#captivating information

[vintagewildlife]

Dingo By: Australian Information Bureau From: Living Mammals of the World 1969

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw captive whumpee, injury, betrayal, tortured for information, intimate whumper 

After hours of torture, of beatings, of sleep deprivation, Whumpee finally gives in. Coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the ground at Whumper’s feet, they beg, “S-stop, please. No more, I can’t—I'll tell you, I-I'll tell you everything.” 

“You lasted longer than I thought.” Whumper crouches down in front of them, taking Whumpee’s chin in their hand and tilting their head up. Their expression is almost sympathetic as they take in Whumpee’s teary eyes and bruised face. “But it’s okay. It’ll all be over if you give me the information I need. And then, just think how nice it will be to finally rest. You can sleep in a real bed while your injuries heal.” 

Whumpee doesn’t need any more convincing. They choke out the information through sobs, clinging to Whumper, and each heave of their chest sends pain shooting through their broken ribs. But it will be over soon—Whumpee doesn’t know why they even held out this long if they were just going to break anyway. 

Whumper strokes their hair gently as they give up the secrets they were trained to die for. Endangering their team’s entire operation and perhaps their lives. But then again, it’s not like Whumpee’s team came to rescue them—as Whumper had reminded them countless times. And they were right. 

“Good…that’s perfect, Whumpee,” Whumper praises after they’ve finished spilling every bit of information that had been requested, and then some. “Thanks to you, your team won’t stand a chance against me, now.” 

A sense of relief washes over Whumpee. It's done—the suffering is finally over with. They want to sleep until the pain no longer clings to their bones and laces every movement. However, their relief is quickly replaced by a fresh bout of fear at the realization of what they’ve just done. “They’ll know it was me,” Whumpee whispers brokenly.  

“Of course they will,” Whumper says, matter-of-fact. “And they will go looking for you. And if they find you, they will kill you.” 

Whumpee shakes their head. “Worse,” they correct. “They’ll do so much worse than just kill me.” 

A sharp pain shoots through their side and they groan, clutching at one of their wounds. Whumper gathers them into their arms before they collapse completely, and assures Whumpee, “That’s why you will be staying with me. In exchange for giving up the information I needed, you will be under my protection.” 

Whumpee can’t possibly have heard them right. They must be delirious from the pain. “W-what?” they stammer. Everything is growing fuzzy, and now that they’re being held in Whumper’s arms, they just want to let their eyes fall shut and surrender to sleep. 

The gentle fingers brushing back Whumpee’s hair lull them further into unconsciousness as Whumper murmurs, “I can’t just give you up now, sweetheart. I think you’d make a valuable addition to my team.” 

Whumpee hums in agreement, not quite sure what they’re agreeing to, but if it means an end to the pain, they’ll do just about anything. 

“You were never cut out for this line of work, were you?” Whumper says teasingly. They lift Whumpee in their arms and begin carrying them somewhere, but the gentle rocking motion of their steps eases Whumpee into sleep long before they find out where they’re being taken. 

[whewchilly]

Saturday at the Azerbaijan GP | 14 September 2024

[befuddled-calico-whump]

Reasons your character may be tortured that don't revolve around trying to get information:

(for those who care about accuracy and don't have time to research psychological techniques)

Revenge: the torturer feels wronged by their victim, and wants to make them suffer.

To get at a loved one: the victim isn't the actual target, but hurting them will emotionally affect or demoralize the torturer's enemy.

To force someone else's hand: similar to the above, torture by proxy to force the torturer's target to turn themselves in, sign a binding document, or make an impossible choice.

To coerce a confession: the torturer needs to pin a crime on someone, and their victim is a believable scapegoat.

Propaganda: we've captured one of your strongest men, now watch as we make them break down and beg for their life.

even more reasons

[goldencuffs]

me every time i remember that laurent smells like damen in the morning

[whumblr]

Whump prompt #62

"So, Teammate, I hear your special power is wielding electricity. I'd like for you to use it on Leader, see if you can wring out some answers."

"Absolutely not," Teammate snarled, anger sparkling between his fingertips.

"I mean, you could do so now, or wait and try to re-activate his stopped heart with it, up to you... Though I don't think it would help when there's no more blood to pump around."

[oddsconvert]

i remember felix said he watched josh for a year before starting their relationship together... is there anything that felix has incorporated into their lives from that time of surveillance? that maybe josh notices a few small things like always having his favorite dessert and/or wine, playing his favorite musician/songs, full stocked on his favorite hair products, etc and maybe after a while josh puts two and two together that it's not just coincidence, but that felix knows all of this from stalking him?

and how would that make josh feel?? 🫠🫠🫠

DINGDINGDING! YES YOU ARE EXACTLY RIGHT AND THIS IS ONE OF MY FAVOURITE DETAILS ABOUT PLAY PRETEND THAT I HAVEN'T GOT TO TALK ABOUT MUCH!!

Felix knows so much about Josh, he probably knows things that Josh didn't even realise about himself! He knows all that and more. And he'll definitely try and win Josh over with all he learnt 😌 with his favourite music, favourite food, favourite films - hell, Felix knows what schools Josh went to, that he's a night owl and never an early bird, the street he grew up on, how Josh's dad died-

I'm not sure I've mentioned this but Felix would BREAK into Josh's apartment. He wouldn't just linger in shadowed streets. He would rifle through all of Josh's belongings and steal from him. Any photographs, hairbrushes, underwear, his aftershave, his mail - literally anything and everything that caught his eye that he could get his hands on. And Felix would hide in the apartment and watch him - he'd even watch him having sex... 🤢 Felix has a wholeeee load of photos and videos that he took of Josh during that year of stalking him, along with his little trinket box of stolen goods.

And obviously, Josh is MORTIFIED to find this out. Sick to his stomach. Things start making sense. Things that went missing, when he thought he'd heard a creak in his flat. As if he couldn't feel any more violated, and any less in control 🥲

[whump-galaxy]

“Why haven’t we gotten rid that one yet?”

“I don’t know, why haven’t we gotten rid of you yet?”

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 18: Tortured for Information

Continuation of Day 14

Read it on Ao3

- Time & the Chain

- Summary: Time is captured by people craving the power of Majora's mask

CW for captivity, blood and injury, torture, and poisoning

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

“Idiots!”

The shout breaks through the haze Time drifts in, sending his panicked, feverish thoughts skittering away. He still trembles like a leaf upon the wind, still gasps for breath that will not come.

Everything hurts, but he can’t remember when the pain started. All he knows is that he wants it to end.

“Idiots! You’ve nearly killed him! I asked for him to be incapacitated, not dead! Give me the antidote, now!”

Jumbled voices trip over one another in their race to be heard. They’re arguing, Time thinks, though he can't understand what about. Not that it matters. Nothing seems to matter at the moment, except for the mad struggle to remain alert and alive.

He tries to inhale the air his lungs are screaming for and chokes. A horrid gurgling sound fills his ears. It takes him far longer than it should to realize he is making it.

The realization reignites a distant fear, a sense that danger is surrounding him, dragging him down to the depths. But before he can truly make sense of it, something cold and sharp enters his neck. An odd sensation of pressure follows as cool liquid slithers through his veins. 

And in the next moment he can breathe again.

Time inhales great gulps of air as his airways begin to expand once more. His body welcomes it, allowing it to return some of the strength he lost, drive away the dizziness and fog. 

With the return of consciousness, however, come the memories. Memories of collapsing on the cold, hard cobblestone, of struggling desperately against the assault of an invisible attacker, only to be dragged away by physical enemies.

…of someone calling him the Hero of Termina.

He drags his eye open. A warm swath of lantern light greets him. It sends shadows across the walls of the building, dancing and glinting against the many bottles and canisters shelved there. Concoctions of all colors bubble or rest in powder form. In the far corner, a pot threatens to boil over.  

A man and woman stand beside it, looking slightly pensive. Despite their surroundings, however, they appear unassuming enough that had he passed them on the street, Time wouldn’t have thought twice about them. Certainly at first glance, he would not have taken them for kidnappers…or potion makers (if that is what these people even are.) But he supposes that is the way of things. Darkness does not always come in the form of demonic masks and men with evil eyes.

Another person is here too, though her back is turned as she busies herself with something on a nearby table. She is far closer than the other two, however, and Time makes sure to keep his gaze trained on her as he turns his attention to his bonds.

The ropes he remembers restraining him earlier are gone now. Instead, shackles encircle his wrists and ankles. He shifts, testing their integrity. Their metal is thick and unyielding. As he pulls at them, something prickles at his skin in warning. It is strange, but he understands it well enough. 

Magic. 

These people, whoever they may be, possess power. Dark power.

At the slight jingle of chains, the woman turns. A grin stretches across her face. 

“Wonderful, you’re awake at last! I thought those two had done you in permanently.” She jerks a thumb back to where the others stand. “Fortunately, it appears that I gave you the antidote in the nick of time.”

Time skewers her with a glare. “I suppose you are the one who poisoned me, then?”

His voice is hardly more than a croak that sends shards of pain down his throat. 

The woman chuckles. “Well, I didn’t administer it — otherwise you would be far better off right now. But yes, I’ll admit I concocted it.” She lifts a small bottle, shaking it slightly so that it’s greenish contents jiggle. “Creating substances like that – you could say it’s my specialty.”

Time’s eye narrows. So they are potion makers. What could they possibly want with him?

“But that is hardly why you are here.”

She reaches behind her and grasps something from the table. When she turns back to him her smile has grown impossibly more sinister. In her hands she cradles a sizable object with glowing gold eyes and stripes of crimson across its cheeks.

“I’m sure you recognize this.”

A strangled gasp breaks free before he can restrain it. He would recognize that thing anywhere. After all, he has seen it enough times in his nightmares.

“Ah, you do. I thought so.” She cocks her head, shifting so the light illuminates the mask’s bulging eyes further. Time can’t shake the feeling that they are staring through him to his very soul. “It seemed unlikely that the Hero of Termina would forget his enemy so easily.”

He swallows, hard, fighting against the panic rising within him.

“There is no soul in that mask anymore,” he says with a calm that belies everything he is feeling. “Whatever plans you have for it are for nought. It is useless now. Nothing more than a trinket.”

“Precisely.” 

The woman leans forward. There is a sadistic hunger in her eyes now that sends shivers down Time’s spine. But he meets her gaze without hesitation. Anything that this potion maker has in store for him is nothing compared to what he has already endured at the hands of the monster she now holds.

…or the monster that slumbers in his pouch.

“Therein lies our problem,” she continues, with a sigh. “We located the mask without difficulty (really, that salesman should be more careful with his wares) but finding it soulless was quite the disheartening discovery. After all, we had so wanted to acquaint ourselves with him. With Majora.”

The nausea that had subsided now rears its head again. Time forces himself to swallow, to breathe past the way the room tilts. He can’t truly tell how much is from fear and exhaustion, and how much from the remnant poison still coursing through his veins. But one thing is for certain. Hearing that cursed name makes this all feel more real. Too real, in fact.

“Our disappointment has proven to be short-lived, however. Soon after finding the mask we discovered a very intriguing tidbit of information.” 

She casts a glance over her shoulder, sharing a grin with her companions, before turning back to Time. In the dim light her eyes seem to gleam. 

“There is a man who holds a deep, dark secret, thought to be known only to the gods. A man who as a child traversed the entirety of Termina and faced the demons of the land. A man who knew how to kill them…and knows how to bring them back.”

Breathing has grown difficult again and this time Time knows it has nothing to do with a deadly substance. It takes no small amount of effort to keep his expression a mask of anger. 

The woman pauses for a long moment, no doubt waiting for him to take the bait. When he remains silent, a bit of aggravation flits across her face. She steps closer, blocking the light. 

“You know how to resurrect Majora, Hero of Termina. And you are going to perform the spell right here in front of us.”

“No.” The word falls heavy on the thick silence of the room. “I will not be performing any spell for you. Because I cannot.” He smiles, grim and bitter. “Your assumptions are mistaken, unfortunately. I have no knowledge of a way to resurrect long-deceased demons. Perhaps, you should have kidnapped a necromancer instead.”

He expects anger to contort her expression. Instead, she smirks.

“You live up to your title, hero. We hoped that you would.”

The woman places Majora carefully back on the table. One of her companions grabs one of the many bottles from the shelves and with it firmly in his grasp, steps forward. 

“The poison we slipped into your food…its effects were excruciating, were they not?” The woman asks. There is something almost gleeful in her tone. “They certainly sounded painful. When these two dragged you in here you were barely living. A few moments more and you would have suffocated.”

She motions toward the bottle now, filled to the brim with a deep purple liquid. Its sinister glint is almost mesmerizing. 

“What you just endured is nothing compared to what you will suffer once this runs through your veins.”

Time drags his gaze away from the bottle. The pound of his own heart is deafening. 

“If it is as horrible an experience as you say, how do you expect me to perform anything at all?”

She smiles. “Oh, not to worry. All you will need to do is agree to do as we wish. Then, I will provide the antidote and your body will return to normal functioning. So” – She tilts her head in question – “what is your answer, hero? Will you help us resurrect the great Majora? Or will you maintain this flimsy facade of ignorance?”

Time takes a deep breath, trying his best to prepare for whatever is about to come.

“I swear to you,” he says, firmly. “I know nothing. As far as my knowledge goes, Majora is dead and will remain that way.”

“Ah, so flimsy facade it is.” The woman turns to her companion. “Go on, then, make him drink it.”

Time glares at him as the man starts toward him. But he hardly seems affected. With a dark chuckle, he leans down and grabs Time’s chin, forcing his head up. Instinctively, Time’s hands fly upward to shove him off. The chains burn his wrists, magic screaming at him to remain still and compliant. He ignores it and digs his nails into the man’s hand. Blood bubbles up beneath his fingernails, turning them red. 

With a cry of pain, the man jerks back. Time doesn’t wait for him to recover. Quick as a flash, he brings his knee up. 

“Oh, you little – ”

Bloodshot eyes meet his own, fury boiling within them. Time smirks. 

“I suppose you thought I was going to go down easily.”

Seconds later his head snaps back, pain exploding across his nose as a fist collides with his face. 

He kicks out again, blindly. Another cry pierces the air. This time the retaliation takes his breath away. He is almost certain the hit has broken a rib or two.

“Hey!” Comes a breathless voice past the ringing in his ears. “Get over here and help me hold him!”

“Stay still, you!”

Hands try to restrain him but he lashes out once more. His fist connects with something decidedly human and he feels a grim sort of satisfaction at the sensation of bones breaking. 

“Oh, please. Are you both physically incapable of holding down someone who is not near death? Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

There is a telltale zip of something sharp piercing the air. And then, Time chokes on a cry as a dagger embeds itself in his shoulder. For a moment, he can focus on nothing more than trying to breathe, trying to push away the dots that have exploded before his eye. But when they grab his hair and wrench his head back, pressing cool glass to his lips, he forces himself to ignore the pain. 

He can’t fall. Not now. Not yet.

In one swift motion he reaches up, grasps the hilt of the dagger, and yanks it out. Magic is at his fingertips even as his vision goes white, a scream pushing past tightly closed lips. He funnels it into the weapon and slices outward.

Instantly, the restraining hands are gone. Screams erupt as his captors leap out of the way of the ravenous flames. They lunge forward, spreading as they go, breaking bottles and catching on the wooden floor and walls. 

“Go!” The man yells. “Get out!”

Time barely registers the two of them racing for the door. He has turned his attention to his bonds. One swipe of the flaming dagger and the chains restraining his legs fall uselessly to the ground. In the next instant, those hooked to the shackles about his wrists follow suit.

The magic they are imbued with is strong. But he has found few spells as intimidating as Din’s Fire. And he is lucky for it.

Gritting his teeth, he rises on shaky feet. Now, to get the mask and escape before the building’s inevitable collapse.

“I knew it.” 

Time stops, arm outstretched toward the mask. The potion maker grins at him from the opposite side of the room, her eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. There is blood dribbling down her forehead, soot splotched across her skin. But she doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Her gaze is locked firmly on him, that hunger even more prevalent than before.

“I knew it! You can do magic! You can perform the spell!”

She starts toward him, limping slightly on an ankle that must be twisted.

“Your lies were pathetic enough that only a child would have believed them. But now, oh now I know for certain.”

“You know nothing.” Time grasps the mask in his free hand, the dagger still held tightly in the other. “Majora is gone. He will never use anyone again.”

He starts toward the door, backing up so as to keep her in his line of sight. A quick glance around proves that his armor and pouch are not here. They must have stowed them somewhere else. Near the inn, perhaps. 

She laughs, a strangled, unhinged sound.

“Oh, Hero of Termina, you are every bit as courageous as they say.” Something is in her hand now. It glints in the light of the flames. “But you are a fool.”

Before he can even begin to react, a second dagger embeds itself in his thigh. With a strangled cry, Time crumples. The mask and dagger slip from his grasp. The woman scoops them up effortlessly.

“That is no ordinary weapon,” she says, voice drifting past the sounds of crackling wood and popping glass and his own labored breathing. “The potion you thought you had destroyed? Its blade is dripping with it.”

As if on cue, pure agony erupts from the spot. It feels as though the flames that surround them have found their way inside and begun eating away at muscles and organs and bones. A scream begs to be let loose. Time refuses to release it. Gritting his teeth, he curls his hands into fists.

But the pain only spreads, curling upward like tongues of fire, eating away at him as it goes. He chokes on a mouthful of blood.

Somewhere nearby the ceiling begins to cave in.

“Ah, well that won’t do.” Fingers dig into his wounded shoulder, dragging him across the hard floor. Time gasps. “I want you begging for death, not receiving it.”

The heat of the burning building gives way to the coolness of night. The woman drops him onto a bed of damp grass. Time catches a brief glimpse of a star-speckled sky before he shuts his eye once more, still fighting against the urge to scream. 

“Wonderful. Now that we’re a safe distance from the disaster of your escape attempt, we have plenty of time.” Dimly, he is aware of a presence settling down beside him. “In fact, we have all the time in the world. This potion isn’t deadly, you see. So, either you agree to resurrect Majora – or at the very least tell us how – or you surrender to an eternity of pain. The choice is yours.”

The unending agony surges again. Time spits more blood into the grass. A shudder runs through him. But he isn’t cold, not in the least. Every part of him is drenched in molten heat. Every part of him is burning. 

The woman sighs. “I do wish I could make the experience even worse for you, though. I’ll admit I’m very displeased with what you did to my house. And my employees ran off too. Shameful. But I suppose once you do the deed that will all be forgotten.”

Time digs his nails into the ground, curling in on himself as wave after wave of pain buffets him. 

“Why?” He chokes. “What…what do you want with Majora?”

“What do I want with him? What does anyone want with a monster in a mask?” Time opens his eye just in time to see her lean over him. “Power.”

She grins, a shadow against a backdrop of billowing smoke. And she drives the dagger in deeper.

This time he can’t restrain it. He screams, sharp and hoarse and strangled, as the fire within him grows one thousand times hotter. He is going to explode, he is certain of it. Either that or simply turn to ash. 

But neither occurs. It merely continues, an eternity of pain, surging and waning with every passing moment. 

“Give up,” she purrs, when he stops screaming long enough to catch his breath. “You have nothing to prove. Tell me how I can bring him back.”

He spits in her face.

She wipes the blood away with a strained smile. “Well, you are certainly a stubborn one. Perhaps, I need to make this a bit more excruciating.”

She reaches into a pouch at her waist. But before she can pull out her next torture device, an arrow soars through the air and pierces her arm.

With a screech, she stumbles upward and back. Grasping the dagger Time had used, she looks wildly around.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” The blade comes to rest on Time’s neck, inches from his jugular. “Come out or I’ll kill him!”

“No, you won’t,” someone says. “You need him.”

Time blinks, trying to grasp his hazy thoughts. That…that’s Four, isn’t it? It certainly sounds like him. But how…

Wolfie lunges from the bushes, lips pulled back in a snarl. Upon his back, sits the smithy, sword held at the ready. They streak forward, heading straight for the potion maker. 

She brings the dagger up just as they reach her. But another arrow appears out of nowhere and knocks the weapon right out of her hands. Wolfie leaps at her and she hits the ground with a shriek.

Four slides off of his back and levels his sword at the woman.

“Stay down,” he says, and there is an edge to his voice Time has never heard before. “You don’t want to know what happens if you fight that wolf, trust me.”

The rest of the heroes rush forward now, some headed for the downed villain, others for Time.

Warriors reaches him first, skidding to his knees beside him. 

“What did she do to you, Sprite?” he breathes as he maneuvers Time’s head onto his lap. 

Time drags in a strangled breath. He opens his mouth, fully meaning to tell him what they need to make this all stop. But all that comes out is a series of thick, wet coughs. Then, the pain increases again and his back arches as he screams. 

Words filter through the sounds of his own agony, disjointed and befuddling.

“...sorry.”

“Alright…going to be…”

“Give…now!”

The screams taper off into gasping breaths. Time sags, boneless against Warriors. The captain’s face floats in and out of view, wavering between clarity and a nauseating blur.

“Here, Sky, take…Quick…drink.”

The hands that tip his chin upward are gentle. He trusts them. Time lets his mouth fall open, obediently swallowing the liquid that slides down his burning throat. 

He feels the effect almost instantly. The fire within him dims and lessens, as a strange chill drifts through him. It carries away the pain so he can breathe again, think again, hazy and directionless though his thoughts are.

Slowly, he blinks as the world comes back into focus. His brothers look down at him, worry and hope battling across their faces.

“Is…is he…” Wind starts, tears welling in his eyes.

“He’s okay,” Warriors assures him, even as his grip on Time’s hand tightens. “The antidote worked.”

Time manages the slightest smile. “Don…don’t worry, sa-sailor. Takes…a lot to kill me.”

Wild grins, though it’s far shakier than his usual. “Obviously. You burned an entire house down, Time! See if I listen next time you get onto us about committing arson.”

“You never listen anyway,” Warriors points out, drily. Wild scowls at him.

“But you shouldn’t have had to burn down a house in the first place,” Twilight says, bitterness in his tone and regret in his eyes. “We took too long to find you. I’m sorry.”

“What did she want with you anyway?” Legend asks. He looks down at the mask he must have scooped up from the ground. “And what did it have to do with this thing?”

“Okay, questions and apologies later,” Warriors pipes up. “We need to get him back to the inn.”

Time sends him a look of gratitude. The pain might have diminished greatly, but he feels worn and wrung out. And his shoulder and leg still throb to the pulse of his heartbeat.

Twilight’s expression is still a raging swirl of barely-restrained emotions. But he nods. 

“I’ll carry him.”

“What’re we gonna do with her?” Hyrule asks, jerking a thumb back to where the potion maker must still be. 

They must have knocked her unconscious, Time thinks, otherwise she wouldn’t be so silent. People like her don’t stop talking, even when every word only serves to drive them further into the ground.

“Bring her back to town,” Warriors replies. “Maybe we can get her to tell us what her goal was here. After that, I’m sure we can get her set up in a nice, cozy jail cell.”

“The faster we can get her there the better,” Legend growls. “Sadistic creep.”

Twilight gently lifts Time off of the ground, murmuring an apology when he hisses in pain. 

“Let’s go, then,” he says, once Time is securely in his grip. (How he carries him so effortlessly, Time hasn’t a single idea. He must’ve inherited Malon’s strength.) 

“We need to hurry up for Time’s sake too.”

Warriors nods. “He’s not completely out of the woods yet. But once we’re back Hyrule and I can fix him up.”

With the traveler's agreement, the group begins to move. Time can see the still-burning house over Twilight's shoulder, blurry and wavering. Plumes of smoke climb toward the heavens, born up from tongues of crimson flame. 

“We’ll be there soon, old man,” Twilight says somewhere above him. “Just hang in there.”

Time lets his eye slide shut. The image of destruction fades. An abyss of cool darkness greets him in its place and with a wave of relief, he welcomes it.

[hellkitepriest]

everything everything at eve studios in 2021 by henry broadhead

[crash-bump-bring-the-whump]

Whumpril 2024 - Day 22 - Stoicism Breaks

I've been threatening to send Mariano to therapy so here we ARE! I reference a little RP I had with @comfy-whumpee that's been swirling in my brain ever since we did it c:<

TWs: self harm mention, suicide mention, anxiety mention, talk of a shooting, talk of captivity, this is real cathartic though I promise it's not bad

Ex-military, spent most of his twenties in foreign federal prison, history of anxiety, suicidal ideation, and self-harm. Stoic, highly traumatized, closed off, slow to open up. Hesitant to talk about intense experiences, needs reassurance. Overly concerned with others' needs.

Mary Barlowe looked over her notes before walking into the latest session with Mariano Cross. He wasn't her most difficult patient to talk to, not by a long shot. She never had to worry about calling security, or convincing him to leave when time was up. He was polite, punctual, and friendly.

But he was challenging in his own way.

He'd had a full decade of people telling him that he was an irredeemable monster, and he'd taken it all very seriously. Discussing anything heavier than everyday troubles was approached with the same caution that stray dogs approached an outstretched hand. He barely seemed to have even a basic connection to his own body or emotions, sounding detached whenever he spoke about them. They were things he needed help with, of course, but it was clear that there were things buried deeper than that.

The small, quick smile he gave her when she entered was a fantastic sign. "Good afternoon, Doctor Barlowe." He was already seated, back straight, both feet flat on the floor, and careful hands folded and resting on his leg.

"Good afternoon, Mariano." She returned the greeting easily, taking her own seat in the comfortable chair opposite his. "You mentioned wanting to talk about something difficult today, did something happen?" She knew the answer to that. He'd missed a few sessions due to being hospitalized from a robbery gone wrong.

He hesitated, dark eyes darting to the table between them. "Yes. I...there was something that happened." He seemed to close in on himself, just so, hands still clasped firmly together. She could feel the tension that crept into his voice. "But I understand if we can't."

There it was, the familiar beginning of withdrawal. "Why wouldn't we be able to talk about it?" She leaned forward, a small smile on her face. She kept her features soft, her posture relaxed. "You're paying to have a space to talk about the difficult things."

"I am, yes." He trailed off, not quite meeting her eye yet. "But it was...graphic. I don't want to overstep. I've accidentally done that before, and I...I don't want to find a new therapist. I like you."

"Oh?" Mary's voice softened. "Mariano, let me reassure you: You are not the first former prisoner I've worked with, or the first soldier. If I need a moment after hearing something then I'll let you know, but you're not going to destroy me by just talking.

"You deserve to feel safe enough to say what's on your mind. I'm sure it gets heavy holding it in, doesn't it?" She saw something in his jaw tense, the hold he had on his own hand growing tighter.

Mariano swallowed, nodding, eyes on the tissue box between them. "...It does. I have dreams about it sometimes."

"I'd imagine so." She said. "What happens in those dreams?"

When Mariano spoke again, his voice was barely louder than a whisper. "I can't call for help after I'm shot, and I wind up dying." He took a deeper breath, the sound just barely trembling. "It always feels...very realistic."

"Were you alone when it happened?" Mariano didn't move. His eyes never left the tissue box. "Mariano?" She had a feeling that he wasn't thinking about whether or not he needed a tissue.

He looked up at her, tension tight around his eyes, jaw set, and shoulders curled in on himself. "I...I don't want to hurt you."

"Have you hurt someone by talking about this before?" She spoke to him like he was backed into a corner, cowering away. He was, in a sense. It was like he was waiting for her to snap at him.

Mariano nodded.

"Can you tell me about it?"

Mariano hesitated, his grip shifting to his own elbows. He looked even smaller in the soft, pale green chair. "One of my friends asked me what happened, and why people weren't applying to the ad we put out for more managers. I said that I got shot during a robbery and almost died, and that it had gotten publicized--I don't think I went into detail, but he said that I...ambushed him?"

Mariano's breath caught. "I don't want to overstep again." He repeated. "He's a therapist and...I tried to keep things civilian friendly. It was why people hadn't been applying, and I tried to keep it brief, I...I don't really know what I did wrong. I didn't want to ask him to explain if I'd already hurt him."

A frown ghosted across Mary's face. "I see. Well, you don't have to worry about that, here. I have my own therapist, and I come to work expecting to hear about hard things."

She pushed the tissues closer, leaning forward to catch Mariano's eye. "And I think that I would've answered similarly, in your shoes. Maybe your friend was just having a hard time himself, and didn't communicate that well.

"But most people wouldn't consider that an ambush, just like you wouldn't consider it one if you asked a friend how they'd been and they said that they'd broken their leg recently, or lost a pet." She smiled softly when Mariano continued looking at her. "I think you'd just consider that surprising and unfortunate."

Mariano's jaw trembled. His eyes shone in the mid-afternoon light that streamed in through the window. "...I would."

"This hour is yours, Mariano. I'm not going to get upset at you." She plucked a few tissues and offered them over. "I've seen you for a while now. You don't have to be vigilant like that with me."

Mariano took them, holding them tight.

"Let me help you set some of that heavy stuff down." Mary offered. "You don't have to hold it all in on your own. You won't hurt me with it. It's safe."

Mariano's shoulders shuddered as he crumbled face-first into the tissues. A sob crawled out of him, escaping into his palms. It sounded agonized, like he'd been holding it in for months.

It was the most emotion he'd shown the entire time she'd known him. "It's okay to let people help you. You don't have to be a one man army anymore."

When Mariano had collected himself again, minutes later, Mary listened as he told her about the night that he almost died.

@whump-captain @whumpr @whumperofworlds @lektricwhump @cyberwhumper @bxtterflystxtches @inscrutable-shadow @honeybees-125

[vintagewildlife]

Long-nosed rat kangaroo By: Australian Information Bureau From: Living Mammals of the World 1969

[shitpostingfromthebarricade]

I just think that if I ended my twenty-page essay with

We might say that, for ten centuries, the cloaca has been the disease of Paris. The sewer is the taint the city has in her blood. The popular instinct is never mistaken. The trade of sewerman was formerly almost as perilous, and almost as repulsive to the people, as the trade of slaughterer, so long held in horror and left to the executioner. It took high wages to persuade a mason to disappear in that fetid ooze; the well-digger's ladder hesitated to plunge into it; it was said proverbially, "to descend into the sewer is to enter the grave"; and all manner of hideous legends, as we have said, covered this colossal drain with terror; awful sink, bearing the traces of the revolutions of men, and in which we find vestiges of all the cataclysms from the shellfish of the deluge down to Marat's rag.

I might have a "SEE ME" underlined somewhere underneath.

[novaauster]

It’s like an alarm clock. Beep, beep, beep, says Andrew’s skull, and beep, beep, beep, confirm his eyes, all stagelights and polished smiles and talkshow. Emphasis on the talk, emphasis on the show. Andrew isn’t listening, he’s watching, body jolted out from the drugged sleep it’d fallen backwards into. That’s Riko, onstage, and that’s his voice.

Why do you care, says the drugs.

Beep, beep, beep, says his skull.

[serickswrites]

Deflect

Warnings: restraint, captivity, torture, bruises, blood, defiant whumpee

Whumper sat back in their chair, watching Accomplice punch Whumpee in the ribs over and over again. Whumpee carefully maintained their footing in the standing cuffs despite being hit over and over again.

"Just tell us what we want to know and this can stop," Whumper drawled as they watched Accomplice pause.

Whumpee stared directly at Whumper, their eyes blazing underneath the dark bruising of a black eye. "Why would I tell you what you want? You haven't asked me nicely."

Whumper frowned. "Hit them harder. And somewhere more painful."

Accomplice smiled as they cocked their arm back and punched Whumpee in the face, splitting Whumpee's lip.

Whumpee spat out a mouthful of blood at Accomplice. "Ok, ok, ok. I'll tell you."

Whumper smiled. All it took was a hit to the face? They could have saved so much time. "Go on."

Whumpee swallowed. "Listen closely," they said softly.

"We are," Accomplice stared down at Whumpee.

"Not for very much longer," Whumpee promised.

"Get on with it."

"I've got to keep control." Whumper could have sworn Whumpee's lips pulled into a smirk.

"You need to let go of your need to control, Whumpee, and just tell us." Accomplice's patience was wearing thin.

"I remember doing the Time Warp!" Whumpee smirked at Whumper as they spoke.

"Hit them until they give us what we want, Accomplice," Whumper let the anger they were feeling fill their voice.

"With pleasure," Accomplice said as they began to punch Whumpee again.

"It's just a jump to the left," Whumpee gasped as Accomplice struck their ribs once more.

[mrmustachious]

Get Out of My Head

Summary: Virgil hurts Gordon in the worst way imaginable.

Day(s): 6, 11, 15, 18, 20, Alt 15

Prompt(s): “It should have been me.”, Captivity, “I’m fine.”, Tortured For Information, “Hit them harder.”, “You will regret touching them.”, Reluctant Whumper

Virgil paced back and forth across the dimly lit room. It was cold and damp, and there were no windows, only one small bulb that swung softly from the ceiling and created the limited light.

Virgil wasn’t concerned about any of that though. He barely paid attention to the cold he felt or where he was or how he’d gotten there. No, right now he was only concerned about where his brother, who had been at his side not long before they had gotten into this mess, was now.

Virgil rubbed a hand over his face as he spun on his heel and paced across to the other side of the room. If he could remember what had happened, he could figure out why he was there and maybe put together a way to get out.

And a way to find Gordon.

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