do much better at it than I am. Hell, anyone would."

"A lot of the others seem to enjoy it. They say stepping into the role of interrogator and torturer can be really cathartic."

"Well, I'm not the others, am I?"

"No, and I get where you're coming from. The role isn't for everyone."

"What would you do if they called you to do it?"

"I'd have to take it, you know that, but...I don't know. Maybe it'd be fun."

"Bunch of sickos," Whumper muttered under his breath.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing. I doesn't matter."

Still, X could see the pent up anger boiling under the surface. "What are you gonna do?"

"I want to leave here."

"They'd kill you."

"Yeah, so what."

"I'd miss you."

Whumper made eye contact with X, and the two thought about what life was like before they came here. Days spent together, laughing and living carefree, before they got wrapped up in this hell. X was having a much better time adjusting than Whumper, and even found their job enjoyable - designing and creating machines meant to break anybody in myriad ways. All Whumper longed for was his old life, something he'd never have again.

"Tell you what," X proposed. "You've almost got everything you need out of Whumpee, right? Once you're done with her, I'll request you come work here with me. I can't say it'll ease your moral qualms entirely, but they'll likely never call you to do it again. And if they do, I'll ask to take your place."

"That'd...be better," and Whumper smiled a small smile, which quickly turned to a frown. "You'd...want to take my place?"

"I'd have a better time with it than you would, yeah."

"You enjoy hurting people?"

"I make all of these devices, don't I?" X sighed, and Whumper almost seemed offended. "Listen, Whumper, things aren't like the way they used to be. I-"

"No," Whumper cut off. "No, you-you used to be good, but you're just like them- I can't, I can't believe you..." He turned to leave, shaking his head, voice wavering.

"Where are you going?" X yelled, but they weren't acknowledged. All they could hope for was that Whumper would do anything that lead him to a fate worse than Whumpee.

[fantasycorrupted]

"Okay... Why did I agree to try and talk to people?"

"And why is Vaas of all people standing up for me?"

"I'd kill myself to be free of all this but alas I can't die."

[another-whump-sideblog]

Jane’s Pets Chapter 17: A Little out of the Ordinary

TWs in the tags

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Extra: 16.5

Adverse effects | Unconventional restraints | “This wasn’t supposed to happen”

It’s been a few days since your punishment ended. You don’t feel good.

Obviously, there’s the physical pain. It feels less like nerves that have been activated and more like a mass of pain sitting inside you. Or several chunks of pain sitting inside you.

You avoid moving so that the pain doesn't move around. As long as it sits right where it is, you can semi-bear it, so you have to make sure the pain doesn’t move.

You can’t really do anything by yourself. Ever since you woke up in your bed with your collar on, all of your injuries bandaged, and your leg in a cast, you’ve needed help doing basic things.

Luckily, it’s been Dollie helping you and not Jane. You don’t think you could handle that.

Emotionally, you feel hollowed out. Kit came to talk to you for a bit when you first woke up, and you asked them to kill you. They paled and left without saying a word, and you haven’t seen them since.

Dollie helps you eat and drink and bathe. She applies clean bandages to your wounds and gives you an ibuprofen pill every once in a while. At first, you talked to her and played card games with her, but lately you just stare at the ceiling and try to be as still as possible.

You’re so tired. You thought you would feel better once the punishment was done, but you’re still in so much pain and so tired all the time. The punishment isn’t over, not really, and it won’t be for months.

You sleep and stare at the ceiling and let Dollie take care of you, and before you know it you’ve lost all perception of time. You have no idea how long it’s been. Your wounds slowly heal. Dollie stops giving you ibuprofen. You’re so tired.

—

Dollie steps into your room with a plate of food and quietly shuts the door behind her.

“Hi.” She says. Your eyes widen in surprise.

“Master said I could talk to you. She doesn’t like it when her pets get too depressed or dissociated. It’s boring. She said this wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Her voice is painfully quiet and a bit scratchy. She places the food on your bedside table.

“How are you doing?” She asks.

You huff. Is she serious? “Not great. Why’d she have you talk to me instead of Kit? I mean, I’m not complaining. But I would’ve thought she’d rather keep us from talking.”

“She would. But Kitty failed. So I get to try.”

You blanch. “Kit’s okay, right? They’re not in the basement, are they?”

“They’re fine. We’re all fine. Is there anything I can do to help you feel better?”

“Not unless you know how to stop Jane. Or kill me.”

“Don’t say that. You’re okay. Are you hungry?”

You are, but you shake your head. You’d rather focus on this conversation.

“I’m sorry I drilled you. I wish I didn’t have to. Is that why you’re sad? I’m sorry.”

You sigh and try to explain in a way Dollie will understand. “No, that’s not why I’m sad. I’m sad because I don’t want to be tortured again but I know I will be.”

“Not if you’re good! And we can help you be good. Me and Kitty, we’ll help you.”

“You don’t understand.”

Dollie tenses. “I’m not stupid. I know I’m being treated badly. I know we’re being treated badly. It’s just… the only way to make it better is to be good.” She takes a deep breath. “We were chosen, you know? By this powerful being. And keeping her happy is our job. It’s a shitty job, but you can have a shitty job and still be happy.”

“You can quit a shitty job. We’ve been kidnapped and tortured and we can’t leave.”

“You came willingly. But that’s not the point. What will make you feel better? What did you do before, when you were having a hard time?”

“I don’t know. I’d just… do what I had to do. But I don’t really want to, this time.”

“Don’t say that. Master won't like that. If you can’t think of anything, I can make suggestions. I could convince Master to get us more books or games. And I do the shopping, so I could get something you want next time I go if Master says it’s okay. We could make brownies. That’s what I used to do, when I was sad. And I’d dance. Does any of that sound fun? Like it would make you feel better?”

“I don’t know.” You feel bitter in a way that’s hard to verbalize. She’s only talking to you because Jane thinks you being depressed is boring. You don’t really want to feel better.

“That’s fine. Do you… want to talk about it? About what happened? We don’t have to, but sometimes it helps.”

“Do I want to talk about how I was tortured for a week straight? Not really, no.” You don't actually know how long you were in the basement, but that feels right. You pause. “I’m sorry, though. You got hurt because of me. You weren’t even there when I ran.”

“It’s fine. I should’ve known better, should’ve left you restrained while I wasn’t there to watch you.”

A chill runs down your spine. “Don’t do that.”

“I’ll do whatever’s necessary. But it shouldn’t be. Especially not while your leg’s broken. That’s a pretty effective restraint, isn’t it? Master knows what she’s doing.”

“What the fuck-“ You take a deep breath. “Okay, here’s a tip for you. If your goal is to make me feel better, don’t talk about me being tortured like it was justified.”

“Sorry.” And she does seem sorry, but you know it’s because she’s doing a bad job at what Jane told her to do and not because she thinks she was wrong.

Dollie stares at you for a minute. “I want to help. What would help you right now?”

You think for a moment. “Kit said you might know more about how Jane’s powers work.”

She shakes her head. “How would knowing that help you feel better? I know you just want to know how to plan another escape. That will only make it worse.”

You close your eyes. You’re never going to get out of here.

“We don’t have to spend all our time at the house, you know. We can go on walks. I’m sure Master wouldn’t mind, as long as you're supervised. It would help you to get some sunlight, I think. And exercise.”

“You’re a fucking murderer, Dollie.”

That’s not what you expected to come out of your mouth. You don’t know why your heart is suddenly pounding. “You killed a child. I’m sure you’ve killed more people than you can even count at this point. You’re so fucking weak. You’ve killed people just because she told you to, just to avoid pain. God, what’s wrong with you? Why are you like this? Why’d you let her make you into this? Why couldn’t you be stronger?” Your face is wet and your hands shake and it hurts.

“Oh.” Dollie’s voice is somehow even softer. She gently wraps her arms around your shoulders, barely touching you. But it’s still a hug. You lean on her and sob into her shirt.

“It’s not your fault, Bunny. It’s not. When you’re following Master’s orders, everything you do is her fault and her decision, not yours. You’re just an extension of her. It’s not your fault.” She taps your left arm gently, where your brand is.

You sob harder. You’re absolutely positive that she’s repeating something Jane’s told her.

“It’s okay. You can cry for as long as you want. It wasn’t your fault.”

You cry and cry and cry. It feels different to when you were crying in the basement. Dollie holds you and rubs circles into the back of your neck, over your collar.

It’s been so long since you’ve had actually comforting touch. It’s not like when Jane holds you, when it’s to prove how much control she has, and it’s certainly not like when Kit and Dollie hold you down to stop you from leaving. Dollie holds you loosely, and you know that she would let go at the slightest sign that you wanted out. She carefully avoids putting pressure on any of your wounds, which she knows the locations of intimately after helping you with bathing and applying bandages.

“I’m a murderer.” You choke out. Dollie doesn’t say anything.

“Don’t go. Stay, please Dollie. Don’t go.”

“I won’t. Not until you tell me to.”

She’s lying, of course. She would leave in an instant if Jane asked. But you let yourself believe it, for just a moment, and you feel safe. Protected. Loved.

“I could’ve gotten you water. You sacrificed it for me and I could’ve paid you back but I’m too weak.”

“It’s okay. I didn’t do it because I wanted something in return.”

That just makes you feel worse. “Why are you and Kit so much stronger than me? Why can’t I sacrifice for you the way you can for me?”

“It comes with time.”

You don’t want to be here long enough to be able to take pain willingly. You cry and cry and cry.

At some point, you must’ve fallen asleep. When you wake up, the light from the window of your room has faded, and Dollie is still holding you. You don’t feel like only sleeping and staring at the ceiling anymore.

A/N: Let me know if I should tag anything else!

Tag list: @eatyourdamnpears @ghostsinthecloset

[system-of-a-feather]

I am redacting 90% of the vent I went on and am just going to put the TLDR here

If you proudly wave an American flag this July, I hope you die and your head gets blown up by a firework.

Patriots aren't welcome here and HONESTLY I'd prefer fucking Tulpas and fucking "Alters of Color" then ANYONE who proudly waves an American flag.

[winchesternova-k]

had another awful dealing w the uncle today (too exhausted to go into detail) and im afraid to go to sleep bc i’ve already had nightmares abt him every night for the past week and a bit and they’ll be so much worse tonight

[full-course-identity]

Bet you like to fuck little kids too, don't you? Sick asshole. Hope you and your gang of kiddy diddlers die.

Accusing open CSA survivors of being child predators bc they don’t believe attraction equals action isn’t a healthy coping mechanism.

I understand you’re likely another survivor who got dragged in by misinfo psyops, incorrect rumors, & the addictive rush of performative outrage, but you are not helping us. You are not preventing abuse. Dangerous para/philes are an insanely minute sliver of the predator pool, but they get all the attention bc it’s, quite frankly, easier to attack a nebulous bad guy than it is to actually DO SOMETHING.

So, here’s a few quick tips:

1. Don’t mistake weaponized internet slacktivism for actual child protection efforts. That’s what Q/An/on is made of.

2. The entire way you phrased this, completely ignoring the overarching context, is gross. “Kiddy Diddler” — Why are you using slimy joke terms for a trauma as serious as child abuse? This is on par w/ conflating porn (an adult-only consensual activity) & graphic, exploitive abuse material. Just accuse me of being a predator in standard clinical terms & be done w/ it.

3. Find a better target. I wrote that post a few years ago; before some rando found it & decided, unprompted, to use a topic as serious as fucking child abuse for a cheap clapback, I forgot it even existed. I’m barely on this website, dude.

4. You’re free to scream into my inbox if you want, but the chances I’ll respond are slim to none. When I do, this is going to be the post I’ll link — whether it’s you or someone else w/ a chip on their shoulder who thinks I’d make a proper punching bag, I’m not going to expend all my limited energy on needless flame wars.

5. I’m not going to Kay Why Ess myself, I’m not going to choke, & I’m not going to get in a snuff film w/ [checks notes] the people that abused me. Free to waste your time insisting otherwise, though.

Thanks for playing. If you want a “civil discussion” or w/e, come off anon & approach me here, there, or anywhere else (IE @/octipii on Twitter, gisnape @ gmail, etc). I won’t guarantee fast nor detailed responses, & insulting me is a non-starter, but I am capable of patience. Sometimes.

[zoe-and-quinn]

Whumptober Day 15

Back with another addition to the story! I know its been a while, but things have just been so busy. Thanks to Aubrey for the motivation and ideas!

Makeshift Bandages / Suppressed Suffering / “I’m fine.”

TW: Torture, Partial Nudity (non-sexual), restraints, medical whump (kinda? Not really. Theres a table involved though), knife, partial flaying/skinning, blood loss, death wish, general despair... yeah, this one's a lot.

Felix was laying on the floor, feet up on the wall and eyes closed. It was sometime in the afternoon, and boredom hung thick in the air. It had been a week and a half since the last client, and although Alexei had taken Georgia a few times for ‘follow-up training,’ he had left the three captives mostly to their own devices.

Both Georgia and Casey were healing up nicely, although Casey still winced when he moved, and Georgia’s head snapped up in terror at every noise from behind the door. As much as they hated to say it, they hoped she would numb up soon. Everything would be so much easier, for both Casey and Georgia, once they got used to the situation.

Felix had grown numb long ago. Not to say they didn’t feel fear, or they didn’t scream. They would even fight back, every so often, if they knew it could actually have an effect on their latest tormentor. But most of the time, there was nothing they could do that would make much of a difference. They just knew that there was no use in struggling.

So, when Alexei pulled the door open and poked his head through, saying Felix had a client on their way, they didn’t put up a fight. 

The new client looked pretty average at first glance; short-cropped hair, defined muscles, cruel eyes that scanned over Felix’s body as soon as he entered the room.

This client had wanted Felix on the table, stomach down, which might have taken first place for ‘worst ways to be tied up’ in Felix’s book. Hands stretched above them and feet tied below, they could hardly move at all. Not to mention that they couldn’t see a large portion of the room. They glared at the man until he walked out of sight, heading to a portion of the wall dedicated to knives and other blades.

Felix rolled their eyes. Basic. If they had to endure a guy torturing them for an hour or two, the least he could do was be interesting.

The man moved quietly, and Felix started when he pulled up the collar of their shirt and slid the knife under. It only took him a second to cut through the fabric, exposing the multitude of scars covering their chest and back.

“Huh,” the client remarked, almost to himself. “Pretty full. Might as well start over fresh.”

Felix had no idea what he meant by that. Start over? Nobody could erase a year’s worth of scars.

The first cut was painful, but not unexpected. Long and deep as it was, Felix grit their teeth to keep quiet. The second cut was just as bad. He moved the knife so slowly, carving a straight line into their skin. They had to take a breath halfway through, and couldn’t silence the instinctive gasp of pain.

The next two lines were horizontal instead of vertical, near the top and bottom of his back, and the fire doubled when the cuts intersected. Felix’s thinking was clouded, but they managed to keep mostly still and quiet.

That is, until the knife slid under.

They screamed into their teeth before their mind could fully register what was happening. They could feel the metal pushing through, pulling-

Oh god.

Pulling their skin from their body.

They tried to squirm away as their torturer slowly, carefully grasped their skin and pulled it up, sliding the knife in between it and their muscle, separating one from the other, but the restraints held them taught and they couldn’t do anything.

It had been a while since Felix had fully screamed. They had almost forgotten the feeling. The ringing in their ears, the rawness of their throat. In the beginning, these things were as familiar to them as their own name, but over the months, fewer and fewer people were able to coax a scream out of them.

This slow, careful flaying of their body did the trick, though.

The knife continued it’s path, moving across their back, keeping the skin in one, rectangular piece. Blood was coating the table, covering everything, by the time they were halfway through, and Felix was still screaming.

They couldn’t see straight, not through the burning agony, not through the blood loss, not through the tears filling their eyes as they screamed and screamed and screamed.

Gradually, the screaming turned to sobs and whimpers, as their throat became too raw to make much more than a croak. They felt the man fold a flap of their skin over, and they couldn’t breathe right.

The room was spinning and they couldn’t breathe right and there was nothing they could do to stop the man from peeling the skin off their entire body, head to toe, until they were muscle and bone and blood, so much blood.

Their eyes trailed to the floor.

To the pool of red growing on the floor.

To the drip. drip. drip.

drip.

drip.

The door opened. They could hardly hear the creaking hinges over their own sobs.

They could hear the yelling, though they could hardly make out the words.

Something about blood loss. And death. 

Death didn’t sound half bad at the moment.

Alexei shoved the client away from the table and grabbed Felix’s discarded teeshirt. They cried out when he placed it onto their back, skin half removed and bleeding profusely, and held it in place.

Felix vaguely registered the phone call, the sound of Alexei’s frantic voice. Everything was blurring and they didn’t have the strength to resist.

They didn’t want to be strong anymore. Didn’t want to be numb. Didn’t want to endure the torture and assure Casey that they were fine. If this was what the rest of their life would be, they didn’t want it.

They closed their eyes and hoped that maybe this time, they wouldn’t have to open them again.

[goathag]

Death was lurking in the shadows every single time, right?

[wolfnanaki]

Puss in Boots: The Last Wish | Puss’s Panic Attack

[booksandothersecrets]

Thinking about this for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and

[scribbyizback]

does anybody feel Zesty abt ldr Sun?? oh hey yeah not me pffft nah. spirals

love death and rollerskates by @spadillelicious

[sad-leon]

3 AM