#cw masochism

[howlsofbloodhounds]

no more of killer fumbling his knife tricks for the laugh. more of killer using knife tricks to constantly stay stimulated and grounded and moving and ready and check his reflexes and he’s really good at them.

but if he fails and fumbles it’s because he wants the blades to cut his hands and fingers and knuckles. it serves to check his knives are still sharp and he gets to enjoy the pain and watch the blood drip between his fingers

[unforgivenn]

Masochist whumpee who messes up simple tasks to get hurt by their master. When whumper notices this they get very angry and decide to show whumpee what real pain feels like

CW: torture, masochism, sadism, emotional and physical abuse

The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single bulb casting eerie shadows on the walls. Whumpee stood trembling, their fingers fumbling, either in excitement or fear over the broken vase pieces scattered on the floor.

They knew the routine by now, the cycle of mistakes and punishments that had become their twisted solace. They longed for the sharp sting of their master's wrath, the only connection they had left in this world.

Whumper entered the room, their eyes narrowing as they took in the scene. "Again?" They hissed, the word dripping with venom. "You can't even handle a simple task like this?"

Whumpee's heart raced, a mixture of fear and anticipation swirling in their chest. "I'm sorry, Master," they whispered, their voice barely audible. "I didn't mean to..."

Whumper's hand shot out, grabbing Whumpee by the collar and lifting them off the ground. "Don't lie to me!" they roared, shaking Whumpee violently. "You did this on purpose, didn't you? You want me to hurt you, don't you?"

Whumpee's eyes filled with tears, their breath coming in ragged gasps. "Please, Master... I... I just..."

Whumper's grip tightened, their eyes blazing with fury. "You think this is pain? You think you know what real pain feels like?" They threw Whumpee to the ground, their voice low and menacing. "I'll show you what pain really is."

Whumpee curled into a ball, their body trembling as they awaited the inevitable. Whumper disappeared into the shadows, returning moments later with a thin, cruel-looking whip. They cracked it in the air, the sound echoing through the room like a gunshot.

"Get up," Whumper ordered, their voice cold and devoid of emotion. "Stand up and face me."

Whumpee struggled to their feet, their legs shaking uncontrollably. They met Whumper's gaze, a mixture of fear and desperate longing in their eyes. "Please, Master... I..."

"Silence!" Whumper snapped, raising the whip high. "You want pain? I'll give you pain."

The first strike landed with a sickening crack, the force of it sending Whumpee crashing to the ground. They screamed, the sound raw and guttural, echoing off the walls. Whumper didn't stop, the whip lashing out again and again, each blow more brutal than the last.

"Is this what you wanted?" Whumper snarled, their voice growing more frenzied with each strike. "Is this what you needed?"

Whumpee's screams turned to sobs, their body convulsing with each hit. They could feel their skin tearing, the blood flowing freely down their back. The pain was unbearable, a searing agony that consumed every inch of their being.

Whumper finally stopped, their chest heaving with exertion. They looked down at Whumpee, a twisted smile playing on their lips. "Now you know what real pain feels like," they said softly, their voice almost gentle. "Now you understand."

Whumpee lay on the ground, their body broken and bloodied, their mind a haze of pain and confusion. They had wanted this, hadn't they? They had needed this. But now, as the darkness closed in around them, they weren't so sure. The only thing they knew for certain was that they were completely, utterly alone.

Whumper wasn’t done. They dragged Whumpee by their hair to the basement, each step down the creaky stairs echoing with dread. The basement was a chamber of horrors, tools of torment meticulously arranged on the walls. Whumpee’s eyes widened in terror as they were shoved against a cold, metal table. Their wrists and ankles were strapped down with cruel efficiency.

"Now," Whumper said, their voice a chilling whisper, "let’s see how much you can really take."

They reached for a set of sharp hooks, dangling them in front of Whumpee's wide, terrified eyes. "no..." Whumpee pleaded, their voice barely more than a hoarse whisper.

Ignoring the pleas, Whumper pressed the first hook into Whumpee’s flesh, just below their ribcage. The hook dug in with a sickening squelch, and the guttural scream that escaped Whumpee was animalistic to say the least.

"Shh," Whumper cooed mockingly, twisting the hook slightly. "This is just the beginning."

Whumper moved with practiced precision, embedding more hooks into Whumpee's skin, each one drawing fresh screams and rivers of blood. Whumpee's body was a canvas of suffering, each hook a cruel reminder of their tormentor's power.

"Oh but whumpee.. Do you not enjoy this..?" Whumper cooed making whumpee shake their head so fast, that their ears started ringing. Or maybe that was because of the blood loss. They weren't so sure now.

"Why do you do this, whumpee?" The whumper's voice cut through the haze of pain, his words a cruel taunt. "Why do you crave this suffering?"

Whumpee could only whimper in response, their mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions—fear, desire, and a twisted gratitude that they couldn't comprehend. The pain was relentless, a symphony of torment orchestrated by their own hand.

"Answer me!" The whumper's voice boomed, shaking them from their stupor. "Or do you need more?"

"I... I don't know!" Whumpee gasped, tears mingling with the sweat and blood on their face. "I just... I need..."

"You need me to show you what real pain feels like," the whumper finished, their voice low and chilling.

As Whumpee's screams subsided into weak, shuddering sobs, Whumper pulled out a thin, serrated knife. "You've been such a disappointment," they murmured, tracing the blade along Whumpee's thigh. "Maybe this will teach you to do better."

They carved slowly, deliberately, the knife slicing through flesh with a sickening ease. Blood pooled around Whumpee’s legs, the metallic scent mingling with the damp, musty air of the basement. Whumpee's cries grew weaker, their body wracked with uncontrollable shivers.

Whumper stepped back, surveying their handiwork with a satisfied grin. "You see," they said softly, "this is what pain really feels like."

Whumpee's vision blurred, their mind teetering on the edge of unconsciousness. The pain was a consuming fire, burning away any coherent thought. All that remained was a raw, unfiltered agony that left them broken and hollow.

As the darkness closed in, Whumpee’s last thought was a fleeting wish for an end to the torment, a desperate hope that they would never wake to face their master’s wrath again.

[gabessquishytum]

Okay, what about Dream and Hob in a sadomasochism scenario, but not a typical, physical one. Instead, Hob's supposed to list every flaw of Dream he can think of, everything that ever made him angry or upset. But he takes the cruelty out of it by always adding a "but I love you" after, a kiss, a stroke to Dream's genitals (whatever he happens to have at that moment), a gental caress with his hands or whatever else you can think of.

Dream may or may not be crying the entire time, but he doesn't use their safeword. He enjoys these sessions because they reassure him that Hob's not blind to his flaws but still somehow, miraculously loves him.

As for Hob, he means every word of it. His lover may be the most stubborn self-destructive being in the universe with an occasionally intense cruelty, but he wouldn't trade him for the world. And it's not like Hob's a saint either, so really, would be a bit hypocritical of him to stop loving Dream

This is such a great scene concept for them. I can imagine that it would take a lot of work beforehand - lots of conversations about what Dream wants from the experience, why he thinks it would bring him pleasure and contentment. Lots of discussions about Hob’s role in the scene, how he needs to feel sure that he won't feel guilty afterwards and that if he does, they'll have ways to handle it. Lots and lots of pre-planned aftercare for both of them.

It's definitely a lot of work, but Dream ultimately feels that it was worth it for the absolute high of submissive energy that he feels during the scene. Hob strips him right down to the bones and keeps on going and it's so fucking good to be seen. To be loved for all that he is, both sublime and terrible. Dream finally feels free.

He also cums nearly every time Hob tells him that he loves him. Endless refractory period and all that. So that's a fun pavlovian reaction that Hob is very keen to further explore!

[stagesofkiller]

If color had an ecto tongue, what if the heat of it changes like when the flames of his skull go from smooth flames to real flames when he experiences intense emotions, meaning he’s able to have either a very warm tongue and/or its capable of leaving light stinging or burning sensations

Meaning when he’s either very excited, annoyed, anxious, full of adrenaline, angry, etc. he can cause quite the stinging or burning to someone’s body parts that were in his mouth or that he had his mouth on.

Killer would love this I feel. He’d feel like it makes him and color closer I think.

[rats-and-robots]

Hi. This is gore for gore's sake. Dead dove. Do not eat. I am not kidding. Please trust me. Read the tags.

With that said;

Tervantias the Archmachinator, for all his pride, knows he isn't perfect. For all he boasts, there is always more to learn. New instruments begging to be tuned to his songs, his ever-changing collection of pitches and tunes. And yet his claws always ache to primal urges when something refuses to fall into place.

Bones crack and crunch.

Blood bubbles out of the poor thing's nose as the beast above it buries into its gut, coating its snout with gore.

Claws press at yet-unbroken flesh to give leverage as it pulls at muscle. It twists its head and yanks. Once. Twice. A third time and the meat comes free.

The body of the prey lay motionless, save for the motions of its predator. A sharp snort through reptilian nostrils and the beast lifts its snout to throw the meat back into its gullet.

The arena is filled with chatter and meaningless laughter about the show that has just finished. A few souls glance anxiously his way as he leans forward, towards the display. His head still, but his ever twitching, ever moving body continues its motions.

So that creation needed... Just a touch of tweaking. A metal hand taps rapidly on a flesh one, like the dancing legs of a spider. Interesting.

His mind is already spinning, never stopping, but it churns just a touch faster. A third hand raises to his face, metal claws slipping in and around the wet musculature. The sting is but a strum of a string to the symphony of sensation that plays in his whole self. A background song of pain and ache and burn and pleasure to every movement he makes.

Someone speaks to him. He mutters some words to appease them and urge them to leave him alone, his pitch eyes never leaving the beast and his imperfect creature's corpse.

He steps back, his gaze finally ripping away. The same gaze turns into a flurry of movement, twitching this way and that as he considers, contemplates... Not really looking where he is going but moving with a grace unusual even to those around him. His own... 'kin', would he even deign to call them that. He pushes a finger through his cheek-flesh-muscle and groans softly as the fresh puncture sharpens his thoughts.

He has an idea for how to improve his design. He'll need certain parts, though. And they are no cheap thing to get. His servants will scavenge what they can, but...

He slides back into his sanctum, his home, his orchestra hall. A sigh pushes out from his chest, the red muscles of his torso glistening as it relaxes ever so faintly. Frantic movements become more organized. His claw retreats from the wound in his face, a mere bead of blood expressing itself from the muscle. The sounds around him, the ever so faint hiss of mechanics, the groans of pain, the mad laughter, the... Everything. It's too much to put to words. It's not perfect. Perfection is such a boring state, anyways.

Claws slide through his hair, smearing the faintest of red through the silver, and three other arms make silent but strict orders to those around him. He has work to do and he will lose himself in it for a few hours more. First, however, is the poor soul who happens to be closest to his claws. He does like to think himself immune to the frustration of failure; a savage, beastly emotion so beneath one as he. Unfortunately, 'likes to think' does not make something a fact.

He moves without seeing, lips pressed into a thin line. A sharp jab silences the flesh-thing, a single tool cutting through armor, skin, flesh, fat, muscle, tendon, and cord. The screaming becomes hollow gasping. Viscera of veins bulging like blue and red spiderwebs, yet not quite bursting as he peels back layers. Cuts that look jagged, yet expertly avoid any major vessels to curb excessive bloodshed.

Yes, the scene is gory... But too much blood spilled would make this far too messy. What's the point in art if you can't see it? In music muffled under cloth so thick to drown it out? It's a song he has played many times before, one that may not carry the same joy as the first listen, but still instills him with some level of calm. So many layers of excess in these beasts, yet it was Aeldari who birthed Sai'lanthresh?

Epidermis peeled from dermis peeled from fat peeled from muscle. Tendons quietly clipped to free spasming and contracting musculature from bone. The creature wheezes and thrashes, but his cuts remain precise. This is no experiment, no delicate procedure. This is but a collection and dissection. No need to restrain or subdue the thing, much less waste any of his toxins to still them.

It twists and falls off his table. He merely blinks and turns to place the extracted muscles into a secondary pan. His claws click quietly and he glides around the table to pluck their spasming form off the ground, setting them back on the table. Some organ has burst so fluid and mucus leave a slime trail from the ground to the table. The stench is but a rise in the chorus and he clicks his tongue. Blood has begun to spill more readily, ripped from its veins by the thing's thrashing. All the more reason to finish quickly and--

The door beyond his curtain is opened, then closed. His lips peel back from his teeth in a grimace, but he chooses to feign ignorance of the visitor. He moves to instead begin extracting bone, the creature letting out a whistle-like noise as it arches... Then falls still. Shock, likely. Normally, he would reawaken them with a jolt or an injection, but his attention is more on the light footsteps drawing near to him as he recognizes them.

Ah...

This could be interesting.

"Aezyrraesh." He clicks his teeth with the name.

"Frustrated, Tervantias? At least this time your new experiment made it to the finale, ah?" The Dracon's words carry amusement and taunt, but it bothers him none. His eyes stay on his little project, only a slow blink to even acknowledge the man had even said anything.

"What do you want?"

"..." That isn't the response Marazhai had wanted, this he knows. The pause and the faintest sound of grinding teeth only confirm that, "I need a favor. A control worm--"

It's such a pathetic request that the haemonculus laughs. His head tilts up and finally twists towards the Dracon, "Is it truly so hard for one pathetic worm to find another?"

Marazhai seethes, lips curled back in a snarl, but catches himself, "I need one of custom make." His eyes flick over the haemonculus as the conductor straightens his back, "One for the mon-keigh who continues to predict our movements."

Tervantias tilts his head, contemplating this. Beneath him, without assistance, the creature under his claws expels its life and its previous meal. Boredly, he looks down at it, then carelessly hooks a finger under it and flips it off of the table, back to the place it had previously occupied on the ground. The smears left behind reek of bile and pus. He waves to an assistant to clean it and the body up, "Why should I waste my talents making something for some mon-keigh creature?"

Marazhai's jaw clenches, "The Reaving Tempest is falling out of favor and respect--" Tervantias turns towards him slowly, head tilting, mechanics twitching, muscle glistening, "--w-with the other Kabals because of its meddling, and if that happens then--" the haemonculus draws closer to him, one hand spinning a syringe of some kind, another cutting a fresh laceration into his own skin, the final two sliding behind his back, "--then... You do as well..." Marazhai doesn't realize he's been shrinking away, slowly stepping back until his heel hit the metal of the other table.

Marazhai has always been such an entertaining plaything. Had another been chosen as Dracon, he might not be so bold to approach the second of his patron's command. But that faint glimmer in the back of his eyes as the haemonculus towers over him. He was not one to own, but to be owned. He just has yet to realize it.

"Reason for you, yes... But I can find another patron. This bothers me little. So I will ask again." He leans over the shorter drukhari, his half-lips sliding into a smirk, "Why should I make this... For you?" The bloodied hand that left a deep cut in his pale skin comes forward and presses up under his jaw, the blooded finger swiping across the pale skin of his cheek and leaving a broken smear of red.

Marazhai squirms like the very wriggling grub he desires to commission from the Archmachinator. But his tongue swipes across his sharp teeth, "I could bring you more parts for your beasts," the hand tightens and Tervantias's expression doesn't budge, "gift you the others of the mon-keigh's crew," white hair falls in a cascade onto Marazhai's shoulder as Tervantias tilts his head one way, "...what else would you have from me for such a simple little request??" Marazhai hisses up at him, hands bracing on the table behind him.

"I will have both of these things... And I will have a revisit to your anatomy, Dracon. You ask me to lower myself to such a task and so you, yourself, shall also be lowered."

With a twist of his wrist and a swift strike, the haemonculus stabs the syringe into Marazhai's throat. He revels, for a second, in the shocked gag before his thumb presses the plunger down. He leans in, watching the green liquid color veins and open them up, spreading faster as Marazhai's heart quickens. He slides the tool out and sets it aside, watching the puncture hold the fluid well.

"Let us begin. Don't act as though you will not take pleasure in this." He loosens his grip, but his other hands abandon their post behind his back to come forward and begin to carelessly remove his armor, "You requested these depths before." He motions with the hand previously holding the syringe to a servant of his.

Marazhai hisses and curses him, his hands clawing at the haemonculus's arm, but... Tervantias knows he isn't really giving it his all. His blade is easily in reach, after all. Another table is brought forth, this one angled upwards. The Dracon's back hits the metal and hands swiftly secure him down.

The Archmachinator hums, pleased, and moves away to collect his tools, taking his sweet time as Marazhai fights the inevitable flow of the toxin. It's somewhat impressive that he hasn't screamed yet--

...Ahhh...

There it is. A smile twists the exposed muscles of his face into a grimace as the toxin finds Marazhai's heart and the man's scream rips through and echoes in the air of his Opera. His eyes slip shut for a moment, contemplating his options as his newest specimen thrashed and cursed him. He could check on his previous addition to the young man. See how well the new tissue was settled in.

He opens his eyes and turns to look at his subject--no longer Marazhai to him, but another project, another song to compose. He is on his back, it will be no small task to cut through his body to get to his spine. All the more fun. His claws wrap around three tools; A saw of some make, two clamps, and a gun-like machine.

His claws are his scalpels. He sets upon the man with practiced ease. Without fanfare, a Y-incision is cut. Skin peeled back. The gun-thing is put to use firing pins through the skin and into the table, holding him open like the wings of a beetle on a collector's wall.

Just as with the pitiful creature before, Tervantias ignores his subject's thrashing. This one is restrained, though, and it makes for easier cutting of muscle. Not for extraction, of course. No, this one will have to be put back together.

Sheets of muscle are pinned as well, the rippling striations and folded groups reminiscent of bird wings. A glance upwards as Marazhai stills. His eyes are distant, his jaw clenched tight. Drool trickling down in a steady stream from one corner of his mouth. Tears bead up in the corners of his eyes. He must be desperate not to let them fall. It isn't the cutting doing this to him. No, he has been wounded so before, gutted thoroughly before. He would not shed tears, even in pain, for something so simple as a wound.

No, it is the toxin. Causing certain glands to release more than they should. We, as humans, would call similarities to these releases as adrenaline, dopamine, endorphins. Tears simply follow suit and his drool is but a by-product. Marazhai is feeling everything... Tenfold. No, twenty. A hundred, if not ever more.

A whimper spills from the proud Dracon and Tervantias laughs, "So soon? A proud beast turned to mewling. And I've not yet touched your guts."

"Wh-what did you... What did you do to me...?" The tone was meant to be that of anger, or even fury... But desperation comes instead. He does not admit his sick delight in the haemonculus's claws.

The Archmachinator does not respond. Instead, the saw comes to its duty. It slices away the bone of the man's ribcage, eventually allowing their release on the subject's cavity. Marazhai gags on his screams. They bleed, in spades, they bleed. It spurts in wet fountains, painting the tool and the metal and gore of Marazhai's flayed hide.

"You make a fine distraction, Marazhai." His voice, calm and even, still cuts through the buzz of the saw. He stops only when he can remove the sternum as if a simple lid on a specimen jar. He sets it aside. His claws gently move through the man's organs, testing the connective tissue that holds them in place, his flesh hand soiled by the blood of his ribcage.

"A pathetic Dracon, but a deliriously fine specimen." He expertly carves one organ from the others, without disrupting its function. He twists it delicately to set aside, then moves to another. Again. And again.

And he speaks as he does it, "Truly, I have considered bartering with your sister for you. Every new request she has..." He slips metal fingers around Marazhai's heart, feeling its rapid pulse, unable to beat any faster. He leans over, "Your name dances on my tongue."

He pulls on the organ, watching the thick veins and arteries pull like a wet rope out of his body, blood drooling from any little nick in the membranes. He tilts his head, eyes flicking up to Marazhai's face. His turquoise eyes have paled with pain. Nearly a silver-blue. His pupils are mere pinpricks as he just stares back at Tervantias.

"You are no leading figure. You are but a toy." He presses the organ to his lips, teeth taunting the ever-moving muscle. His tongue slides over it. He could easily bite. Simply resurrect Marazhai after he bleeds out... But the expression on his face... He cannot help but revel in it. Blank. Obedient. Malleable. He chuckles, the sound reverberating in the opera house, before setting the heart aside.

He considers Marazhai's form for a moment. Almost mechanical, how his organs' connections--veins, nerves, tissue, and arteries, all--bend like cords back into his body. He can see the shimmer of his modification in the pool of blood that is the man's chest cavity, all but emptied of viscera. He turns to a small device, a pump of sorts, and begins to drain that pool, letting him have a closer look.

For all his fun, he does have a goal. His claws gently run along his spine. Tilts his head one way... Then another. The augment has bonded quite nicely. Though there is a bit of misalignment here... He clicks his metal claws and picks up a pair of forceps, cutting open the thin membrane protecting the shimmering white nervous augment and holding it open with the forceps. Delicately, he pulls four inches of tiny wires like worms out from the soil of Marazhai's tissues. They squirm in his grasp like them, too, searching to grasp onto something, anything. He moves them slightly upwards, and they shoot back in, spreading out and settling again.

Marazhai's right arm will function just slightly better. Not that the man would notice, nor appreciate it. Not that Tervantias does it for his benefit. He does it to see it put in its proper place. He releases the forceps and continues his slow examination of the spine through the chest. One nerve-set at a time.

His long hair falls into the cavity one strand at a time, a trickle of white stained with blood.

Marazhai groans above him. A claw flicks and stabs into the man's thigh, drawing that groan into a raspy moan. A thin tongue slips out and licks fresh moisture onto exposed fangs, but he says nothing. He continues his observations, but slowly drags that claw, carving the shape of the muscle beneath into the flesh. Marazhai's voice pitches slightly higher, cracking.

"I knew you would find yourself enjoying this." Metal clicks and chemicals hiss. He injects more of that concoction into the man's shoulder, causing him to spasm. His wrists strain at metal and his flesh tears at the pins--though they hold. His knees draw upwards, stopped only by two of the haemonculus's hands to keep them out of the way. He acknowledges it no further, but leans back a bit. One by one, he pulls the organs back to their places. Slides a fluid along them to repair connective tissues he had expertly severed. Pain slowly ebbs away from the man and he whines his protest.

"Be silent. This is for my enjoyment." He looms his face close to Marazhai's, "Not yours." A taunting smile, and he returns to his task. Diaphragm folded back into place. Bone seamlessly mended back to bone. Muscle tissue reattached. Marazhai began to snap insults at him, just now feeling the height of the second wave of the injections, but they have no sting. Flesh returns to its place, and no scar is left behind. He trails a finger down the man's chest, then flicks it away, snapping for a servant to release the man's binds.

He hears rather than sees Marazhai's body crumple off of the table as he turns his back.

"You will have your control worm, Dracon Aezyrraesh." He waves a hand, "Put your armor back on and crawl back to your Kabal. I will send you word when it is done."

"You fucking bastard, you can't--"

"I took my payment, Aezyrraesh. Be grateful I did not take more. I would happily risk your sister's wrath for more."

Silence. Well, as silent as the Anatomical Opera would allow in its gullet. He tilts his head as he plucks an egg from a jar, pulling various syringes and tools from different shelves to begin modifying the embryo within.

Silence is interrupted. The attempts that Marazhai makes to move under the influence of his toxins are amusing to listen to. He silently adds finding an extension to the toxin's effects to his eternal list of projects.

He doesn't even glance over his shoulder as he hears Marazhai finally move to attempt putting his armor back on. He knows the man desires attention, even a look of disgust or annoyance, and he will deny him even that. He will bask in the man's suffering for it. He does tilt his head a bit as he hears a heave and a splatter. A groan. He chuckles despite himself.

Marazhai hisses a final insult before stumbling towards the curtains, towards the exit. What a shame. He had somewhat hoped for some begging. He can only laugh to himself at the thought of Marazhai goring himself later to try and chase what he had given him. To satiate himself. His eyes finally turn, easily finding a hole in the curtain to watch Marazhai's back as he shoves himself through the door out.

His backplates are crooked.

Tervantias clicks his fingers in a snap, "Someone clean up that mess."

[lostdathomirian]

goretober day 10: masochist

uncropped under cut! (suggestive, not explicit)

[yandereloveraw]

❤️‍🩹 💕 Masochist Vanilla [CW] 💕 ❤️‍🩹

Your lovely pastry chef would be a delusional and devoted masochist. She loves you unconditionally, so you can treat her however you'd like. It's proof to her that you both love each other.

"You're free to have everything you can see, all that you want from me. Free to be all that you want to be. Do what you want with me. ♡"

❤️‍🩹 Step On Me - The Cardigans

[Song belongs to The Cardigans]

[Picrew belongs to the creator]

[howlsofbloodhounds]

color definitely has had to set and heal any of killers broken bones from nightmare and the whole time hes angrily telling killer stop trying to provoke nightmare—“stop doing that, or at least stop enjoying it so damn much,”—and the whole time killers grinning and denying everything even though he knows color knows that’s exactly what he did (because then color has to set the bones and hurt him and then he has to gently touch him and heal him) (and the whole time color’s attention belongs to no one but him)

[stagesofkiller]

very strange thoughts about color, stage 1, stage 2, and the dissociation seen in these panels:

stage 2 feeling like 1 takes all the attention and care and emotion and leaves him with nothing and desperately wanting color to see him and acknowledge him and wanting to feel the same connection that color has with 1 mixed with his darker impulses and terrorital and possessive behaviors and thinking pain will help them both feel real and itll make color see him

vs stage 1’s fear and distrust of 2 and genuinely believing he isn’t anything but a hallow mask he wears incapable of genuinely wanting or feeling anything real—that he only wants to possess and control and manipulate color—plagued by all those obsessive intrusive sadomasochistic dissociative thoughts (usually very graphic, definitely not safe or sane, influenced by the type of extreme pain killer is used to and has been conditioned to be used to) from 2 all centered around Color any time his friend is around or even touches him as it seems so ooc from what Stage 1 understands and remembers of his time in Stage 2 —and determined to keep color safe from himself even as he struggles with dissociative intrusive thoughts and desires that feel so foreign and watches his body move as if without his permission to act on things he doesn’t believe he wants and thinks he shouldn’t be thinking out of fear of hurting or ‘taking advantage’ of color and not wanting color to see him, to see that, fearing it’ll make him nothing more than a killer again and he’ll completely lose himself

and like the struggle starts internally but the more confused and distressed and dissociated and out of control stage 1 feels the more he starts externalizing and speaking out loud to himself as if he’s different people

Things like “you can’t have him.” “But he wants me. He wants this.” “No, he wants you to be better.”

“I wont let you hurt him.” “I just want him close..I just want to feel real..”

Leaning into that idea that Stage 2 would be jealous of other Stages and what they’re able to have with Color, things like “he won’t let me feel what you and he have. Thinks i don’t deserve it..but im not going to keep holding back for him.” “Maybe I’ll be exactly what Color wants, and you’ll have to watch.”

[coffee-in-veins]

Day 30: Horrors of the Deep

an entry for darkest prompts promptober 2022  

previous days: 1, 2, 3,  4, 5, 6,  7,  8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29

now available on ao3 too

Horror NOUN - an intense feeling of fear, shock, or disgust; a thing causing a feeling of horror.

* * *

I sleep like the dead, nonetheless, I am lucid If dreams have a meaning, perhaps I should tune in To the signal that beckons, familiar it seems Be silent, you might see yourself in its beams

-- Nightmares never End by JT Music

When the scariest thing he had ever met that pretended to be an aristocratic woman offered him payment for going into some sarded bowels of fuck-knows-what infested Estate, Dismas was pretty sure he read the contract carefully and it didn't say anything about herding some cats. Sure, being in a group required some adjustment to both team’s tactics and personal performances. Required communication skills most of them – solitary by either life, rank or choice – sorely lacked. But it was doable for the most part. Those who couldn’t find someone who would’ve tolerated them at the very least, quickly found themselves to be conveniently sacrificed to keep others alive.

And yet, when he looked at his current predicament, this was the only thing that came to mind. Being set up as a fucking cat herder. And he hated the bastards! Cats. Not his teammates.

Well. Usually.

Because currently he was stuck in a cave with three people who were dead-fucking-set on drowning in brine as he drowned himself in the remainder of whiskey which was mercifully spared from the sad fate of being used for cleaning wounds by being quaffed first.

“Pathetic,” he heard a hiss behind him, followed by a smack. “You lack the will of the Light. How dare you even call yourself the sister of battle?”

“Pain is a gift from the holy Flame,” came an immediate answer, fifth if the highwayman was counting properly which he most likely wasn’t. “I cherish it! Again! I beg you, the messenger of the blessed Light, I… I sinned so grievously!”

Dismas rubbed his face tiredly and took another swing, shaking a few straggler drops of whiskey from the empty flask on his eager tongue. He had an odd respect for teachers and parents now. They only slapped their kids with their hands or maybe rods. Currently, he wished he could strangle this whole moron circus, but even more than that he wanted to come back to his pillow alive. He would sleep it off and drown himself in enough whiskey to forget this all like a nightmare, and he cared not if he had to steal some of Rey’s cut to be able to afford so much booze. Or if he could survive such intoxication. Or how the insufferable knight would have to put in the actual elbow grease to pull him back from the blackout this time. Anything that was capable of bleaching this all from his head and eyes was fair game by this point. And frankly, this was Reynauld’s fault, so it was only fair that he would have to clean up the mess.

Another smack, followed by the feverish:

“Pain is the gateway to divinity! It hurts, yes… B-but also… oh, sweet Light, go through me through your messenger!”

Sure, the brigand was in no way, shape or form a religious man but even he knew that was not a tone for a holy prayer.

“Eyes down while addressing a holy man, you cowering sheep!”

Another slap.

Despite his better judgement, Dismas’ already hard dick made an appreciative twitch, which only added to his mounting irritation. And that same holy prick had the audacity to chastise him for “degeneracy” when the ex-brigand asked for a mere slap on the face! Or the balls to have a freak out when he caught the rogue with a knife and fresh cuts on the back of his arm – oh, that one was a disaster that ended up in a shouting match and Dismas being dragged first to Cloister and then to Paracelsus to make sure that he wasn’t insane and dangerous to himself. Which he obviously was – duh, why else would he end up in Hamlet otherwise? – but not by the measurement which sufficed his hospitalization, much to Rey’s surprise.

And now that same bloody knight was doing things that Dismas wanted him to do to him for so long and while he was sitting right fucking there, Reynauld, for sard’s sake, to his face, literally, with someone else--

Now, he shouldn’t finish that thought if he knew what was good for them both, tempting as it was. And as if he was even more cursed than he usually was, there was not even a drop of whiskey left to shut up his mind. He wasn’t hurt! Why would he be hurt if Reynauld was slapping around someone else, stressed out of his goddamn zealous mind – enough to make all the church glisten fall off and reveal an ugly, cracked core?

Dismas wasn’t hurt.

And that was the point of him being pissed off so much.

He wanted some de-stressing too, for sard’s sake.

The ex-brigand took a calming breath, trying to switch his irritation to something else. Like the smell of a rotting urca carcass. Or that the map was washed away by the tide. Or that he was out of gunpowder. Or that the supposed monster of a man, chained and insisting that he was dangerous for everyone involved, fell into sobbing melancholy when Rey snapped at him one too many times and was now covering near one of the stalactites. Or that this is what their supposed soothing camping quickly dissolved into.

Oh, sod it.

“I fear I am trapped inside of it,” he heard a weak voice beside him. Bigby was rocking back and forth, rattling his locks and chains. “An eternal nightmare…”

Dismas shook his trusty flask, hoping to hear some drops splashing inside, but alas, so he hid it and patted the dangly man’s shoulder.

“Relatable, man.”

“Better that someone strong face these monsters,” the man repeated, hiding his face in his knees. “I don’t want to see those nightmares, I don’t want to…”

The ex-brigand winced at the sound of another smack, feeling that his pants will need a wash not only from all the blood and mucus, and forced himself to look away from the scene which was more suited for a brothel than for two supposedly holy people:

“Ya n’ me both, pal, ya n’ me both.”

“Soon my fate will be upon me,” Bigby finally spared him a glance. “And you.”

“Well, ain’t ya the ray of sunshine in this shithole, feh.”

Unfortunately, the cursed one refused to acknowledge his prodding and the highwayman remained alone with accompaniment he would rather not acknowledge. Oh well. It wasn’t like the knowledge that his life was bent over a crooked fence was anything new to Dismas. He just never imagined it was that bent over.

With yet another irritated sigh, Dis tried to relax his tense muscles and have some respite during this mixed bag of insanities, but there was an irritating tapping of dripping water on his shoulder. He moved to the side, but the tapping remained. So he moved once more, cussing the piss-sprinkling brine and the humid caves, but the water grabbed his shoulder and—

Wait, what?

“Dismas, by Light’s grace, how can you behave in a manner so undignifying? Being tossed out of that den of sin and into the mud does not befit a warrior!”

Ow, his head. Ow, why was the crusader so fucking loud? No, he was usually loud but… ugh…

“Where’s… Junia?” Dis slurred as the knight tugged him up and onto his shoulders.

“In the transept where she should be.”

“n’… Bigby?”

“I care not where that atrocity dwells,” Rey grunted as he lifted him and stomped angrily towards the barracks. “Light, grant me your strength. Dis, you reek.”

“Of brine?”

“Of booze!” the crusader snapped and complained. “I just washed that shirt for you! Do you know how hard it is…”

But all Dismas could think about was the existential crisis of having a stiffy to a nightmare about a religious sadist slapping a religious masochist while having a nightmare of not having any booze and yearning for a pillow.

What the fuck was even his life.

[deuces-diaries]

A pretty violent drawing i did not too long ago, fantasy of brutalizing, being rid of what is unwanted while maintaining something fought for.

Bacon-the character depicted- is transmasculine, much akin to myself, they brutally removed one of their breasts with a butchers cleaver, it was meant to be a suicide, to bleed themself out in a bathtub, but they lived, and they suddenly were rid of half of their horrible anatomy.

Years later they purposefully have the other breast cut off, again in that very same bathtub, but this time they had phalloplasty done-henceforth the raggedy scar on their inner thigh.

Theyre a butcher, cannibal, chef and sadomasochist, theyre inspired by myself in many ways.

They no longer want to kill themself, i promise.

[yandereloveraw]

🩸💜 Masochist Jasper [CW] 💜🩸

He's definitely the obsessive/clingy masochist that follows you everywhere, begging you to beat him up over and over. [He gets like this with Archie.]

"I don't know why I'm like this. I love to piss you off. Something in my psychosis finds it a little hot~"

🩸 Villain - Bella Poarch

💜 Hate Me - Nico Collins

[Both songs belong to their creators]

[Picrew belongs to the creator]

[howlsofbloodhounds]

Coupd you give me a couple words to describe killer maybe? ^^ I'm working on a mini comic and part of it I'd a Sans describing each the bad sanses, but I know Killer the least /nf!!

Guess that depends on what Stage hes in and the character, especially since Stage 2 would likely play into whatever views the character has of him regardless of how true or not true it is.

So long as it serves him to be viewed that way; masks and acts all the way down. If he wants this character to underestimate him, like him, fear him—or if he just doesn’t care about them at all.

He’d likely lean into either that “silly hyperactive idiot” mask or that “sadistic careless serial killing manic who kills for fun” if either suits.

A staring problem is probably one way to describe Stage 2. Seemingly always where he shouldn’t be and wasn’t before, knows things he shouldn’t know.

Some common words would be probably be “freak” or “creepy.”

More observant ones may be able to notice how docile he actually is when left on his own devices, and nothing has really caught his attention or curiosity; as if he’s disconnected from whatever is actually happening around him, unusually calm or unresponsive or casual while others tear themselves and eachother apart around him.

As if he’s removed and above from whatever is happening, callous and cold and indifferent to the suffering and pain going on around him. He’s strangely attentive, and obedient towards Nightmare—perhaps often seen by his side or as if he’s just idling on standby until Nightmare needs him or something is new enough to draw his attention from outside of his “own bubble.”

Some may describe him as “Nightmare’s dog” or “pet” even. His innermost thoughts and feelings are kept hidden and secret, where he won’t allow anyone to notice or see and will likely react violently if anyone tries to pry where he doesn’t want anyone to be. Such as his room.

Some may notice his absurdly high pain tolerance and how he doesn’t really do anything to avoid being hurt, and how once his masochistic glee has passed, he doesn’t seem very phased or put off by any injuries of his.

This is mostly all about Stage 2 (because that’s the one he’s most commonly in and the one most would likely know him by), but i hope this briefly helped come up with something. Could probably say more but im. Not feeling too well rn

{ @thelunarsystemwrites }

[chthonic-thot]

burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me burn me

[stagesofkiller]

killer would definitely shove his fingers in colors mouth and tell color to bite them off