misery!

Whump idea of the day:

Magical restraints - that is, shackles locked not with a key, but with magic. Forged from the strongest of materials, charmed to be unbreakable by brute force. A spell is the only way to remove them.

A captive being rescued by someone unable to use magic. They can be carried to safety, but their shackles remain locked. They must remain in chains even after rescue, until someone with magic can free them. Still limited in motion, still dependent, still not quite free.

Or worse, the rescue failing, because the chains are connected to something - the wall, the floor, a weight. The rescuers swearing they'll come back, that they'll find someone with magic who can help. Trying to comfort the captive as best they can, but ultimately forced to leave them alone - or else risk their own capture.

Or maybe, the captor is the only one who can use the spell to unlock the restraints. The captive - or their rescuers - having no choice but to bargain for their freedom.

"Please, please don't make me do this, I'm going to- going to lose my mind--"

"Oh, you will. But don't worry." She reaches to her victim's temples, a blue glow radiating from the tips of her fingers. "I'm going to hold onto it for you."

You slipped up. You spoke to your captors - not giving anything up, but what does it matter? You broke your vow to never speak a word. You begged them. How disgusting, how pathetic. No one should come to rescue someone like you.

You are not what your allies think. You are not strong, or brave, you only ever pretended to be. You are not good, or kind. You tried to be. You wanted to be. But when it came down to it, you cared more about saving your own skin than keeping your promise to the team.

You hate yourself.

You cannot think through the pounding headache, your head sore from sobbing. Thoughts are less clear with every wound, with every day without water or food. Why are you here? Why has no one come for you?

All you can remember is hate.

"All the equipment from training needs to be put back in storage. Bit of heavy lifting, but you're not too tired, are you?"

"No, sir," she answers. The bags under her eyes, the slump in her shoulders, the sluggishness in her step - all say otherwise.

"You sure about that?" he smirks. "You've been working pretty hard."

She straightens her posture and forces a grimacing smile. "I'm fine, sir."

"Aw, aren't you tough," he teases. "Course you can take a little more."

She flushes a bit at that, her bloodshot eyes downcast. Still, she nods and meets his eyes again. "It's no problem, sir."

"Meet me back here when you're done, then. I've got more work for you."

"Yes sir," she agrees.

He can just make out a flicker of a sigh under her breath.

He watches her walk down the hall, keeping a rigid posture until she's out of sight.

It's amusing, watching her push herself like this. Trying to convince him of, what, her strength? Her usefulness?

She's a terrible actor, which makes her performance all the more fun to watch. Her mask is laughably transparent, yet she'll still pull it back up for him every time it slips.

He wonders sometimes just how far he can push her. How much she'd be willing to put up with, just to keep up appearances.

She's on the verge of collapse, he really should dismiss her for the night. It wouldn't look good on him if she collapsed for real.

He'll probably let her finish up, then tell her to get some rest with a pat on the back. She'll hate that, and he can't wait to feel her body tense up as she pretends to not be bothered.

It's late, she probably won't get enough sleep, and tomorrow he can work her over more. She'll be exhausted and sore and still doing anything he asks, still pretending that no one can see her struggling.

He really shouldn't be allowing it, but her bad acting is just so entertaining.

And if she wants to play her role, he's all too happy to play his.

"You wanted to be brave. This is what it means to be brave.

Accept the responsibility, and pay the price."

A hall, lined with iron cages, each suspended with long chains from towering ceilings. Each contains a captured criminal awaiting sentencing.

Mournful cries echo from within, reverberating off vaulted, cavernous ceilings - dark, lit only by flame.

At the end of the long, shadowed hall, a judge sits atop a throne.

Each prisoner is marched down the hall by cold, unfeeling, faceless guards. Bound in heavy, unforgiving chains, they are led - one by one - to kneel at the foot of the throne and accept their fate.

Whump scenario of the day: two characters with a close connection, captured together and separated from each other.

Loaded in a transport van, each cuffed with a bag over the head. Unable to even look at each other, closely monitored by guards to ensure no communication.

Desperate attempts to reach out with cuffed hands, to brush mere fingertips, to touch once more before whatever comes next. Knowing this could be the end, these may well be their final moments in each other's presence.

Taken their separate ways inside a prison, with no way of knowing where the other is.

Enduring harsh tortures, always with the image of the other in their mind. Submitting to their captors' whims - begging as pathetically as they know how, crawling at their feet, licking their boots - anything to be entertaining, to hopefully divert attention from the other. Anything to protect them.

Being promised the other's safety if they cooperate. Hearing reports of the other being tortured - guards laughing in their face, taunting them with reports of how nicely their friend screamed for them earlier. Being threatened with the other's death. Being told the other is already dead. Hearing contradictory information. Hearing nothing at all.

Screaming their name during long nights alone in a cell, as if they could hear. There's no response. Of course there isn't.

Having no way of knowing what is true, what is a lie. Hoping against hope that the other is alive, that one day they'll be able to break out and save them from this hell.

"You know, if you're not going to talk," - he takes the prisoner's injured hand in his own, fingers brushing over broken bones - "and you're not going to make this fun for me anymore," - he lightly taps his fingers against the breaks - "then I don't really have much use left for you, do I?"

Silence.

"Really, are we done here? Should I just lock you up for good and leave you to rot?"

Tap. Tap. Tap.

A voiceless breath of a whimper.

"That's it? Not even gonna scream for me?" He frowns, loosely wrapping his fingers around the broken hand. "C'mon. Is there any fight left in you?"

Without warning, he tightens his grip and twists.

The room echoes with the almost silent scream of an overstrained voice. Gasping for breath, eyes unfocused, weakly, uselessly attempting to pull away, the prisoner manages to breathe out two words.

"Ff-fuck…. you."

"Ah," the man smiles. "There you are."

"I'm sorry I begged you again, I know I'm asking for too much, I know I don't deserve it, I just - please, please, I need - no, fuck, I'm sorry, sorry-"

"There you go again. You're not sorry. If you really were, you'd stop."

“307′s still not talking? Not a word?

Don’t worry about it. They can’t silent forever. You can see it in their eyes, they’re itching to let something out. It’ll build up, the longer it goes on, the more afraid and desperate they get. They’ll need a release.

So lean on that. Forget about your line of questioning, for now. They want to play the strong, stoic type, they’re not going to say a word, not if they can help it. The goal right now isn’t to make them talk. It’s to get a noise out of them - any noise. 

‘Course, I recommend making them scream.

Because once they’ve given in, lost their control, once they’ve opened their mouth - it’ll be hard to close it again.

And that’s when you get them to talk.”

"You're worried you've been too hard on him, aren't you?"

He follows her gaze as their trainees leave the room. She really let one of them have it, after he took a brutal beating and struggled to get back up. She could see the tears in his eyes, could see him holding them back.

And now, her co-commander must see the guilt in her eyes.

"I just.. hope he knows it's all meant to help him," she sighs. "I don't know. He's struggling, maybe he needs more support."

"You know, I felt the same way when you were in training." He joins her against the wall, dropping his typically tough demeanor by just a fraction. He's still intimidating, just a bit more casual, and it's.. odd.

"You were having a rough go of it for a while," he continues. "Sure, I could've held your hand and wiped away your tears." He looks directly at her. "But that wouldn't have done you any good, would it?"

"No, sir."

He gives her a funny look, as if to say there's no need for that. And it's true. She's not expected to address him as a superior anymore.

But he lets it go, shaking his head with a laugh. "You wouldn't have accepted it anyway."

She nods, slowly. He's right, she knows he is. She hates for anyone to see her cry, would've hated the humiliation of being singled out for it. Even if it was meant as a comfort. "Would've just felt insulting," she admits, with a half-laugh of her own.

It's still a bit strange, to be considered an equal to him now. As if he never held power over her, as if he hadn't been the one to push her mind and body to and beyond its limits. As if he never broke her.

But - no, that's the whole point. He broke her so he could build her up into something new. Into a fighter, a warrior.

Like him.

"You wanted to be stronger," he reminds her. "So does he. Let him tough this one out. It's a rite of passage."

"Yes s-" she begins, but catches herself. Why does she still think herself below him? Isn't she meant to be tougher than this now? She pauses for a moment. "Yeah, okay," she nods. "Yeah." A sly smile crosses her face, gaining confidence as she looks back at him. "You're right. He'll be fine."

:o

thank you <3

Wow I uh. had a bit of a whumpy dream last night

Can’t remember all the specific details, but -

I was on trial for some sort of crime, and it was time for the verdict to be delivered. Rather than the judge reading it, I was handed a sheet of paper with the judge’s ruling and told to read it out loud, word for word, to the courtroom. 

I had not been told in advance what the paper said, so I was learning my own fate as I spoke it out loud.

It was written in first person, so I was essentially delivering a monologue stating something like “I am guilty of [some sort of crime.] I am to be punished by [can’t remember specifically, probably life in prison].”

and then the best part - this is still dream me reading out loud off the paper :

“When I am finished reading this verdict, I will kneel and look up into the eyes of the court for five minutes, so that I may feel your judgement and shame.”

I do not remember anything after that, but uh. Gotta say, that was a nice dream.

The whip falls.

She doesn’t protest the punishment. If she did, maybe someone would take pity. Someone might find it an injustice, to harm such a vulnerable, helpless thing.

If she pleads and cries and begs, she might fool the people watching. Might convince them that this is wrong, that she could not possibly deserve this.

She is guilty. She deserves this. This is the truth. She knows it, deep in her shriveled soul, and she wants them to know, too.

It’s hard not to cry. It feels dishonest, in a way, to hold back the pain screaming through her body, the guilt burning up her cold heart.

But it would be so much worse to deceive her audience. They deserve to know the truth. She deserves to be punished.

So she does not sob. She does not plead or beg for mercy. She narrows her eyes and shows no fear. She snarls and spits curses and glares daggers, letting herself become the monster she has always known herself to be. 

She puts on a show for her audience, letting them know exactly what she is. None of them will offer her a shred of mercy again, she makes sure of it.

It’s almost a relief, to have the truth revealed.

The whip falls again.

Fun idea of the night: break your character's kneecaps

and then force them to kneel

A character who spent long amounts of time in chains, developing the habit of wrapping things around their wrists in times of stress - ropes, cables, scarves, anything they can use to tie their hands. It’s a coping mechanism, a mindless habit they may not even be quite aware of. They can’t explain it. They don’t know why they do it. It just feels familiar. It feels right.

Aww, thank you anon. Did not realize I was anyone's favorite on here. I'm just writing horrible little snippets of torture for my own enjoyment, it's nice to hear other people enjoy them as well.