#cw mentions of dehumanization | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

iwrite-sinsandtragedies · 10 months

Text

@organized-chaotic-disaster Ahhhh gotcha gotcha!! I didn’t know there were any games with poly options tbh, that’s really nice to know 😭 and yeah, I imagine it must feel really jarring to have everything just take a complete 180 like that, with everyone ignoring the past romantic tension. Some kind of acknowledgment of it would be nice, but yeah, unfortunately I don’t see that ever happening 😭 so we’ve gotta rely on headcanons and fanfic, which sucks And thanks for responding to me!! I wasn’t really expecting a response tbh, but it’s really nice to talk about stuff like this ;v; I really enjoyed reading your thoughts!! Like I said, I didn’t know any games had poly options, so I learned something new o:

[original post]

No problem! I'm usually an absolute mess about talking to people myself - despite always wanting to - but, I've committed to doing what I want on this blog in particular and I want to talk about my favourite things with interesting people! So it was actually a pleasure to swap words with you!😊❤️

And yeah, I'd love for that to happen with OL but, I do understand why it likely won't be a thing.

On the topic of other games with polymance options though!

So, as I formerly mentioned. The game FH, or Fallen Hero is my primary example of a well done poly-capable romance route that's built into a good story driven game. It's a text-base 'build your own story' series that has a word count in the hundreds of thousands per book [steam link here] and is, in fact written by only one person!

It's, of course, the exact opposite type of story of Our Life, mind you😂and deals with a lot of dark subjects regarding mental health, dehuminization, trauma and morality/ethics. So, it's best to keep that in mind before choosing to play it. I would personally rate it at an 11/10 on a quality chart though! It's an absolutely superb game and the creator spends years putting their heart and soul into making sure each path you take is fleshed out and organic and that all your choices matter. They do actually have a tumblr here too, if you want to look into it more [fallenhero-rebirth] just be mindful that it might have spoilers.

As for other games with poly-romances, well... Unfortunately, most of those are purely in the 'R-rated maturity' kind of space. They're either dating sims with a heavy sexual focus or just straight up p*rn. Which is why I don't really include them so much, since it's kind of defeating the point of what I'd want poly-routes to be in, which is genuinely normal and story driven games like OL. Many of these games are simply PWP and so I wouldn't really consider them at all, unless you just wanted something spicy and exciting (which is absolutely cool! I'm such a ho, I have so many of these games honestly lmfao).

Overall, your best bet is really just searching for them😂it's not surprising at all that you didn't know they were an option because, truthfully, there aren't that many out there. I have heard the names 'Creme de la creme' and 'Tally ho!' thrown out there though, so maybe give those a peak and see if there's anything worth playing? I know nothing about them, honestly.

Personally, finding new games only partially scratches that itch for me, tbh. Only because it's not fulfilling my desire to have that polymance in the other games I wanted in the first place lol. I totally agree that it sucks having to live off of headcannons opposed to legitimate official content🥺Man, what I wouldn't give for that OL polymance... Still, at least looking into other games gives us an outlet and allows for some validation😭

#ol:ba #olba #our life beginnings and always #fhr #fallen hero #fallen hero rebirth #games #romance games #interactive fiction #polymance #poly #polyam #romance routes #iwrite rambles #iwrite replies #cw mentions of mental illness #cw mentions of trauma #cw mentions of dehumanization

3 notes · View notes

taskforcedistortion · 3 months

Note

The son he adopted did it to save them both you idiot.

His monster of a brother would have killed them both with the stunts he was trying to pull.

OH SO HIS FREAK OF A SON DID IT?

THE CREATURE THAT WAS DESIGNED TO KILL HIS WIFE?

I SHOULD HAVE GOTTEN RID OF HIM WHEN I HAD THE CHANCE

DEATH WOULD BE NICER THAN THIS YOU

[User EROSION disconnected... please wait.]

#pokeblogging #pokemon irl #pokemon rp #Eroded Geode - Mini Arc #cw dehumanization #cw experimentation #cw death threats #cw death mention

15 notes · View notes

whumperfully · 2 years

Text

Fun Little Ways to Remind Whumpee of Who They Belong to!

The good ol' branding! Never fails! Extra fun if you have to remove the previous whumper's brand first!

The Artistic Whumper™'s Tattooing! Is it somewhere easily visible or is it somewhere slightly hidden? Did whumper have to remove whumpee's previous tattoos?

Collars! Yes!! Can never get enough! Do they have bells in them so that whumpee can't sneak around? Of course we have the excellent shock collars! Do they have a tracking chip that whumper may or may not let whumpee know about? Is it so tight that it reminds whumpee of its existence with their every breath? Or is it loosely hung around their neck as a casual reminder?

Changing whumpee's name? How quickly does whumpee accept it? What does whumper have to do to make them accept it? By the end of their conditioning, does whumpee remember their original name or not? Does whumper give whumpee their surname? Do they get a human name Or do they simply get a set of numbers and/or letters?

Changing whumpee's appearance? Whumpee with dyed hair watching their hair grow so much in captivity that the dye is only on the ends now? Or does whumper dye their hair a different colour? Or does whumper simply cut most of it off? Alternatively, whumper having short haired whumpee grow long hair because they love pulling it around? Defiant short haired whumpee cutting their hair off to rebel? And that's just hair! Clothing? Whumpee who loves fashion being forced to wear bland clothes or clothes they don't like? Whumpee who loves simplicity being forced to be decorated by whumper or forced to decorate themself according to whumper's standards? So! Much! More!

Feel free to add more!

#whump prompts #cw mention of branding #cw mention of noncon tattooing #cw mention of noncon tattoo removal #cw mention of collars #cw mention of dehumanization #cw mention of electrocution #cw mention of manipulative whumper #notreblog

273 notes · View notes

jaeyleo · 8 months

Text

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 8

YOU CHOSE: OPEN THE DOORS- CONTINUE WITH CHASE.

Your decisions allow buried memories to resurface. This is overwhelming for your character, and his mind suffers from the weight of it all.

cws: flashbacks, dehumanization, non human whumper, whumper is also caretaker, electric shock, force feeding, eye trauma, mentions of a seizure, sick whumpee, mentions of hypnosis. lmk if i should add more!

. . .

Screaming, screaming, screaming.

Chase's head feels like it could explode. Too many sounds, too many colors, too many voices and commands and knives and soft touches and- and-

Pseudo hushes him, raking fingers through the puppet's hair. "Pink, dolly, take a deep breath."

But Pink isn't there. Chase falls into the hands of his monster, and finds himself in a new place. Somewhere deep inside his head.

. . .

Cellar.

"Please, p- please!! I can't do it, please!"

"Shhh. It's just a pop quiz, Pink. You'll do just fine."

Chase's arms are chained behind him, with ankles cuffed to both legs of the chair. Hot tears pour down his cheeks, soaking into clothes that are already soaked with blood. He shivers, freezing in the cellar air, terrified of what he sees in front of him.

Just a few feet away, Pseudo holds a stun gun. He sits in a foldable chair, relaxed and comfortable in his position of power here. He owns Pink, and that's a wonderful feeling.

"Tell me your name," he says.

"Pink!" Chase doesn't hesitate in saying it. He may as well be saying please. "It's Pink, Pink, I'm P- Pink!"

"Good," Pseudo praises. "Now tell me your age."

"T- twenty seven..!"

"Mhm. And how about-" Pseudo covers his eyes with his free hand, "the color of my eyes?"

"Brown!"

"Very good!"

Pseudo returns to his original position, with both hands placed leisurely on the stun gun.

"Now, last question, dolly. If you get it right, I'll put this away, hm?"

Chase nods, eager and afraid in the same shaking breath.

"What time is it?"

The puppet freezes. There are no clocks and no windows to tell the time in here. He wasn't told when they got down here, and he wouldn't know how much has passed. It all feels like an eternity of pain and blood.

He trembles, searching his mind for answers. What time was breakfast? How long did it take to clean the kitchen? When was lunch? How long did washing the sheets take? It isn't dinner time yet, is it??

"N- nn-" Chase begins to panic. His breath halts in his chest and he has to shake the terror off himself, like a puppy emerging from falling into a swimming pool.

"Can I have a h- hint??"

Pseudo sighhhhhss, lulling his head to the left, the right, the left, up straight again..

"Mmm.... it was about 4:30 when we came down here."

"A- and how long have we been down here??"

Pseudo chuckles at him, his stupid doll. "That's not a hint, dolly, that's just the answer."

A breath escapes the puppet's mouth. "R- right," he says, defeated. "Okay..."

Think, think, think.

He rocks back and forth, clawing at his mind to provide the answer. How long has it been? How long does it feel like? What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?????

"Um, u- um..."

"Come now, Pink. We don't have all evening."

A soft sob bubbles out from his neck. There's no way he's getting this right.

"Is- i- is it... i- is it um.... s- six- no, no, seven, is it seven?"

"Let's see.."

Pseudo pulls his phone out from his pocket, and flips it open.

He stares at the clock, and Chase stares at his monster. Pseudo lets the tension hang in the air, drinking in the sounds of his puppet's pounding heart.

"Is it seven??? I- hh??"

The monster shuts the phone with a click, and places it back inside his pocket.

"Six fifty- three."

He raises the gun, pointing at Chase's shoulder.

"N- no, no!! No!! I was so close, please!! Please Pseudo!! Plea--!"

Chase's words are cut short. He wails, tensing and then falling limp as the pain takes over his entire body.

. . .

Kitchen.

"Open up."

Chase's mouth stays glued shut. Each hand curls a fist into his sweatpants, a desperate attempt at keeping them down. Any minute now, he swears, he's going to take that stupid spoon and shove it down Pseudo's throat.

In his reply, Chase only shakes his head.

"Oh, come now, don't be difficult. You haven't eaten since yesterday."

When he speaks, Chase keeps his teeth clamped together. "I'll eat if I can feed myself."

"Nooo, you'll eat if I tell you to. Now open up.."

He presents the spoon to Chase's mouth, gently tapping the food against his bottom lip. The puppet finally accepts, opens his jaw, and spits it in the monster's face.

For a moment, they only look at eachother. Chase knows what he did is bad. He knows he'll be punished, but he doesn't care. He's going to be hurt anyway, right?

Still, this hurt could've been avoided.

Pseudo's hand comes around to slap the toy hard across the face. It's enough to almost send him reeling out of the chair, gripping onto the table and stomping the floor as not to go flying to the ground. Before he can bring his own hands to cup the sting across his cheek, Pseudo grabs the collar of his shirt, and yanks him to the floor.

Chase yelps, losing his breath as Pseudo climbs on top to straddle him. He hunches over the doll like an animal, a feral spark running around inside his pupils. Chase feels so small beneath him, like a worm under a bird's claw, ready to be swallowed whole.

The spoon comes to meet Chase's lower eyelid, still hot from the food that was so rudely spat back out. Pseudo presses the spoon down, ever so slightly, and Chase feels his eye shift in its socket.

"Do you need to learn your table manners again, pet?"

The puppet's hands clamp around his monster's wrist. "Get off!!"

Pseudo does not relent. He presses the spoon down further, causing the puppet to start seeing double, triple, a black spot where his eye contacts the top of the socket.

"You should answer me, you know. I could do some terrible things to you."

He presses further, and Chase digs his nails into Pseudo's skin. He feels as though his eye could pop right out of his head.

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!"

"That isn't an answer."

More pressure. More pain. Chase feels air in places he shouldn't.

"Ah! No!!! Nono I don't, I don't, I'm sorry!"

"You don't what, Pink? Show me you understand."

"I--!" Pink digs his nails deeper into his monster's wrist. "I don't-- I don't need to learn table manners, I'm sorry! Nh- please!"

"Good," Pseudo croons, and slowly, slowly, releases the pressure on his puppet's eye. He lets a few moments pass before reaching a hand to caress Pink's face, thumb stroking gentle across the cheekbone that was hit. The doll shrinks away, closing his eyes.

"I want you to prove it, now, Pink. Otherwise..." the spoon draws a line, following the curve of Chase's eye socket. He speaks soft, higher pitched, like talking to a child. A puppy, a worm under his claw. "Do you understand?"

"Y- yes, Pseudo.."

"Good.."

Pseudo moves off, and Chase climbs back in his chair. He holds his eye and stinging cheek in his hand before Pseudo swats it away, reminding him table manners include no hands above the waist.

Pseudo sets himself down, too, and presents the food to Chase's mouth once more.

"Open up."

Chase opens his mouth. Food is placed inside, but he doesn't chew.

"....Eat."

The puppet obeys, avoiding his monster's eyes throughout the rest of the meal.

. . .

Home.

The house is happy.

Chase cradles his daughter on the couch, running soft hands through waving blond hair. A cartoon drones on in the background, capturing the little girl's attention completely.

She giggles at the characters, and Chase's heart swells with love.

"They're silly," she comments, turning her head to her father. A wide smile takes her face over, with one missing tooth to top it off.

"Yeah, they are silly, aren't they?"

He smiles down at her, and plants a kiss on her forehead. A small hand reaches up to tap the end of his nose.

Chase smiles wider. He is so full of love he can barely stand it.

. . .

Somewhere in Denmark.

Somewhere far away. Somewhere, where old love and safety and sanity aren't a guarantee. Somewhere deep inside his head, Chase is pulled up, up into reality.

He feels like he's trapped underwater, and Pseudo is the one to drag him out. Up, up, up, through swamps and moss and dirt, through water that's thick as clotted blood. His eyes droop, his bones fall limp, Chase cannot breathe with the pressure in his chest. The water tastes of soap, and a sourness that makes his teeth chatter.

He wants to sink again, into memories good and bad. Wants to be anywhere but here. Anywhere, somewhere, somewhere deep inside his head.

Chase groans, a migraine holding him hostage. The lights are too bright, even behind closed eyelids. His blanket is so warm. Is he comfortable? Too tired to tell.

He opens his lazy eyes, seeing his small attic room surround him. He feels sick. Horrible. Tears wet his eyes but he doesn't remember why.

Beside him, Pseudo watches him rest. The puppet startles when he sees his monster, and he tries desperately to sit up. He can only claw the sheets.

Pseudo tilts his head as the puppet shoves himself into the wall. The blanket provides a shield of false protection, and he holds on as if life depends on it.

"You had some scary nightmares, huh?"

Chase only stares.

"Mh. Well, you slept for a while. You even had a seizure."

The puppet's brows furrow. "Really?" he croaks.

"Mhm. Does your head hurt?"

Chase nods. Pseudo reaches out his hand, slow and steady. Even so, the puppet shrinks away, closing his eyes as if expecting to be slapped or clawed or scratched.

But the monster is gentle, brushing away pink hair to feel the doll's forehead. The coolness of his hand is comforting. Chase can't help but relax a little in his touch.

"You still have a fever..." Pseudo runs his hand over the puppet's hair, petting softly. "... Are you hungry?"

"No.."

"Liar."

"I don't wanna eat."

"It'll make you feel better."

"Will it?"

Pseudo gives a soft smile. He helps the doll sit up, gently hushing him as he whimpers and whines about his head swimming, his muscles hurting, ow, Pseudo, please-

"Shhhhh. It's okay, Pink.."

On the end table, a bowl of warm soup waits to be eaten. The monster takes a spoonful, blows, and presents it to Chase's hesitant mouth.

"Come now... eat. You'll feel better."

The puppet frowns, and accepts. Bite after bite, it feels warm and heavy in his stomach, warm and heavy and delicious. Pseudo was right. He does feel better.

They wash it down with cool water, and Chase breathes a sigh of relief at the taste. He may still feel sick and afraid, but he's not thirsty, not hungry, and not cold, and that's more than enough right now.

Pseudo pushes the empty dishes aside, and returns his hands to playing with Pink's hair. The puppet sinks into the feeling, sleepiness pulling down his weight. He feels comfortable. Sick, but comfortable.

"You've been anxious lately," Pseudo says gently. "You're trying to get back into a headspace that's not good for you."

Chase opens his eyes.

"I hate to see you suffer like that, Pink. It breaks my heart."

"I don't wanna be your toy.."

Pseudo sighs, stroking the doll's cheek with his thumb. Sweet thing.

"I need to run to the store again. I forgot my sugar."

"I- I can't, I don't wanna-"

"No, shhh. You're staying in bed."

Chase relaxes again, falling victim to the gentle touches of his monster.

"Can I trust you to rest?"

The puppet nods. He's too sick to get up anyway. Everything hurts, especially his head.

"Good doll.. I'll be back soon."

He plants one gentle kiss on Chase's forehead, and leaves him to rest alone.

. . .

As the minutes pass, the puppet finds himself unable to sleep. His head hurts, his body aches, oh, God, he feels horrible. He almost wishes Pseudo hypnotized him before he left.

While he lays there, Chase begins to wonder. He heard the door close, but no keys, and no starting car. It's no secret that Pseudo can travel long distances without transport, as part of his magic allows him to do so. Could he have left the car keys?

"No, no, don't think like that," Chase says allowed. He runs his hands over his face, and tries to get comfortable again. But the thought plagues him.

Did he leave the car keys?

Even if he won't escape, he could still check, right? Then at least he knows, and he can get some sleep. Yes, yes, he'll just check and see..

Chase drags himself up, groaning as a dizziness swirls the entire room around. A chill takes over him as well, and he reaches for the smaller blanket on the bed to wrap around his shoulders. God, he feels like shit.

Eventually he makes his way out of his room, leaning against walls and railings as not to go tumbling to the ground. Walking is a chore, and his feet ache with every step. Pins and needles climb up his legs like leeches, and he finds himself in pain with every. Single. Step.

Down the stairs, into the living room.

The car keys hang on the wall by door.

Chase freezes. He can only stare.

23 notes · View notes

highwaywhump · 1 year

Text

BBU community days, day 3!

{Day 3} Writing prompt: Discipline

I really like how this turned out. 944 is the same guard dog as in this piece.

CW/TW for a lil whumpee being beaten up, mentions of blood and bones breaking, shock collar, prong collar, allusion to non-/dubcon, dehumanisation/animalisation.

“No, please, please don’t let him, please, I’ll be good! I’ll be good, I promise, please -”

944 tuned the trainee’s pleading out. He was short and skinny, and limping on one leg. He wasn’t a threat. Which meant, this wasn’t training.

This was punishment. He was the punishment.

He let himself roll forwards and back on the balls of his feet. His skin buzzed with excitement. He was alert. Ready.

“Shut the fuck up, 732. You made your bed.” The trainee’s handler kicked the trainee at the back of the knees, sending him down to the tiled floor without warning. He cried out as his already bruised knees made unbridled contact with the hard surface. 944 watched in disgust as he laid there, halfway resuming an erratic version of the respect position. His begging subsided to meaningless blubbering in between heavy sobs.

Can’t even show respect right, 944 thought, not without contempt. He leaned forwards again without really thinking about it, causing his own handler to grip his leather collar tighter.

“Heel,” he said, and 944 yielded immediately. He was good, unlike the pathetic trainee on the floor in front of him. They’d stacked three collars on him for the occasion. The shock collar was standard issue, the heavy shock clip digging into the skin on the nape of his neck. Over it, a wide leather collar with a handle at the back, so the handler could control him. The rough leather pressed harshly against his adam’s apple whenever he’d pull on it. The last was a vicious thing made of several links of steel, hooked into one another to form a chain. Each link had prongs protruding from the inside, digging into his skin. His handler had placed it as high as it could go, tightening it snuggly right below his jaw. It was to make his reactions snappy, he’d say. 944 didn’t question it.

“What’d he do, anyway?” another handler asked, nodding towards the bundle of shivering skin and bone on the floor.

“Fucker bit me.” The handler who’d kicked him down winced as he gently touched the front of his pants.

The first one barked out a laugh. “Nobody told you to use a gag the first time? Jesus Christ.”

“He’s used it for a month. First time without one today.”

“Hah! Well, he’ll learn. Ya hear?” he said, enunciating the question loudly as he gave the trainee a light kick with the toe of his boot. “You get an inch, you take an inch. No miles!”

944 observed as the rest of the handlers raised their batons. “No miles!” they yelled, and it seemed like an inside joke they were all part of. He shook it off. He didn’t need to understand. He needed a target and a command. He had the first. The second wasn’t far off.

“It’s time you got some discipline, 732.” His handler bent down to grab onto the trainee’s blonde hair, wrenching his head up towards 944. His eyes were red and puffy from crying, making his blue irises stand out like icebergs in a sea of blood. He wailed as 944 met his gaze. 944 looked calm in return. A picture perfect guard dog; collected until he was asked to engage.

944’s handler tugged on his collar, and he bowed his head down, still keeping the trainee in his line of sight. His handler’s low voice was round with dark amusement in 944’s ears when he spoke.

“Teach him a lesson, ‘44.”

The grip on his collar disappeared, and 944 stopped thinking. He started acting.

He registered the sounds coming from the trainee under him and how they changed from wails and cries to groans and moans, coming in time with the movements of his fists as he swung them, over and over. He made sure to spread the hits out evenly, finding all the spots that could hurt, because this wasn’t incapacation, it was punishment. He registered the loud, raw laughter and excited yelling from the handlers around him, and it spurred him on. He registered bright crimson, stark against the white tiles and the trainee’s white shirt. He registered the deep and brittle sound of something breaking, and he registered loving it.

He didn’t register his own pain, even though his knuckles were scraped up. He didn’t register his handler snapping a command at him, then yelling it. He didn’t register the hand back on his leather collar, or how it tried to yank him away.

He did register it when the row of metal teeth nestled just below his jaw suddenly dug into the soft skin there. He sprung back, his hands dropping everything they were doing as he moved backwards with the collar, desperate to relieve the pressure as he coughed and sputtered.

“Off, I said!” his handler yelled at him, yanking the metal collar again. 944 yowled in pain, looking up at his handler with wide, terrified eyes from his position on the floor. He knew what was coming.

“You’re getting too comfortable, 44!” His handler dug into his pocket until he found what he was looking for. A small, black remote. 944 only managed to whimper the start of an apology before his shock collar went off, blasting white pain up and down his spine.

His handler hit the button again and again, until the guard dog was trembling with the aftershocks of the punishment. He was on his side, breathing rapidly and shallowly, his tongue hanging loose and spilling out the side of his mouth. Like a dog.

The handler went down on one knee next to him, his thumb still on the button, ready. “You listen to me!” he roared, only a few inches from 944’s face. He could feel the spit droplets landing on his cheek. “I decide how far you go! No miles! You! Listen! To! Me!”

Each of the last four words were punctuated by a shock. 944’s spine jerked in time with the words. His ears were ringing. On the tiled floor, 10 or 12 feet in front of him, he could see the contours of the other trainee. The other handlers were kneeling around him, looking like they didn’t know what to do. 732 was red, red everywhere, except for his piercing blue eyes. He was staring right at him. 944 could only stare back.

@bbu-on-the-side

#cw dehumanization #cw animalization #cw blood mention #cw broken bones mention #cw prong collar #cw shock collar #cw dubcon #cw noncon #(very vaguely and briefly)#bbucommunity #day3 #bbu community day 3

47 notes · View notes

trainerlynda · 2 months

Note

you good??? i know what it feels like to be treated like some...pet. you arent some animal that should be tamed. your a person too. with your own thoughts and opinions.

[@kerfwuffle-the-chaos-causer]

No. I.

Feel very gross.

Thank you though.

Just.

Ugh-

I am not used to this, at all. I haven't ran into this in years.

And never so.

... upfront.

#pokemon irl #pokeblogging #lyn chats #cw dehumanization mention

7 notes · View notes

lordcatwich · 1 month

Text

Lynn Payne Deserves Worse Than Death Part 8 Quintillion

#cw dehumanization #cw torture #cw torture mention #writing #oc writing #lore

6 notes · View notes

quins-whump-stuff · 9 months

Text

Idea: whumpees used for more "realistic" storytelling.*at least partially created as a result of a weird dream I recently had*

CW: death, forced to kill, guilt, loss of autonomy, drugging, generally creepy whumper stuff

Instead of having animatronics on an amusement park ride, weak, half-starved people are strapped to motorized metal skeletons, forced to act through the same actions over and over and over again, all day, every day.

Maybe they have been chemically paralyzed/drugged, maybe they are just too weak, or maybe the metal is just too strong for them to resist.

Instead of being around a ride, maybe they are forcibly cast in a play, where any staged deaths are real, a new victim brought in for every performance. They couldn't run from the death facing them, and their killer, despite logically being blameless (after all, Whumper is the real killer here) starts to be eaten by the guilt of having to kill person after person with no choice, no ability to even close their eyes.

Whumper believes that they do this to make their stories more realistic, but whether that's the truth...

Maybe I've been reading too much "people turned into dolls" whump recently, but I had to share this idea.

#whump #whump ideas #emotional whump #doll whump #kinda. again its the people turned into dolls thing #forced to kill #death #cw death #guilt #loss of autonomy #controlled #drugging #drugging mention #noncon drugging #creepy whumper #dehumanizing #dehumanization

14 notes · View notes

blogalreadydoesntexist · 11 months

Text

i just genuinely want to know where proshits got the whole 'all antis are terfs' argument like?? most antis ive met who are very openly adamantly antiproship are trans?? does terf (trans exclusionary radical feminist, ie, dense ms who think trans women 'dont count' even though theyre typically prettier than said terfs) mean something completely different in their little animalistic ass brain???

8 notes · View notes

angorwhosebabyisthis · 11 months

Text

> posts a fic i'm proud of about dark subject matter to do with five and his abuse, which came from a very personal place, on AO3

> gets a comment

> it is, Course, a hate comment from an anti, demanding on anon to know why i would 'spend my value as a writer who's read Legacies' to write it

> roasts their ass like a thanksgiving turkey and immediately goes to write more of the thing

#LL tag #antis cw #the entitlement is unreal and it Will get you made fun of sorry #like for one thing first and foremost my art is for me; unless i am specifically writing something as a gift for someone else #which i do when i do it because it brings me joy #but also i do find happiness; joy; and fulfillment in posting art that i made for myself; and it being meaningful to other people #i've got LL fics that are ten years old that people still mention having loved now and then; and that i still get kudos on #and it is so humbling in the best way; i cannot express how much my opinion on it is not 'lol go fuck yourselves i don't care'#.......BUT. your 'value' as a writer/artist/etc in fandom is not something you '''spend'''#you are a *person* who shared your time and effort and a little part of your soul #that nourishes people it resonates with; until they have enough left over to maybe share some of theirs right back #a fandom that is good for you and treating you decently will leave you with more of yourself to share; not less #the value you are bringing to a fandom is *you*#what your value to the fandom is *not* is #'someone who's read the thing i like; puts words on paper; and is therefore categorically capable of making content for me to consume'#'and ONLY content for ME to consume'#'if you write anything i don't want to read you are personally taking food out of the mouths of me and my starving children'#writers and artists in fandom are not ATMs for the fandom to leave empty #and if anyone tries to treat you like one they're an entitled weirdo who's actively dehumanizing you & i advise you to drop their ass & run #anyway i just have a lot of thoughts about the subject and i am grateful to people in fandom who aren't Like This #whereas anon can use the block button or cry themself to sleep at night every time i post another fic about five being an abuse survivor #the salt files #abuse mention cw #grooming mention cw

10 notes · View notes

madness-in-the-flesh · 2 years

Note

I have nothing specific but. If you have any hcs I’d like to see more Church n Jorge please 👉👈

Also i really like ur name <3

But of course anon!! Thanks for requesting them!!

Also thank you!!! <3 <3 I really like it too +) !!!!!!

Church and Jorge General Headcannons

GENRE - Romantic / Platonic

TRIGGER WARNING - Kidnapping, De-humanization ( I think this applies? Church and Jorge kinda treat you like a pet ), Physical Violence, Murder, Injury, Cage, Drug mention ( painkillers ) , Mind break mention, Belittling, Verbal insults

You're essentially going to be seen as a glorified house pet. They love you dearly and your so small! According to them, you can't survive on your own so they'll keep you locked up a lot. They also don't leave as much, why would they when they have you here and want to make you happy?

They want to do everything in their power to take care of you. To them, You're just so small and helpless. You can barely even fight back against them so they can't just leave you to fend for yourself. What if some other mean scary G0L3M were to show up and they weren't around?

Any attempt to harm or attack them is met with coo's and giggles. They just find it absolutely adorable. You think you can harm them? Isn't that just the cutest? I mean. How could you? such a little thing. Sure, you can stab them but the squirms of you being caught with the blade, being grabbed by the wrist as you try to get away is also really delightful

However as much as they adore your defiance, they also think it's cute to watch you get punished. They get a sadistic pleasure out of it. They will mostly focus on humiliating you in front of the rest of the MERCS.

As I stated in my " hunting down an s/o " hcs - They aren't afraid to harm or hurt you. Although they will try to focus more on pain rather than it being fatal, So they just tend to leave you with some nasty bruises and comments. For example: They may focus on hurting your eye or limbs as it would make you more reliant on them and with the proper care ( I think) nothing that would outright kill you ( maybe permanently damaged beyond repair )

It's also a great excuse for you to be out of commission. While you can't take care of yourself, most likely because your tired and high on painkillers, They'll be there to nurse you back to health. You won't get a second of peace since at least one of them will be there to watch over you

Come to think of it, You'll never be left on your own. To them, you can't be trusted with yourself since they believe you'll either be super clumsy and trip over something and need help or someone will be out to get you because they want to harm the two. Both things are overexaggerated and just them being paranoid. They hold so much love for you and can't contain themselves so they'll do everything in their power to keep you safe, against your will or not

These two are very impulsive. They won't hesitate to kidnap you or just drag you around, Basically nothing is off limits because Jorge is 5% of the impulse control and the rest is.... non-existent. So it doesn't really matter what you try, If they want it: they're gonna get it.

They'll follow you everywhere. Clearly they're skilled in that much. Just take how they tracked down Sanford and Deimos and apply that to you. The worst part is they aren't trying to outright kill you, so the moment you go down, You're gonna be snatched and thrown over a shoulder.

You're they're little friend, Their small fry and affectionately insult and taunt you. It might get to the point it's very gruesome. Making a comment about how small you are compared to them, how easily they could just crush every bone in your feeble body. But that's just part of their charm!

Nothing is off limits in their nature because, like most in Nevada, They don't really have a moral compass. All they know, really is shoot, kill, be the best and take care of each other. So when you come along - Protecting you is added to the list and that's all they need to know.

If your out with them, I can see them keeping some sort of collar and leash? or something along those lines? Or even just in some cage that looks like an oversized pet carrier. Something they can easily keep a hold of you with and on their person.

Constantly taking out anyone they don't consider an ally to make sure no one can hurt you - So no one outside the members of MERC are getting anywhere near you without getting their shit rocked. They're terrified that you'll be taken out in one fatal swoop because clearly, a small thing like yourself, can't protect themself and they refuse to let their best minuscule buddy or s/o die.

If you broke mentally, They'd be EXTREMLY UPSET. They really love you and for you to stop having that silly little charm they fell in love with? Hurts them dearly. They'll do everything in their power to either get it back or at least build you back up to the way you were before ( with the help of the other MERCS. Let's face it, You don't have chance with it if they're on their own with your mental state. )

#yandere madness combat #madness combat #yandere madness combat x reader #madness combat x reader #church #Jorge #Church & Jorge #cw yandere #cw dehumanization #cw kidnapping #cw physical violence #cw muder #cw injury #cw physical abuse #cw verbal abuse #cw verbal insults #cw belittling #cw mind break mention #cw drug mention

36 notes · View notes

gohjuo · 6 months

Text

gojo and trauma:

gojo in fact does not bode well with trauma, not entirely coming to terms with losing geto & the fact that he does two things in reaction to coming back from the dead and losing the most important person in his life. for one, physically gojo continues to have his technique on, twenty-four seven. there is no drawback to his power once he returns from the cusp of his death. after his fight with toji, he takes it upon himself to never be caught off guard. it's his way of dealing with never having that loss again ( even though he does crave a good fight, being able to go all out). it's also his way of shielding others away from him since space can't reach him & unless you are someone extremely close to him he would not take the chance to deactivate his technique. that short list includes ( suguru, shoko, megumi, tsumiki, nanami, & his students). other than that anyone would be hard-pressed to find him without it on. he did spend days post-toji fight trying out his technique & racking his brain on all the things he can do. secondly, gojo does not talk about his trauma at all. in a way, his form of denial is never talking about what he went through. his response is to isolate himself, to go back to relying on who he was pre-suguru. the strength & the destiny that his clan has instilled upon him & the very way that jujutsu society works. he picks up his blindfold & he goes right back into carrying on whatever mission is thrown upon him. in fact, he carries it with him in the back of his head. it is those late nights when he gives himself a semblance to feel, to allow himself to feel just a tiny bit. it would be very rare for gojo to open up about anything, about what he goes through, about how he is feeling. sometimes he finds it hard to describe how he's feeling or even process what he goes through. he lived a very sheltered life, one that in a way emotionally stunted him. as someone who is particularly touchy with his loved ones, he chooses to keep the barrier between himself & the rest of the world. he also chooses to shield himself from meaningful relationships that he wishes to have even though he lost his most important one.

#✧ → ᴡʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴏ ᴛʜᴏsᴇ ᴇʏᴇs sᴇᴇ ᴛʜʀᴏᴜɢʜ? ( ʜᴄ. )#BIG YIKES #sad hours #i blame call me by nav playing on repeat #i should do a headcanon on self-isolation which kinda #it kinds goes hand in hand with how he dehumanizes himself/his identity crisis #GEGE I'M FOREVER PRESSED U NEVER FINISHED THIS BEAUTIFUL ARC #the tea is it's hard to ship with gojo #thank you for coming to my ted talk #death mention cw #just in case

4 notes · View notes

lilac-and-lemon-whumps · 2 years

Text

1. Play Date

Masterlist

A short peek into a typical night with Miss Silva

Cw’s: vampire whumper, lady whumper, male and female human whumpees, pet whump, collars, non-consensual blood drinking, minor character death, it as a pronoun, dehumanization, mentions of burn injuries/previous torture

Chow forced itself not to stare.

The towel was already soaked. It crawled to grab at the second one it had dragged from the closet, patting at the remaining stains before Miss returned. She wouldn’t accept a job not finished, and certainly not one finished poorly. Chow could still hear her in the parlor with her friends, raucous laughter and stiletto heels clicking on marble floors.

Chow wasn’t too keen to feel those heels in its back or its head. Worse, Miss’ crop or her hot stick, tearing out the flesh in chunks like it were only soft wax from Chow’s candles. Chow's shoulders still weren’t healed totally from the previous month.

Chow scrubbed harder.

“What’s this one’s name?” A man had asked earlier. Harper, Miss had called him with a kiss to his cheeks when he'd arrived. Chow had been watching the rings on his fingers, ones that resembled birds, gold and heavy, but the man had not been watching Chow. He’d been studying the mutt that’d been dragged in that evening for the festivities, the crimson collar wrapped so tightly around its purple neck that Chow could only wince and look away from.

“Don’t be silly.” Miss had pulled Harper away then to another room, leaving Chow tied nicely next to the mutt, Chow’s hands clasped in a metal ribbon as a reminder to Miss’ friends not to touch Chow. “I don’t name my food.”

Now though, Chow’s hands were free to clean and the collar returned to its rightful place. The mutt, now dead and drained, stared with hollow eyes at Chow’s endeavor.

Look away, Chow reminded itself. Get back to work.

The second towel stained quickly but thankfully a third was not needed. Miss and her friends had done a cleaner job than usual. That, or they’d been hungrier. Usually there were at least two or three animals for Chow’s owners to feed from, but Miss had only bought this one for the night.

“My-ah,” the mutt had coughed out earlier, low enough not to be heard over the crowd’s cacophony. If Chow’s hands had been free, it would have slapped the mutt. No wonder the mutt was being punished, the insolence of it. The danger.

“My-my name.” A cough, low and breathless. “My na-ame—is Miah.”

Chow pretended not to hear.

Just like it pretended not to hear the mutt’s strangled screams, more gurgles of pain with the overtightened collar, when Hector and Guido took turns taking the last of whatever the mutt had left in it, throat shredded in a way that implied purposeful rather than necessary.

“‘elp me, he-‘elp me, please.”

Chow pretended, for one moment, that it was a bird on a ring. Unseeing. Unhearing. Unknowing. Just like it pretended not to hear Miss Silva’s low voice, singing some off tune ballad with the radio playing out in the hall, her friends laughing and exchanging stories from work as if Chow wasn’t stained, hands and knees and shins, in spilled blood that was, for once, not its own.

“I can’t—I…I don’t w-want to die. Please.”

Chow did not see. It did not hear. It did not speak, unlike the disobedient animal. And even if it would have wanted to do anything, it stubbornly pretended otherwise.

Just like Chow pretended, every waking hour, every miserable night and windowless morning, like it would ever be, ever at all, any better off than Miah the little dead mutt.

Taglist: @mylifeisonthebookshelf @thecyrulik @deluxewhump @melancholy-in-the-morning @pumpkin-spice-whump @cicatrix-energy @nicolepascaline @whumpy-writings

#this is shorter than usual i apologize #work has been kicking my butt #heed the cw's #vampire whump #lady whumper #pet whump #human whumpee #blood #blood drinking #dehumanization #collars #crop mention #Miss Silva and Chow #pre Diego #male whumpee #female whumpee

11 notes · View notes

jaeyleo · 11 months

Text

LOCKS OR KEYS: PART 6

MAJORITY VOTE: CONTINUE TO HELP PSEUDO IN THE GARDEN

Pink sinks deeper into his role of a puppet. Your choice leaves him with a decreased sanity and sense of self.

cws: non human whumper, parental whumpees, dehumanizing language, captivity, descriptions of blood and gore, non human eating a human, mentions of emesis, talk of character death

. . .

He isn’t ready.

Step by step, the puppet descends into the cellar carrying the store bags. He walks behind his caretaker, watching as the unconscious man sways on Pseudo’s shoulder. He looks sleepy. Dead, almost. Part of Pink hopes he is, that maybe Pseudo hit his head hard enough to knock him out for good. That maybe he won’t have to watch another person sit in the same chair, by the same bloody drain, with the same ropes, over the same blood stains that decorate the floor beneath them. A sour taste fills his mouth thinking about it. Why doesn’t Pseudo want to play with me?

The sleepy, hopefully dead man is dumped into the chair. The ropes that bind his wrists and ankles are cut loose, with a brief examination of the skin underneath. He is then restrained, ankles to chair legs, wrists to chair arms. Duct tape is removed, sweat is wiped away. He is completely at Pseudo’s disposal now, and there is not a thing in the world that can stop it.

Pink wonders, as he places the bags by the side table, if he made the wrong choice.

He isn’t ready.

The puppet stands still, watching the slow and shallow breaths of the victim. Five minutes pass by before he feels the silence in the room. Before he feels something else watching, too.

Pseudo sits in a foldable chair, about five feet from the man.

He doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t blink.

The hair on the back of Pink’s neck begins to stand the more he looks at Pseudo. There’s something wrong with him. There’s something wrong about him.

There are too many eyes on his face. Not ones Pink can see, no, something he feels. It’s as if every cell and germ and living thing on his body has stopped to stare. As if the man in front of him is not a man at all. A bird to a cat. A mouse to an owl. A rotten body to a maggot. A human to Pseudo. Meat, skin, blood, human.

Bile threatens to rise in the puppet’s throat. He looks away, never more grateful than in this moment, to be seen as lesser than human.

. . .

Ten minutes pass before a noise is heard.

“Mmmf-“

The waiting is over, and everyone in the room sits up.

“W….. w- where am I? Who are you??”

Pseudo tilts his his head. His eyes brighten. “Which question would you like me to answer first?”

“I…”

The man’s eyes flicker back and fourth between his two captors. He struggles against his binds, already sweating again. Finally, he decides on a question. “Who are you?”

“Well, I’m Pseudo, and this is Pink.”

The puppet offers a small smile, but he isn’t sure the man is comforted by it.

Pseudo leans forward, “It’s nice to meet you, Pseudo and Pink.”

“…It….. i- its nice to meet you, Pseudo and Pink.”

The captor smiles, and stands up. “How polite!”

“Please, tell me why I’m here. I don’t- I don’t understand—“

At this, Pseudo smiles even wider. He walks to the small side table, gathering the different tools he’ll need. Knives. Matches. Barbed wire. Gardening scissors. The puppet looks away before he can recognize anything else.

“Speak, Pink. Tell ol’ Richie why he’s here.”

Richie’s face goes pale at the mention of his name he never said, and his eyes turn to Pink.

“I…”

The toy takes a deep breath. He can’t meet Richie’s eyes.

“You're.... you're here because I…. I picked you…”

“...Why???”

The man’s heartbeat spikes. Pseudo sighs at the beautiful sound, something only he can hear.

“Um, um…. b- because, um, because Ps- Pseudo um… he wanted s- someone big and… b- big and strong f- for the… for the….”

“For the??”

“….. For the garden.”

Richie is in disbelief. He doesn’t understand, he doesn’t get it, he isn’t ready. He barks out more questions, more pleas and fearful mentions of children and a spouse and how he was just buying groceries for them. More terrified eyes pleading Pink for answers, but before the puppet can say a word…

“Hush, Pink,” says Pseudo, and his mouth seals shut.

"Now...." the monster turns to Richie, holding a small knife. He looks collected, calm, but there's something feral behind his eyes. “The real fun begins.”

. . .

Pink forgets a lot of things. He has trouble remembering important details in life, dates, times, people, places, even things that have happened in the last five minutes. It’s not something he’s proud of, but, he can’t help it.

The one thing he wishes he could forget was this afternoon. Those three horrible hours spent in the basement, burned into his brain. Why must his memory fail him even now?

Broken finger bones lay dead on the ground. Thick globs of blood drip from Richie’s hands where the digits once where. The gardening scissors lay just as bloody on the side table, with bits of meat still stuck in the blade. The walls are decorated in spattered red and bits of brain, when Pseudo got a little too excited in hitting Richie’s head with a hammer. Vomit covers the poor man’s lap, but that’s no matter anymore.

Now that Richie is dead, Pink has been curled up in the corner of the room with eyes closed. Blood is displayed like a blanket across his clothes, dried up in his hair and beneath his fingernails. He hasn’t stopped shaking since the first hour passed. He isn’t confident that it’ll ever stop. He’ll have to get used to that.

Pseudo has been quiet, absorbed in the poor thing he’s called his newest victim. With his head in pieces, an unrecognizable face, the monster pays attention to a more appealing part of the body. Its heart.

He places a hand on the man’s chest, feeling the emptiness inside. It’s not the same as a beating heart, but it will have to do this time.

Nimble fingers curl against skin, dragging thin lines along their paths. Deeper and deeper they sink, eventually twisting themselves to peel back the protective layers to reveal bone. Flesh tears and squelches beneath his hands, blood pouring out of the man like he’s still alive. Soon Pseudo’s hands meet the ribs, and one by one, they are snapped and broken and removed.

His breath shakes. No matter how many times he’s done this, no matter how many times he will do this, the human heart stays endlessly beautiful.

Veins and arteries with clotted blood are carefully cut away. It’s still warm, in Pseudo’s cold hands, the heart is still warm.

He can’t help but devour.

Teeth sink into ventricles with ease. Atria and valves are like candy to pop in his mouth. Heart strings are hard to chew, but he eats them all the same. The SA and AV nodes are no longer producing vital electricity, but he can still enjoy the ghost of it. Each moment of consumption is hypnosis, leaving Pseudo a puppet to his own alien instincts.

But before he knows it, its gone. No more? There isn’t any more?

Hands dig inside the empty chest cavity, pulling out chunks of lung next. He eats, and eats, and eats, and eats.

Pink dares not to move.

It’s something primal. Something deep inside his body that demands a stillness he’s never executed before. Something that reminds him of just how wrong Pseudo looked just hours before, and makes his blood run cold at the thought of just how wrong he’d look now. So he keeps his eyes closed, and listens to the tearing and chewing of flesh like its God’s word.

. . .

He isn’t sure when, but eventually the noises stop. Eventually the puppet is left in a room with a dead man, and predator with a full belly.

He wonders where Pseudo stands. He feels like he’s being watched, studied.

He dares open an eye, finding Pseudo standing above him.

Blood. Blood. Blood.

It covers his face, his mouth, his hands. It somehow drips from his hair and is soaked so completely into his clothes and shoes that the fabric has no other choice but to cling to the skin that wears it. It’s as if Pseudo weren’t just wearing blood, but the blood was part of his own flesh and body.

The monster reaches out a red hand. He hasn’t the energy to croak out a command, so the silence must be understood.

Careful, afraid, obedient- Pink reaches out the same, and hand in unlovable hand, they walk together to the bright and somber upstairs cottage.

Pink is lead to the bathroom, where he first is taken care of. There, Pseudo is gentle. Pseudo is kind.

There is a glazed look in his eyes as he gives his puppet a good rinse off and a bath. Soft clicks and whistles are the only noises that come from him, as well as soft kisses on the doll’s clean hair and hands. All the blood is washed and scrubbed from nails and skin- but the tub displays the same red memory that the cellar walls will forever hold.

When the bath is over, an image of the attic is placed inside the doll’s head. Nothing else enters his mind, nothing is said. A silent relayed command. The doll wanders upstairs, leaving Pseudo to clean up alone.

. . .

He sleeps the rest of the evening, and well into the next morning. The hypnosis from yesterday has worn off, but Chase is more lost than he ever has been. At breakfast time, he doesn’t make a fuss to be dressed and fed and loved upon. He doesn’t want to make decisions again. He doesn’t want to think anymore. Last time it only ended in carnage.

He can’t stop thinking about it while he helps Pseudo wash the dishes. Sad sad eyes watch the running water, and a sad sad mouth stays plastered in a frown.

“Speak, Pink,” Pseudo finally gives him permission to talk. “Tell me what’s on your mind.”

13 notes · View notes