#samswers is a pun and i'm not proud of that

[unwilling-survivor]

► Tell me how you did it. And don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

Sam watches the blonde steadily, face impassive. Or maybe not impassive. She’s focused. Intent. But emotionless, detached from her words. Her voice comes out steady. Not quiet, not loud. Almost a challenge.

“Which time?”

[unwilling-survivor]

Little heated for it to all be fine, Sammy. It's not wrong to accept the fact that no one really loves you. They just love using you and seeing you be so breakable. But if you need some help getting over yourself, I heard near the lake there's a little box with razor blades and gauze. Could be useful to you. I know you're the type.

Why the fuck is she still reading these? Why? Why is she doing this to herself, she can throw them away— she should throw them away—

Fucking— fuck— stupid fucking cocksucker goddamn cunts sending fucking shit her way, none of their fucking business, she doesn’t fucking need shit from them—

Her eyes catch on that last sentiment, and—

The laugh that bubbles out of her is manic. “You!” It almost hurts how boring her laugh is. “You think— you think that would do anything?” The range from shrill to guttural takes the breathless laughter into uncanny valley territory.

“Razors aren’t my preferred weapon, sweetie,” she sneers, bitterly. “They didn’t fucking work the first time, and the second time they sent me here— and any time after that has done nothing.” She tried. Twice. “Hate to disappoint,” she spits.

But she does need to let it out. Needs to explode that violence somehow. Needs to hurt— herself, someone else, just needs to feel the pain and be the cause of it. Jed’s knife through her hand might be ideal. Or Legion splitting her rib cage. Or even the Bastard and his particular tools to get her out of her mind. She’s curated her connections well; people who break her.

That draws another laugh.

“You’re right!” Ha. Ha. “You’re right— I’m breakable.” It’s practically mocking. “So very breakable.” Her grin is sharp enough to pierce steel, and her glare hot enough to melt it. “So.” One word at a time. “Fucking.” It’s heavy, solid, sounding anything but: “Breakable.”

Her mind is racing, playing through every violence she’s endured, every time she’s burned into another body, every scream, every drop of blood, every stolen breath, but—

A sudden calm stills her, that same smile on her face.

“But not by you.”

The dramatics would seem to prove the opposite. But maybe it’s less gloating more challenge.

“Come on.” Her voice is quiet. Tempting. “Come here.” Do it. “You show up. You hurt me yourself.” No name, no face, no guts. “Break me.”

Sam doesn’t remember standing up - she’s not exactly in a mind to remember anything at the moment - but now she thuds back onto her seat, grimly satisfied. “If you want a show, you’d damn well better provide the entertainment.” She lets out a breath, leaning back on one palm, chin raised. “I’ll be waiting.”

[unwilling-survivor]

I thought you and Jed were close. It's great news to hear he isn’t actually your lover. I really hope you don't mind me stepping in and asking for his love. I have been admiring my opossum from a distance for so long now. Maybe he’ll even mark me as his. You’ll be happy for him, won't you?

She’s still carefully ignoring any feelings about the last note when the next one shows up.

“Oh for fuck’s sake—” Now isn’t the time, okay? She has other things she needs to think about and...

Lover?

...

Wait, but— lover?

Heat is searing her ears, bleeding over her cheeks, before she even finishes reading, half distracted, caught on that word.

She’s never gotten close to thinking about— anything that serious. But... but maybe she’s been avoiding it.

Ha. No. Nope. Not a thing, that’s— it’s not. Hell, the last note was fucking right about some things; she’s been a little freer with some people than she should be. Whoring around was maybe a strong way to put it, but... whatever.

And her and Jed— that hasn’t happened. They’ve slept together - like in a bed, passing out - but not... slept together. He’s— he’s not, he can’t be anything like that. Even without that aspect, he’s... just... not.

Her lip curls at the pet name. Gross. God, they could keep that to themselves, honestly. Ugh.

So her stalker has a stalker... Why does that make her so uneasy?

Because if they’re watching him, they know about you two.

Sure. (Not lovers.) That makes sense. Fear of being outed. Fear of being watched. (Not by him, you don’t mind being watched by him.) Her fucking head needs to pick a side. She can’t have three sides, four sides, all thinking at once. She shouldn’t even be thinking this much. She should stop. Stop thinking about it.

“Sure, fine, whatever. You can have him.” That definitely should not feel like a lie. What the fuck. “Take your fucking possum and have a grand old time.” She’s a bit pissed. Just a bit. “Why bother telling me?” Gloating. That’s— it’s like they’re gloating. Over Jed? Stupid. Stupid thing to gloat over. Pointless. They can take him.

[unwilling-survivor]

🤗+👼 ( fifty fifty) -@brinnygetsstabbed

:’)

I love this big sis relationship they have, honestly. Sam is so selfish, I like seeing her want to protect another person. ❤️

[relation meme]

[unwilling-survivor]

If it's any consolation: Doesn't Jed respect you? He doesn't go after your scars. He's got rules, just for you. Not that you deserve them, I'm simply pointing something out.

It’s— no. No it’s not, because—

fuck fuck fuck fuck

—because that’s a barter system, that’s proof, that’s—

Her fingers are digging into her palms, even as some part of her is telling herself calm down.

A breath. Take a breath. She doesn’t owe them a response. She doesn’t owe them anything. They’ve given her nothing.

Breathe.

...Breathe.

Her pulse is still too fast. But she can grasp the thoughts at least. Bitter thoughts, cynical thoughts.

That’s the proof, isn’t it? She let him hurt her, let him have his time, her attention, gave him a place in her—

—in her head. Her head.

He got into her head, and that’s what earned her rules. A barter system. Her suffering, for her security. All Jed needs to offer her are rules. Security. Something to hold on to, something that makes sense.

...God, she craves it.

It’s almost like you want to go to him right now—

No, it’s not like that. She’s not like that. He wants her to be like that, but she’s not. She’s not dependent, she’s using him.

—Almost like you want to run to him and let him break you—

No. Not— no more of this, she doesn’t want more of this.

—Ask him to hurt you—

She needs it, she does, but not from him. No— not from anyone. Or anything. She can handle this, they’re just thoughts— sound and fury, signifying nothing.

Her breathing is fast again, hard against her hand. Teeth gnaw at the side of her thumb, staring pointedly into the flames. Mindfulness, right? Look at— facts. Not opinions. Or— look at things. Feel things. Don’t think.

[unwilling-survivor]

I’m telling you because I expect you not to overstep in the future, Sammy. You seem like the homewrecker type and I really don’t want to deal with that.

She can’t fucking deal with— “It’s Sam, alright?” she snaps. “Not Samantha, not Sammy— Sam.” And they can’t fucking tell her what to do. “And— fuck you, okay, I’m not a fucking— ‘homewrecker.’” The word drips with condescension. “I don’t care what you do with him— take him, uncomplicate my life, whatever, just— he’s a fucking psycho, you deserve each other.” Her words are tripping over themselves, bitten out on the tails of the last.

She’s getting worked up, and that’s not good. She knows it’s not good, she makes bad decisions when she’s worked up, and she needs to stop thinking so much. All her old coping mechanisms spring to mind and she has to fight that violent urge. Think critically. Calm down.

[unwilling-survivor]

Funny how they all want to take advantage of you, but never give you what you need, Samantha. Some kindness, respect, maybe let you know you have some dignity left in there? Pity how they're so pathetic, taking advantage of the easy prey when its so much more satisfying to watch the "strong" slowly crumble away underfoot. Hard to be satisfied by a kill that's already beaten and ruined by something or someone else.

Another note. God not another note, this... Sam’s shoulders are tense, already on edge before she reads it; this is not going to be fun.

The first line, at least... She feels like a cat with its fur on end; wary, even if the first line doesn’t seem to offensive. Her full name irritates the hell out of her. It’s patronizing. And, somehow... promising? Is she reading something that isn’t there?

But the next line, too, it’s somewhere between taunting and offering. Kindness... she gets occasional kindness. Respect, though— and dignity, Christ, yeah, sure, she might like feeling...

Sam closes the door on memories she’s had with— some people. Moments of those good things, of some power regained, some humanity restored. She knows better. She knows those don’t count, it’s not healthy, it’s not real, it’s all just— lies, manipulations, fantasies. From them, from her, she’s kidding herself if she expects to be anything but a novelty to the other side. At least the Bastard is honest about his intentions.

The wary agreement toward the first two lines starts to sour with the next. It’s worded like an insult to those who’d take advantage of her, maybe, but... being called ‘easy prey’... She’d been reading some kind of implication, but it’s quickly twisting over on itself. And the last— it’s like a slap in the face. Ruined. God— “What is this, when are we? It’s fucking 2019, I’m not ruined. I’m not a ruined woman.”

They’re right, though.

Fucking— They shouldn’t be allowed to feed that side of her. That doubt and self hate. They’re not right. She’s— better than that.

Are you, though? You’d fall on your knees in an instant with the right threat.

Yeah, cause she’s smart. She has a nice healthy sense of self-preservation. She’s not going to martyr herself for a cause when she can be the one pulling the strings and keeping herself safe and comfortable, even if it’s in the lap of a villain.

This isnt some young adult novel. You’re not a heroine. You’re not a damsel in distress. You’re just a whore. In the literal sense, at least.

Fine. So what? She has places to go to, places to stay. Comfortable places. She can barter whatever pain it takes to keep herself secure. And if she can enjoy it, more power to her. It’s her choice. She chose this.

You chose this?

...Shit. No, not— that’s... that’s not...

Sam crumples the note again. It joins the others in the fire as she lets out a frustrated growl. This isn’t the internal debate she wanted to have. She hates internal debates, they go on for fucking ever because she’s so fucking indecisive. Can’t make a fucking decision. ‘Choice,’ what even is choice, she can’t fucking choose, never can, never does, just lets things happen, just—

Sam shoves her hand into the fire.

It doesn’t burn the skin, and she wants it to. She just needs to focus on something else and stop letting this shit get to her. She’s being melodramatic. It doesn’t matter that much. She shouldn’t care that much.

[unwilling-survivor]

😈, 💜 and maybe a hint of 📜 (the-bastard-entity)

Sounds about right. I think Sam sees more “enemies” in there than he does, for sure. But lbr, she’s addicted to the guy, and he can offer a lot of security. ...When he’s in a good mood.

This ship is excellent and the toxic polygon is a beautiful *highly unhealthy* thing.

[relation meme]

[unwilling-survivor]

I would not give you that pleasure, Sammy. If you'll excuse me I need to get back to my observations. It was nice playing with you.

Sam snorts at the final message. I would not give you the pleasure. Ha. Sure. “How very believable,” she mutters with a smirk. “Not cowardly at all.”

Of course, there’s really no way to win in this particular instance. Everything is a win when it’s baited out of spite. Either she comes out on top or she’s proven right. Cynicism triumphs and recklessness is rewarded.

Her breathing calms. Her body relaxes. It’ll do, for now, a way to whittle down that excess energy. She shifts to swing her legs up, laying across the log she’d been sitting on and throwing and arm across her eyes. “The offer stands. Whenever you get the balls.”

[unwilling-survivor]

Jed's making promises someone else, they're trying to steal him from you. They might hurt him.

(Setting this shortly after the last set of double anons)

Sam is settling into a very smug nap when the new note appears in her hand. “Oh good— ready to-” But the note isn’t from the anonymous tormentor.

She reads it once, but can’t summon the emotions to care. That’s just how it is here, right? Pain and suffering for everyone, full-on buffet, why limit to just the survivors, honestly. You get some trauma, you get some trauma, everybody gets some trauma.

Sam scoffs a laugh, not bothering to get up, crumpling the paper and tossing it in the fire before putting her arm over her eyes again. “Whatever. Let him suffer like the rest of us. I’m sure he can handle it.”

In a more lucid state, she might have different feelings... but there really aren’t any emotions at the moment. Cynical amusement is about all she’s got. And he deserves it. They all do.

[unwilling-survivor]

Mary

“Mary?” 🤔

((OOOH interesting choice!))

Dare you to tell me who you ship me with😜

[unwilling-survivor]

♭ - grip my muse’s jaw to make them look yours in the eye - A very specific Olsen (@brinnygetsstabbed)

((Continuing from here with @shrouded-jed ))

She was about done with these stupid commands.

No, actually: she was past done with these commands. She’d narrowly avoided grievous bodily harm multiple times now. All because, what? Because he was bored? Because they hadn’t had a trial together in a while? He needed his fix of abuse?

She was stuck doing her shift in the Entity’s interrogation room until the door opened again. Every so often the notes appeared, or the fog let someone in, and she did what was required of her, and then left.

She was ready to leave.

Sam still had her tongue to the roof of her mouth, applying pressure as blood dripped down the back of her throat. Not as bad as it could be, but it was still bleeding. Not stabbed, though. In fact, she’d mostly avoided hurting herself. But there were spots— the slice on her tongue, a cut on the back of her thumb, the shallow welt of a heart on her cheek and the tacky line of blood that had welled from it. She wasn’t unscathed, just less so.

No new note had appeared yet. No new commands. Hopefully that meant her shift was over.

Sighing heavily and closing her eyes, Sam rolled her shoulders back. Done. Done for the day. She’d done her duty and that would be all for a bit. She stood up, digging the knife’s tip into the wood of the table and spinning it slowly on its point. After a moment of hesitation, she picked it up, taking it with her as she headed for the door. She wasn’t sure if she’d be able to leave with it, but if she could, she’d have some kind of weapon out there. It couldn’t hurt to try.

There was only one door in the room. A too-big room, one side completely open to the fog, a single chair and a single table facing it, and, on the other side, a single door. The only way in or out for whoever was in the hot seat.

Done with torturing herself for the time being, Sam went for the door.

It was still locked.

So this wasn’t over, then.

Just in case— just in case— she tried it again, jiggling the handle like it might make a difference.

It won’t. You’re stuck here till It lets you leave. Sit down.

That wasn’t what she wanted to be thinking. She wedged the tip of the knife into the door frame, trying to pry up the latch, but that was no good. She’d just pulled it out, angling for another attempt, when a hand reached around her to grab her chin, wrenching her around to face—

Sam brought up the knife, the tip angled at Jed’s chest as she stared up at him, her back pressed into the locked door.

[unwilling-survivor]

If you were a cake, would you eat yourself?

“I...” Sam stalls out, quirking a brow. “Fuck, I dunno. Why?” But that answer isn’t coming, obviously. “If this is some fetish shit...” she warns. After another second of thought, she finally answers. “I’d lick. Maybe—” the wording is awkward; “—maybe, like... suck.” She blushes slightly, and tries to ignore that fact. “To get a taste without actually going full cannibalism.”

[unwilling-survivor]

Hey there, sweetheart. Truth or dare. Tell me your honest opinion of your mother or... Give me a kiss. @shrouded-Jed [he hands this paper to her in person.]

Weirdly enough, she’s more interested in the dare than the truth, but it’s one of those things, right? Can’t admit to it. He can’t have her when she’s in her right mind. Letting herself— letting him get to her without putting up a fight would be Wrong and Bad, and she’d be Wrong and Bad for doing it.

Sam averts her eyes, and there’s a too-long moment of hesitation. “My mom’s alright. She means— meant well. Pushed the school stuff a lot, nagged a lot, but I know she loves me.” The memory of that intercepted letter hits her like a bullet in the chest, and she winces but doesn’t correct to the past tense. “They both do.” Her throat is sore with that memory. She thinks it, but doesn’t admit it out loud. I miss them.

Send my muse a truth and a dare!

[unwilling-survivor]

🚰🚰 what is the worst thing you wanted your partner to do to you?

Letting out a satisfied sigh, Sam gets a couple shots lined up. Nice. Real drinks.

She takes them one after another, coughing slightly as her face screws up a bit after the second, but overall handling them pretty well.

“I’m not going to answer that.” She’s not drunk yet. ...She might start feeling those shots in a few minutes, but for now it’s just a warmth in her chest and a slight bitter aftertaste on her tongue. Maybe she should give some kind of answer, though. “Let’s just say my mind hates me.” The most vague possible answer. She’s had plenty of fleeting ideas of hands and teeth and tools of sorts. Doesn’t mean she admits to them, even with her partners. But the question had been what she’d wanted, not what she’d asked for.

For every 🚰 my muse gets, my muse will act a little more drunk.

[unwilling-survivor]

► Are you trying to make me do this myself? You're still so pretty with blood on your lips. Sweetheart, you're not following the rules. I'm allowing one more shot, play nicely now. Since you've tempted me, stab your tongue. No more games, Sammy.

Her thumb had been between her teeth again, but now Sam pulls it away, stomach sinking.

‘You’re still so pretty with blood on your lips.’

...Of course it's him. How the hell had she been taken in by whatever bullshit notes he’d written? Twisted fuck. Why is he like this? 

Part of her is almost hurt, and she wants to slap that part in the face. Never trust a killer. Never. No matter how much he claims to like her, claims she’s his favorite. He’s hurt her plenty of times before, of course he’d take the opportunity to have her do it for him. The only downside for him was that he couldn’t taste the blood himself.

Sam glares at the note, letting out a short breath.

Jed. So this was Jed. What kind of sick game is this, asking her to mutilate herself? It’s not like she expected him to be nice (though really, outside of the trials he... generally can be, loath as she is to admit it), but this is new, even for him. He’s usually the one holding the knife.

She considers the request - the command - again. Things hit different, knowing they’re from him. ‘Since you’ve tempted me.’ She holds back a shiver, hands clutching too tightly to the knife and the note. She’s tasted more blood with his lips on hers than she ever did before coming here.

He may not be here here, may be somewhere in the fog that constantly watched, but she could still hear him. ‘Sit still, Sammy, that’s a good girl,’ and ‘one more cut, we’re almost there,’ and ‘be as loud as you want, sweetheart; scream for me.’ ‘You did so well,’ ‘you’re so strong,’ ‘that wasn’t so bad, was it?’ Constantly two sides of the same sadistic coin.

He’s not here now, though. Just a note. And she’s— okay, maybe... maybe she is hurt. She shouldn’t be, she knows she shouldn’t even be surprised, but— he cares about her. Not in a healthy way, far more in an obsessive way, but all that pain is in the trials. When she leaves, it all heals. This would stay for a while. She has scars still fading from things that had happened outside of trials. Took a few deaths to disappear. She wasn’t going to rip her mouth open for him. The heart on her cheek should’ve been enough.

Something is tickling at the back of her mind, reminding her of her obligation to obey. She stops thinking about Jed.

Or she tries.

The loophole is obvious enough, but... but she’s mad at him. She’s always a little mad at him - or she really wants to believe that, at least - but she’s feeling vindictive.

She sets down the order. Looks at the knife.

Sam tries to keep her expression serene as she cleans the little particles of wood off of the blade, trying to ignore her still-bleeding finger as it stains her jacket.

She can’t glare at him. But she can give a cold, almost haughty, look at her work as she steadies her grip on the knife. So much scorn. It’s much easier when she can’t see him.

Calmly, she runs the dull side of the knife across the back of her cut finger, scraping blood onto the blade. She wants to stare at him, glare at him as she does it. Coward. Can’t even hurt me yourself. She can’t resist moving her gaze along the fog, but there’s no one there. Not until he wants to be seen. So her disdainful look lowers, raising the blade to her mouth.

Her blood always tastes the same, even if she’s getting used to it. He says it tastes like candy, but she doesn’t agree. Her tongue runs along the flat of the blade, imitating him. There’s only a slight flutter to her eyelashes as she holds back a hiss of pain when she actually does slice herself, and simply points her tongue and avoids the sharp edge as she drags her lick off the tip of the knife. Immediately she closes her lips, pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth to soothe the sting. Tongue wounds heal quick, she’ll be fine, it wasn’t that bad, but it is bleeding.

Not going to let that pain show, though. That’s what he wants. But if he wants to hurt her, he’ll have to do it himself.

(Which really, on later reflection, is a horrible way to look at things. The man didn’t hesitate to cause massive amounts of pain; she should’ve just done what he’d asked in the gentlest way possible.)

Her elbows prop up on the table, hands raising, one holding the knife and the other flipping the bird as she sticks out her tongue, ignoring the blood already there that’s welling and dripping onto the table. She forgoes the knife, ‘stabs’ herself with her middle finger, and adds a muttered, “Fuck you, Jed,” before absently licking the blood from her lips and pressing her tongue to the roof of her mouth again as she lowers her hands.

“Done.”