#cw medical torture

[iliketowatchmyblobrossuffer]

I Take my writing planning very seriously I promise

#making evil plans #whump #writing process #cw torture #cw electrocution #cw knives #cw medical torture

[negative-speedforce]

writing challenge from my bad things happen bingo card: try to get one full bingo (any line of your choice, 4 corners also counts) with one ficlet :)

CW: A WHOLE LOT OF REALLY DARK, FUCKED UP SHIT. See Bingo above for deets, some of it is just mentioned/implied, but it's all here.

With: My OC Director Lydia Hawke

Director Hawke checked her reflection, smiling at the face that greeted her in the mirror. Greying blonde hair, perfectly slicked back without a hair out of place, sharp grey eyes, and sharp, angular features that managed to not quite look her full age of 55.

She checked the camera feed from her office, making sure it was on a loop of her at her desk, checking emails, before she quickly enveloped herself in shadows, pulling herself through the Nether until she was spat out on the detention level of Project Syncope's facility.

"Director Hawke- ma'am." The guard saluted, a middle-aged man who was little more than a glorified mall cop. "I wasn't expecting you today."

"I'm here to see Inmate 351. Beatrix Grey." Director Hawke. "I may need to facilitate a transfer for her."

"Of course, ma'am." The guard replied. "I just need your fingerprint and iris scans, then we can let you through."

Director Hawke nodded, pressing her thumb to the electronic pad while staring into the iris scanner above.

"You're all clear." The guard said, pushing a button on the wall next to him, which made the door unlock and swing open.

Director Hawke walked down the hall, pristine stiletto boots clicking against the concrete floor until she reached the cell, where the girl she was searching for sat.

Inmate 351, formerly known as Central City high school student Beatrix Leanne Grey, sat in her cell, staring at the wall. Her hair, which had been little more than few short curls in neon blue, had grown out in the four months that she had been detained there, a natural light brown almost reaching her shoulders.

Her story was similar to many of the others that Director Hawke had funneled out into her... personal project. A poor, struggling foster kid, goes to a store and steals over two hundred dollars of food for herself and her siblings. The cops try to take her in, and her previously unknown abilities kick in, with Beatrix's unique take on this perverted magic being the ability to do what was colloquially known as bloodbending, manipulating a person's body by controlling their blood.

"I told you, I didn't mean to kill those cops." The prisoner said, wrapping her arms around her knees.

"I'm not here to interrogate you." Director Hawke replied. "I know you didn't have control of your... rather extensive abilities."

"Are you here to help me?" The sixteen-year-old looked up, eyes wide with fear.

"I am." Director Hawke lied expertly, smiling softly at the scared young girl. "We're gonna bring you somewhere else, somewhere here you can be with others like you, and we can learn more about your powers."

"I... I don't want to hurt anyone." Beatrix hugged her knees a little tighter.

"You won't." Director Hawke held up a pair of power-dampening cuffs.

"How do I know you're not lying to me?"

Director Hawke smiled. Oh, this would be so easy. She summoned a small ball of her signature glowing purple magic, pressing it against the glass so it floated over to Beatrix and exploded above her into a shower of sparkles. "See? I'm like you. Me and my friends help people like you, metahumans who get on the wrong side of the law. We can help reunite you with your siblings, or we can smuggle you across the border into Mexico or Canada."

"I- I want to see my siblings again." Beatrix looked up, hope practically written on her naive, idealistic young face.

"Then you will." Director Hawke said. "Come with me."

She pressed a button on the wall, and the force field separating her from Beatrix fell. Beatrix stood up, walking towards Hawke.

"You'll have to wear these, for now." Director Hawke clicked the cuffs around Beatrix's wrists, cutting her off from her powers. "Just a precaution, so they don't know we're smuggling you out."

"Okay." Beatrix nodded bravely, following Director Hawke out. They passed the guard easily, then got into the elevator that would lead Beatrix to what she believed to be freedom. Foolish, naive deviant. Soon, she would learn her lesson, for desecrating the magics that the Hawke family had practiced for generations.

Once they entered the elevator, Director Hawke shadow-traveled, dragging Beatrix with her, to a parking garage far from the facility.

"Pietro, now!" Director Hawke shoved Beatrix to the man, who put a black bag over the girl's head, then pulled a baton from his belt, repeatedly beating her over the head until she collapsed.

"Put her in the van. Take her to the facility. I'll meet you there."

After mind-wiping the guard and forging a record of Beatrix's death, Director Hawke again transported herself offsite, this time to a mysterious underground lab, which was on the grounds of a condemned, abandoned hospital.

"Lydia Hawke." Pietro grinned, greeting her. "Good to see you. And what kind of surprise have you brought us this time?"

"Can it, Pietro. Your whole 'mad scientist' schtick isn't funny, and it never will be."

Pietro drooped. "Seriously though. What's her deal? I thought we usually don't bring in kids."

"We don't. She's a ward of the state. No family, except for two younger siblings, both under the age of ten." Director Hawke examined her nails. "No one's coming for her. And the best part? She's one of those- what do you stupid kids call them- oh, right. She's a Bloodbender."

"That's going to bring us a fortune." Pietro smiled, mind occupied with stacks of cash.

"I know. She's perfect." Director Hawke. "Where is she?"

"Room 63." Pietro replied. "Follow me."

Pietro led her down the hall, to a completely dark room. From outside, Hawke could hear thrashing, and screaming.

"Where am I? Somebody help me! Please, I want to go home!" Beatrix sobbed from inside. "I just want to go home!"

"Is she still dampened?" Director Hawke raised an eyebrow. Pietro nodded.

"Doc's already in there. He's in the other room, setting everything up."

Director Hawke opened the door, turning on the light. Beatrix winced, pupils contracting from the sudden influx of light.

"You! You brought me here! Why?"

Director Hawke smiled. "You and your kind are an affront to magic. My kind has to work for our abilities, while you were handed them on a silver platter. Do you understand how insulting that is? That we toil constantly to hone our skills, while yours were granted by a single man with too much hubris? We'll be glad when you're dead. Until then? You're going to be our little cash cow."

"What do you mean?" Beatrix asked hesitantly.

"It's simple- your DNA." Director Hawke replied. "We're going to find what makes you tick, rip it out, and sell it to the masses."

"Please... I just want to see my siblings again. I don't want to be here. Please." Beatrix pleaded.

Director Hawke cocked her head. "No. And don't think I don't know about your siblings. Eloise Gray, age six, and Brennan Gray, age four. If you want being impoverished to be their biggest worry, you'll do exactly what I say."

"Please- don't hurt them." Beatrix implored.

"If you try to escape, or hurt anyone here, accidentally or on purpose, there will be hell to pay, and they will pay it." Hawke pushed Beatrix's chin up, "Do you understand?"

Beatrix nodded. "I understand."

"Doctor." Hawke beckoned to the man standing in the doorway. "Are you ready?"

"I am." He held a tray with three syringes, walking over to Beatrix. "This first one will stimulate your pain receptors, in order to create an adrenaline response. The second one will help to make your DNA more malleable, so we can make more changes in the future. The third is a pheromonal lock, so you'll be unable to commit any violence against anyone in this facility."

"Please..." Beatrix looked up at the doctor, eyes pleading for mercy, but none was to be found. The doctor pressed the first needle to her arm, plunging the serum into her veins.

Almost immediately, Beatrix began screaming, thrashing against her restraints as her veins became tainted with the doctor's serum, turning a deep black color.

"Don't worry." The doctor said, taking a few steps back to observe his subject. "It will only get worse from here."

#cw medical torture #oc shit #revan writes #vexic :D #director lydia hawke

[kingtheghast]

"Poor little dhampir..."

(Commission for @jazzyjesse !)

#TY JESSE FOR THE OPPORTUNITY GRACIAS MI CAUSAAAAA #tw injury #tw bruises #cw needles #tw medical equipment #tw blood #tw iv #tw torture #if i need to tag more let me know please #ghast.art

[withoutalice]

WIP doujin page. Kinda based in some past irl stuffs haha. Also can be looked at in the lense of my Max fic.

I know it looks bad in the tags but it's not medical malpractice i promise-

They're just trying to help...

#They're just trying to help... #it's court ordered checks :// had no choice... #implied past torture #i mean it's Max...in a medbay...in recovery #idk what you want from me #cw medical anxiety #no graphic injuries #non-graphic medical procedures #tw delusions #my art #my doujins #transformers #fortress maximus #max really hates physicals (me too) #uncomfy hospitals :(

[wixed]

Temptations of Circuits and Sin

CW: Blood/Gore, Torture, Medical Torture, Medical Experimentation, Drugged Torture, Nonconsensual Drug Use, Religious Zealotry, Ingesting Body Fluids (Blood), Cannibalism, Loss of Agency, Durge Episode, Clawing/Scratching, Grinding, Choking, Dom/Sub

Pairing: OC!Durge x Gortash

Word Count: 5221 Ao3 Link Part 2

Part 1

◤──•~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

The meeting between the Chosen drew laboriously on. The bhaalspawn could feel the urge in the back of their mind twitch at the banality of the current discussion. 

War plans, invasions, political scheming - it all felt like needless pomp. 

Each chime from the grandiose, overly mechanical clock rang through their ears like a shrill laugh. Mocking the Murder Lord’s chosen. Bound by the drivel of civility. Chained to this table like a sacrifice at an altar, for a ritual they cannot comprehend and care little for. Only instead of being cut and splayed, they were forced into an agreeable nature. It made them want to split their own skull to pierce through the dull ache of boredom.  

Another melodious chime tore through the room. They slammed their dagger into the wooden table, bringing whatever conversation they had long since drowned out to an abrupt halt. 

“Do you have something you wish to bring to the table, Assassin? Other than more scuffs and scrapes?" Gortash’s question was meant to rile them. Shame them for their outburst as if the Tyrant held such power over them. 

"I do not see why I must be here for the Moonrise invasion plans. They have little to do with my part in this.” They tried to cow the petulant tone in their voice. 

Gortash smiled with a seductive ease. The sight of it sent a lash to the bhaalspawn’s core. They turned their head with a dissatisfied grunt. 

“We simply want to ensure you understand and are kept in the loop. If you do not wish to be here any longer, by all means, you may leave." The Tyrant’s words caused a roaring heat to roll over in their belly. 

"Good. I have a complicated series of staged ritualistic murders to plan. These meetings are a waste of my time and talent.” They lifted the dagger from where it still dug upright into the table. They deftly twirled the blade as they sheathed it. Gortash gave a wry, crooked smile. 

"Well then, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you, Chosen." His words dripped with coy superiority. 

The bhaalspawn scowled as they left the war room, the doors slamming shut behind them. As they left the confines of Wyrm’s Rock, they could feel the eyes of prey upon them. It made their blood itch. How dare such pathetic creatures use such weak eyes to observe their visage? Their body surged with a murder-lust their Father demanded of them. Their focus flicked from patron to patron, momentarily stopping on a beggar woman who seemed sickly. 

Normally, they avoided such frail offerings for their Father. The god of disease already claimed this soul, but it would suffice for the practice and planning of the staged rituals. 

—

Luring the beggar back to the abandoned house they used for such practices was easy. The house was a secret place for sacrifices that would defile their Father-God's sacred temple. This blood would not spill in the name of Bhaal. It would not be clean and freely flow from the lash of their blade. There would be no praising cuts to adorn the body before Bhaal claimed it. It did not deserve the temple. 

They gave the woman a meal and medicine to ease her fever. It would be no good for study if the brain was cooked from illness. She cried in supplication at the feet of her would-be savior. The Chosen did not move from their seat. They looked on with deliberating patience, waiting for the sleeping drug to take hold of the peasant. 

A few moments later, her feeble body slumped in her chair, and her breathing slowed to a dangerous pace. The bhaalspawn lifted the unconscious body with ease, opening a hidden latch in the floorboards and taking her to the secret basement below. They tied their unwitting project to a medical table stained with blood from overuse. Save for the stains, the table was remarkably clean. 

In fact, the entire space was neatly organized and relatively clean for what one might expect from a Chosen of Bhaal. Shelves held books and scrolls at one end of the room, and another was full of varied herbs, toxins, and alchemical supplies. 

They picked up a small razor, sharp yet delicate, and shaved the head of all hair, removing anything that could impede sight and compromise the precision of their cuts. They began to split the skin of the woman at the crown of the skull. She was too far gone in the drug to do more than twitch out of instinct, eyelids barely fluttering at the glide of the blade across her skin. They carefully sliced around the crown, blood dripping down the twitching face. With a slow ease, they peeled back the skin, pinning it out of the way. 

They licked the blade clean with a satisfied hum, then set it down. Grabbing another larger knife with unique serrations, they growled a noise of frustrated contemplation. They hovered over the exposed skull, steadying their erratic breath. 

They felt a sudden spur of pain cut through their body. Father did not approve of their hesitation. He misunderstood - they did not hesitate out of guilt or some other weak foreign emotion. They hesitated out of pride. Their cuts were divine prayer, the mutilated bodies at their hand a providence. Though this meat was unfit for the temple, they were still a priest and must act under their holy creed. Sloppy would not suffice. 

Once their breath drew steady and their heart beat in rhythm with the world around them, the serrated blade started to work on the skull. They finessed away a small piece of bone. exposing the brain. They felt their lips twitch with excitement at the sight. Their hands shook over the enticing organic matter. With a sharp inhale, they placed the blade neatly adjacent to the small razor. 

They gathered a few small vials of liquid from a shelf. The liquids consisted mostly of poisons and some acids of varying strength. They mused over which to try first, eventually deciding on a common nerve poison. They slowly added a drop to the exposed brain and waited for the poison to take hold. A few moments later the body violently seized against the table. The loud rattling of their bones hitting wood echoed through the room with gasping strained breathing. The body continued to convulse until the limbs froze, contorted joints locking in place. 

Seeing the body dance for them enthralled the bhaalspawn, a small smile forming at the corner of their lips, showing the sharpened teeth beneath. They grabbed a vial of acid and carefully but excitedly poured a drop into the cranial cavity. The body twitched but had very little response. The Chosen glared at the defiant meatsack. They took a syringe and drew up some of the acid, injecting it into the internal jugular vein. 

The process was slow, but eventually, the cuts started to ooze once again. The urge inside them stirred at the smell of the sanguine nectar. Despite it being poisoned and diseased, their bloodlust craved the carnage. When it became evident the acid would not have the desired effect, they stood and reached for another toxin. Their deliberation was cut short by the body experiencing another violent series of convulsions, breathing rapidly increasing. Bloody foam gathered around the mouth. 

The bhaalspawn cursed. They tried to keep the wretched thing from choking on her bile and spittle, but it was too late. The chest sank as her limbs went rigid, still bent from the nerve poison. In frustration, the bhaalspawn slashed the throat of the beggar and drove the blade into her heart. 

They unlatched the body from the table and tossed it aside, sighing at their experiment cut short. They bent over the table, their face a mere hair’s breadth away from the pooled blood left there. They closed their eyes and languidly inhaled deep and slow. The iron aroma of the crimson called to them. They slowly dipped their tongue into the pool and licked a long stripe up the table, clenching the table so tight their sharp fingernails left indentations. Suddenly, a vision invaded their mind. 

They imagined licking a body, warm and supple under their touch, blood flowing from the cuts drawn by their blade. Their tongue traveled up the collarbone to the neck. They pulled back to gaze upon the face of their prey, and instead of seeing lifeless eyes from a sacrifice, they saw his face. The Tyrant looking back at them with his smug smile shocked them out of the daydream. 

They shot up from the table with sudden alertness, eyes wide and darting about the room. Disgust roiled in their core, their heartbeat once again thrumming wildly. Once the panic of the uninvited vision left, they glowered in still silence.

“Sceleritas!” they broke the quiet, summoning their faithful servant. The imp appeared with a pop of sulfurous smoke. 

“Yes, my Liege?” He bowed to his master. 

“Take this body to the ruins outside the temple. Make use of it.”  

“As you command, my Dark Master.” Another deep bow. He took hold of the corpse and snapped his fingers, taking the body with him in another swirl of infernal smoke. 

Once Sceleritas vanished, they cleaned the remainder of the spilled viscera. They tried to push thoughts of Bane’s Chosen from their mind. They soon left the abandoned house. Their body still ached with the need for bloodshed, proper bloodshed. They needed to still their mind in prayer. Their Father would make all things clear. Cleanse the weakness from them as they cleanse this world of vitality. They had several sacrifices awaiting them in the temple, ready to be made holy for their Father. 

They stalked to the sewer entrance leading to the temple ruins, so distracted by the events of the last few hours they didn’t notice the lowly Banite who had been following them since the meeting. 

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

 Enver paced his foundry workshop. The metal clack of the cane hitting the stone floor was the only sound among the hissing steam vents until there was a knock at the door. 

“Enter.” He cooly called out. The Banite sent to tail Bhaal’s Chosen returned from their mission. 

“Sir.” The soldier stood at attention with a small bow of his head. Enver waved his hand dismissively. 

“At ease. I assume you were successful? Tell me what you found.” He sat in the plush chair at a writing desk, hand still atop his cane. 

“Yes sir, I tracked them to a decrepit house in the Lower City. They brought a peasant beggar with them but left alone, with no additional baggage or body. They took to the sewers after.” the Banite reported. Enver brushed his metal-clad thumb over his lips while humming a thought. 

“And how long were they in the house?” 

“A few hours, my lord.” 

“Very well, leave the address for me. You are dismissed.” Enver passed the soldier a piece of blank parchment and a quill. The man did as he was commanded and took his leave. 

Enver sat staring at the address for moments that turned to minutes until he tapped his cane against the stone, standing and moving to the mobile teaching-board covered with schematics and architectural drawings. He pinned the address to the board next to sketches of an automaton design. A low hum echoed from his chest to his throat. 

“Interesting.” 

—

Half a tenday came and went since Enver first had the Bhaalist followed. Each day since, he commanded his most skilled rogues to continue tracking and observing the curious bhaalspawn. Always the same report; They lure a lowly peasant, usually sick or diseased, they go to the abandoned house, hours pass, and they leave. 

Enver never gave much thought to the daily routines of Bhaal worshipers, or his blood-spawn, but his mind kept wandering back to them. It was a near hyperfixation if he was being honest with himself. He told himself several times over the past few days that the Chosen was likely doing their duty assigned to them, simple as that. And yet, he couldn’t shake that there was more to it than that. More to them. 

He found himself staring out a large arched window, the main source of light for his office at this time of day. He couldn’t see the house from his lofty tower, but he knew the direction all the same. His thoughts swarming and swirling like rats caught in a current. 

“Lord Gortash.” The servant startled him from his troubling fixation. He scowled at being caught unaware. 

“Yes? What is it?” his voice low and threatening. 

“They’ve taken more to the house. This time several at once, a count of four peasants, sir.” The servant dutifully reported. Enver stood pensive for a moment before grabbing his elaborately embroidered overcoat. 

“Thank you. Dismissed.” he waved a hand at the cowering servant, then left. 

◤──•~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

Days upon days of failure weighed heavy on the bhaalspawn. Failure to their Father, failure to their mission, failure to their urges. 

They attempted concoction after concoction of poisons, toxins, and acids to no avail. The resulting deaths didn’t look right, wasn’t what they needed. The nerves would seize, but that was the only success. The poisons extracted from mushrooms would cause too much distress to the stomach, the poisons harvested from a particularly nasty insect resulted in too much swelling, and the toxic oils from dangerous plants caused uncontrollable and unpredictable rashes. They were at their wit's end. They chuckled a helpless, deranged laugh at the thought of having any wits left. 

This obsession all but consumed their every waking moment. They had fallen behind in prayer, in their holy duty to the Temple, and their Father took notice. They were sure a punishment wasn’t far off. In desperation, they decided to lure a larger group tonight. They wouldn’t stop until they got it right, even if it took till morning.

They weren’t sure why this riddle had become so important to them. A flash of Gortash’s face flitted across their mind, and they growled under their breath. Perhaps it was simple competitive nature that made them so crazed for this answer, but the flutter of something in their core prevented them from fully accepting such a contrite explanation. 

They strapped three of the half-unconscious bodies to chains hanging from the walls while the remaining one got the table. They stroked the face of the plump sacrifice laid flat on their altar, an altar to understanding rather than butchery. 

“You are lucky. You get the comfortable seat.” Their sharpened nails dug into the skin a little too deep, drawing blood from the rosy apple cheek. They smiled with deranged glee, sharpened teeth flashing across their face as the smell of blood filled their nostrils. They breathed it in like the air would run out of the room. They blinked their eyes quickly, attempting to banish the crimson haze taking over. 

“No, no, no, Father, please. Not now. Please I b-… I beg, Father, please!” They gripped the shoulders of the victim on the table tightly, bloodied claws digging in for purchase. But it was too late. Their sanity had left them, their Father-God demanding control over the bhaalspawn’s bloodlust. With a shrill manic cry, they clutched their head. Their body twitched through feral screams as they began to slice the warm and waiting flesh before them. 

◤──•~✧Enver Gortash✧~•──◥

Enver didn’t relish in sneaking through the city, his city, but he could manage it when the occasion called for it. He quietly waited outside the entrance of the old house. A few glances about the area told him that if anyone was watching him, they likely wouldn’t care. 

He slipped into the house with ease. Old dressers and empty crates filled the room. He cautiously looked about the dwelling, growing frustrated in thinking he had the wrong house, but then saw a curious set of marks behind some crates. Upon inspection, he found the hidden entrance to the basement. He paused at the open hatch, he knew it was a risk, but something was gnawing at the back of his mind. He inhaled a short, decisive breath and descended the ladder. 

When he made contact with the ground, he found himself in a makeshift foyer that seemed to spill into a larger room. He slipped behind a crate against a wall, watching the scene escalate before him. 

The bhaalspawn had finished chaining three people to a wall. An older woman who suffered from a cough wearing a washer woman’s apron with an embroidered monogram - a servant to a high house. A young man who seemed healthy with tanned, broad shoulders - a stable hand or farmer perhaps? And a young woman who seemed too thin but otherwise seemed healthy, based on the finer clothing, likely a brothel worker, a low-end brothel at that if she couldn’t be fed properly. The Assassin leaned over their fourth victim, a rotund man strapped to a table whose ankles and feet were puffy and swollen, a spoiled merchant, no doubt.

Enver’s eyes danced around the room, he saw bookshelves, what appeared to be medicine cabinets, an alchemy station, a writing desk- 

Before he could finish assessing the room the bhaalspawn began to mutter with a desperate tone. They were pleading. Enver’s brows knit together in confusion as he continued to watch from his dangerous vantage point. With a wail, the bhaalspawn lashed out at the body on the table. They sounded like an animal, their cries of desperation mixed with feral guttural noises. 

When they finished eviscerating the man on the table, they moved to the chained bodies. The young, healthy man unfortunately looked as though whatever drug they had given him had worn off. Enver watched the crazed Chosen tear into him as he cried for mercy, eventually choking on his blood. The wet bubbling of the choking drowned out his pained screaming until his eyes went dull and his head hung limp.

They moved to the other victims with erratic speed. Slashing, biting, ripping, and tearing flesh away. They were covered in viscera - entrails hanging from their arms, bits of skin caught on their blade-like nails, blood soaking through their clothing and hair. Enver couldn’t help but feel a fascination at the consuming nature of this “urge”. He still readied a dagger just in case. 

It was several minutes before the bhaalspawn seemed to come to themselves. They had been in the middle of sawing off the wrist of the man on the table, or what was left of him, at least. They dropped the bone saw, standing still like a crimson statue. 

Enver was even more shocked at what he saw next. They fell to their knees and started to sob. Deep heaving sobs while they quietly uttered a prayer of apology over and over to their father. He thought of revealing himself but decided to give it some more time and distance between the vulnerable state they were in and his unwanted appearance.

◤──•~   ҉  The Dark Urge   ҉ ~•──◥

Blood and meat covered the bhaalspawn like a blanket. A blanket that was once warm and comforting but turned to an overwhelming heat. They could feel the pieces of flesh under their nails as the blood dried and cracked on their skin. The taste of iron lingered in their mouth as they swiped their tongue across their teeth. 

They slowly forced their body up from the floor and began cleaning the mess. They unlatched the sabotaged experiments from the wall, the remainants piling on the ground.  They pushed the brutalized meat on the table into the pile, joining the others in a homogenized mixture of carrion and sinew. 

They stared at the writing desk where notes had laid open, in process studies strewn across the surface, now covered in blood. If they weren’t ruined, it would take days to transcribe it all. They sighed and it turned into a low dissatisfied growl. This was their punishment. More than losing their mind, more than the red haze taking over their body, this - their fascination with the mortal body and interest in discovering its secrets, destroying the lucid days of study devoted to it. That is why they suffered their Father’s lash. 

They suffered the lash of Bhaal and still learned nothing. The wresting of control did not deter them. It was a momentary hiccup. Their Father didn’t understand, same as every other soul who knew of their interests. They needed to understand the mortal body to better utilize the meat sacks for their Father’s purpose. It was a half-lie they told themself on repeat. A lie they told themself now as they gently dabbed the sweet red juices from the ruined pages. 

“Ahem”

They drew their knife and threw another barely missing the intruder as he cleared his throat behind them. Their eyes widened in shock, then quickly narrowed in anger when Gortash’s visage became clear. 

“What are you doing here?” they spat out. “Get out, now.” They didn’t raise their voice, but the demand was laced with venomous unsaid threats of what defying it would mean for the Tyrant. 

Gortash pulled the dagger from the wall behind him. He wore an easy, almost cocky smile as he stepped closer to the bhaalspawn, handing them the dagger hilt first. 

“I had a gnawing feeling you were in need of aid, and it seems I may be correct.” He sounded confident, all of his usual charm edging through his words. The sound of his voice was enough to ground the bhaalspawn and they hated it. 

“That is very presumptuous of you, Tyrant.” They grabbed the dagger, resheathing it in a quick fluid motion. They eyed him wearily like one predator sizing up another. They felt the saliva catch in their throat the longer they took him in. An irritated grunt left their lips without permission and they tore their eyes away from him. 

He gave a small chuckle at their annoyance. “I know we come from very different… backgrounds, but I feel as though we share something in common.” He ran a finger over one of the shelves holding the alchemy supplies. They studied him closely, waiting for the reveal of his observation. 

Gortash smiled at them, causing their heart to pick up pace. “We have brilliant minds, you and I.” He walked to the viscera-covered bookshelves. “Minds that many underestimate, devalue, and would leave to rot.” He candidly kicked some entrails out of his path, circling the bhaalspawn like a vulture. The Bhaalist stood unmoving but watched Gortash as he moved about their study, eyes never leaving him, and their hand never leaving the hilt of their blade.

“I always knew you were capable. Retrieving the Crown from the Hells proved that much. However, your brilliance, your intellect, it’s something that slipped through my notice, until recently.” He picked up one of the books and flipped to a clean page. It showed sketches of the mortal body and notes about the brain specifically. 

One part of them wanted to snatch the book away and drive their dagger through his haughty, overly confident heart. Another part was frozen, treading unfamiliar territory. The Tyrant was praising them for their revolting interests. He seemed intrigued by it rather than put off. This alone was enough to allow him more of the floor in their conversation. 

He shut the book, setting it down again. “I believe I can help you. If you’ll let me.” 

He waited for their answer. The assassin thought through the offer carefully. This dilemma was the result of their shared plans. It wasn’t strictly Bhaalist business. They took in the sight of the half-cleaned study and failed experiments decorating their shameful, secret dwelling. Their mind raced through all the possible ways the Banite could use this against them, all the ways he could betray them, all the ways he could leverage the aid he seemingly freely offered. They sighed in exasperation. 

“Fine.” 

—

The two chosen spent hours together. Gortash seemed barely bothered, if at all, by the remaining gore that lay about the room. Eventually, the bhaalspawn called for their faithful butler to clean the mutilated bodies, ordering him to repurpose what he could. Waste not, want not. 

They detailed their idea for the staged murders. The rituals had to appear of The Absolute, not of Bhaal, so their usual methods wouldn’t suffice. They decided that a “god” who communicates and works through telepathy would use the same means to kill. This Absolute would want sacrifices that gave the brain of the victim to the “god”. 

“This already aligns with how weak brains reject the tadpole, when the infection is too much.-” 

“The brain hemorrhages. Brilliant.” Gortash grinned with excitement. The bhaalspawn felt a renewed vigor for their ideas. Just having one person share in the thrill of puzzling through it set their blood aflame in a way they hadn’t felt before. 

“I also thought so.” A smug smile flashed across their face. They pulled out their most recent notes on the varied toxins and poisons they’ve attempted to mimic a hemorrhage. 

“The part I am …stumbling over is making the brain bleed look divinely spontaneous, no evidence of blunt force trauma, or piercing pokers can be left behind. I was hoping a potent poison could achieve this. I have found a toxin that results in a very fitting secondary symptom, but haven’t had much luck with the star of the show.” They showed the combinations and the results to Gortash as best they could through the blood stains. 

Gortash reviewed the summary of experiments in earnest. A few moments of silence passed as he read. The bhaalspawn watched his fingers, dressed in the gold of his gauntlet flip through the pages of their notes. They analyzed the way he deliberately and delicately at the same time manipulated the frail pages. Their body felt a jolt of something shoot from the base of their spine to the neck. Like lightning had found its way into their spinal fluid. Their fingers twitched from the feeling. 

The Tyrant made a reserved but triumphant exclamation. “I think I’ve got it.” He snapped the book shut with one hand, offering it to them. The assassin lurched forward to grab it, excitement written over their face. 

“What? What is it? Out with it, Tyrant.” Their words might have been demanding, but their tone was anxious and supplicant. Gortash grinned with the power he held over them. 

“Patience, dear Assassin.” He inspected the bottles of poisons and toxins that were all meticulously labeled. He picked one at the back, labeled “Rat Poison.” 

“This is what you’re looking for.” He handed the bottle to them. They glanced at the bottle in their hand. 

“I’ve already tried this, it causes hemorrhaging, but it’s of the gut.” The delight in their eyes faded. The Tyrant clicked his tongue in a chiding manner and lifted their chin with one sharp golden finger. They should slice the finger from his hand, they should spill his entrails on the floor before them for daring to touch Bhaal’s Chosen. They’ve done worse for less. Their eye twitched at the touch, and their body tensed in anticipation, but they held still, glaring up at him through what little restraint they possessed. 

“You didn’t let me finish.” He dropped his finger from their chin, and their body immediately relaxed. 

“We adjust the dose, pair it with the toxin you already have for the seizures, then apply it to the barrier between the brain and-”

“The blood-brain barrier! Of course! Gods, how could I not see it? We need to induce a stroke, so stressing the blood vessels locally would cause mass bursting - this is ingenious. We’ll need a binding agent and a few tweaks to the base solution to ensure the seizure toxin won’t be affected. Get the two working synergistically rather than-” 

Their rambling was cut short by Gortash pressing his lips to theirs. Their words caught between the joined lips. They made a muffled noise of displeasure and pushed him at an arm’s distance. 

“How dare you?!” They gasped for breath, their pulse unstable, causing their words to lose footing. Gortash smiled a wry grin. He saw through their veiled disgust. Knew their strained words for what they were. An attempt to do what they should. Attempts to cow their obvious desires. He chewed on his bottom lip as he shifted closer again, finding little resistance from the hands against his chest. 

“By all means, Assassin, tell me to stop.” He pushed even closer. The bhaalspawn was pressed up against the table behind them, their hands finding the surface, attempting to steady their stance. Their piercing glare focused from his eyes to his lips. A low growl under their breath was their only response. Gortash closed the gap between them, his thigh pressing against their groin. He leaned in close, his breath hot and prickling against their skin. In a low husky voice, he continued. 

“Say you don't want this, and I won't give it." He rubbed his leg enticingly against them, the friction sending heat coiling tight in their core. They didn't stop him. 

Gortash captured their lips in his once more. They returned the kiss this time, needy and all-consuming. Growls of frustrated pleasure escaped them as they writhed against his thigh, causing the Tyrant to groan with delighted satisfaction. 

The bhaalspawn moved their hands to his chest and drew their nails down the exposed skin. Gortash parted from their lips with a moan. Blood trickled from the scratches and they went to lick it up, fulfilling the fantasy that had plagued them. 

The blood was sweeter than anything they'd tasted. It filled their senses with a different haze. They purred at the euphoric thrill of it all. They nipped at his neck and kissed at the vein they could feel pulsing under his skin. 

His hand gripped the bhaalspawn's throat. He applied pressure to the sides as he pulled their face away from his skin. They grimaced with a whimper. They felt pathetic, yet the shame melted away with the intoxicating pressure on their neck. 

“What did I say before, Assassin? Patience." He moved his grip to their jaw, positioning their face to look at him. He planted one last claiming kiss on the bhaalspawn. When they parted, he brushed his thumb over their wanting lips. He gave a small, satisfied chuckle before dropping his hand. He moved back to the ladder's base, glancing back at the wanton creature.  

"Find me in my workshop, tomorrow. You can repay the favor by helping me with a problem in turn. Quid pro quo.” He smiled a devilishly coy smile. “Tonight, you have a breakthrough to document." 

He left them reeling in their twisted lust and anger. The two emotions mixed terribly at first but settled out like an acid mixing with base, creating a neutral feeling as the pounding in their chest calmed and quieted. They finally let the death grip they had on the table relax. 

They pulled a blank sheet of parchment and scrawled desperate prayers.

‘Forgive me, Father…’ 

Part 2

This was supposed to be a smut oneshot - a self-indulgent Durgetash deranged smut-fest. BUT I guess we're here now.

#bg3 #bg3 fanfiction #durgetash #dark urge x gortash #Durge x Gortash #bg3 gortash #enver gortash #Dark Urge #dark romance #cw blood #cw torture #cw violence #cw medical #cw religious themes

[lilyoffandoms]

Time & Again (Blades)

A gift for @saibug1022 from @oh-so-youre-a-nerd (art exchange) featuring Salem’s MC, Asterin. Implied or referenced relationships: Asterin x Tyril; Asterin x Mal; Asterin x Aerin; Tyril x Mal. (So yes, that ask was from Thia but on my behalf hehe).

Warnings & A/N: This fic deals with canon compliant kindnapping, torture, and trauma. It also features medical torture and experimentation, compliant with this fic by Salem. ~3200 words

[Huge thanks to my proof-readers. Any mistakes are mine not their’s. There is only so much you can get me to edit haha.]

A bright, unnatural light overhead.

Thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the room.

Gleaming scalpels and saws reflecting that light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have clung to.

There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.

They are only snatches of memories, glimpses really, he can’t call them anything else. Nightmares maybe? For those bits of memory, visions, reality - he doesn’t know - what he does know is they are the only things to fill his waking dreams and haunt his sleepless nights.

He wants to close his eyes to escape but she waits for him on the other side. There is no escape and yet he succumbs to sleep where he is met with exactly what he feared he would find. What he always finds.

He’s not sure what is real and what blanks his mind is simply filling in to try and cope with the trauma. But he knows one thing-

She stands over him.

That’s how it always starts. Her over his prone, scared and beaten body.

At first she simply looks him over, taking notes here and there in the eerie quiet of the laboratory. Weeks, days, hours later - he doesn’t know - her examinations turn to poking and prodding. Measurements taken and written down in the margins of a parchment she keeps referring back to.

The feeling of emptiness is all that fills him.

He is alone.

So very alone.

The feeling that comes next - weeks, days, hours later - drowns out that emptiness. That dread is replaced by a deeper, more excruciating one.

The pain is all that fills him.

He is reminded he is not alone.

So very much not alone.

He jerks awake in the warm night of the Deadwood. It’s as dark as his memories. He watches Mal stoke the fire before Tyril throws another branch on.

“Do you think he remembers more than he’s telling us?” Mal whispers as Tyril takes a seat beside him on the cooling ground and wraps his arms around the rogue.

Asterin closes his eyes again and listens.

“You believe he would keep vital information from us?”

“No. No. Not like that sort. He said he was experimented on but doesn’t remember much,” Mal trails off as Tyril nods his head in understanding.

“It is possible.”

“Why won’t he talk to us about it?”

“He will when he is ready. Until then, we wait and offer what support we can.”

“Maybe I should go talk to him?”

She stands over him.

He’s back on that cold, metal table. He watches as she picks up a blunt ended scissors. He feels the cold metal on his skin as she slips it around the hem of his shirt and works her way up.

It is an out of place sound in so quiet a room. The tear of threads and the rhythmic click of the blades meeting as they get closer and closer to his neck.

He holds desperately still, not a single breath taken until she slips his tunic open and sets the scissors aside.

Weeks, days, hours later, who can say, his eyes fall closed and he reminds himself to breathe.

Breathe.

And he does, until that very breath is stolen from his lungs as he opens his eyes and finds her watching him. Her gaze is steady, cold, empty. Her face is the same mask until the smallest of grins tugs at her lips and her gaze turns bright and a unearthly fire lights her eyes in wicked mockery of his fear.

He jolts to the surface and sucks in a deep, cleansing breath of air as he swims through the murky water to the shoreline, crowded thick with all manner of lush, verdant life.

“Asterin!”

The cry greets him before he sees two sets of boots wade into the water to help pull him to shore. He waits, bent over, for his heart to calm down as Imtura stands beside him, on guard and at the ready. Tyril kneels down beside him in the mud and tilts his face up.

“Are you okay, Asterin?”

It’s a soft question.

He shakes his head, and the bad memories from him, and stands up as Mal calls out.

“Where’s Nia?”

She stands over him.

She picks up a needle and plunges it unceremoniously into his arm. He grits his teeth as she digs around until she finds a vein. She works methodically to attach a tube to it and he can only watch in horror as his blood drains from his body.

“It will help,” she says cooly.

“With what? Dying?” he quips.

“With what is to come next for you Realm-Walker.”

Her all-too-pleased grin is the last thing he sees before his body protects him and he passes out.

Weeks, days, hours later, he is awake and wishes he was not. The light is far too bright for his eyes and his mind swims as he struggles to move his head and regain his bearings.

Everything hurts and he is alone.

So very alone.

And yet he knows she’s there.

Not so very alone.

He can hear the quill scrap across the parchment, her gentle breathing, the lower murmur of many voices somewhere in the distance. Even the obsessive silence is loud.

She looks up as he groans at the pain his movements cost him and scowls at him before turning her attention back to her notes.

He starts as his hand falls on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Asterin. Breathe.“

He turns slowly to face the person speaking to him, a part of him fearing the face won’t match the voice. But he finds he can breathe when that unsure smirk greets him.

“Aerin?”

“I’m right here.”

He shakes the already fleeting feelings of dread that cling to him but he can’t shake that all-consuming, bone-numbing fear he seems to carry with him now wherever he goes. He can’t shake the memory of her cold, calculating eyes, or the chill that runs down his spine upon remembering her smile.

mmm

The people of Riverbend draw his attention back and he smiles the same smile he has practiced since returning to this realm. What was it? Weeks, days, hours ago?

He doesn’t remember that much, only happiness. Bliss found them tucked between sheets as smooth, unscathed hands ran up his back. Stars, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him in a few words, hastily scrawled on a piece of paper abandoned. Like him.

She stands over him.

It was as if he was no longer in his body but floating above it as he watches her hesitate but a moment before making the first incision starting near the left shoulder and working down to the end of the breastbone. He watches as she methodically repeats that same incision from his right shoulder before continuing down from the sternum, around his navel, until she pulls the scalpel from him and sets it aside.

He watches in horrified fascination as she moves aside tubes and casts another spell over him lulling him deeper into the strange inbetween world he’s found himself in.

The inbetween?

No, that can’t be right. The Watcher would be here then. No, this is some other-worldly space that is meant just for him. A trap just for his mind. Another trick she has played on him to confuse his already rapidly fraying sense of reality.

He turns back to the scene before him. It is a deeper cut than it feels, he thinks to himself.

She peels his skin back, as nonchalantly as if she were peeling an orange, and takes notes before reaching for a bone saw.

He reaches for her, desperate to stop what he knows will happen, but his hands reach blindly and fall through her as if she were not there.

She smiles knowingly and looks up to meet his eyes, seemingly knowing his consciousness is still there even as his body lays trapped, asleep.

Asleep. I’m only asleep, he reasons. But he knows that’s not true. That was a conversation from another time. Not now.

“It won’t hurt,” she says, bringing him back to the now, or then, or will be. Hells, he’s not even sure anymore.

He looks at her through tear-stained eyes.

“Why?” she asks as if reading his mind. “Because I’m curious.”

The widening grin is maddening and chills him to his core as he closes his eyes and listens to the sound of metal sawing through bone in the vast emptiness of the Shadow realm.

He is thrust back into another world as a dull humming sounds from copper pipes above them.

“We need to find a way out of here.”

He looks around wildly. Desperately trying to gain a hint as to where they are. He feels like he’s reeling, falling into some endless abyss until warm brown eyes meet his.

“Asterin?” Mal asks.

The dwarvish dungeons well beneath the subterranean city of Zaradun. He breathes. He’s here, not there. That is something at least.

“I got an idea. You with me, kit?”

He doesn’t remember that much, a tight swallow and a slight nod is all he is capable of until chapped lips meet his and he melts into the kiss. Bliss found them wrapped in each others arms. Nimble fingers teasing the fabric of his shirt. Warmth, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.

She stands over him.

Beating heart cupped in one hand as she moves the left lobe of his lung further to the side with the heart, to look deeper into the gapping cavity that is - was - his chest.

Huh, there is not as much blood as he would have expected.

“I stemmed the flow,” she says not looking up from her examination and probing deeper.

“What?”

“There is not much blood because I stemmed the flow. Makes it easier for me.”

He looks at her, she is almost giddy with excitement. It’s such a stark contrast to his own emotion. He looks back to his prone body, strapped to the table. Deathly still.

This isn’t real.

“If you say so,” she chuckles and tucks his heart back in place before turning to a scribe sitting in the corner.

“Chest contains the usual. The heart is within normal size for his species and in typical condition for an elf of his age. Lungs are supple and a healthy pink. Nothing of note in the upper cavity.”

She pauses and glances back at him.

“Moving on to the lower abdominal cavity.”

His wide eyes watch her every move.

“What are you looking f-“

“Whatever I please,” she says and looks down on his body as she brushes a stray hair back from his face with a bloody hand. He feels his blood on his scars as she traces one and then another near his eye. It’s warm still, slick. He can smell iron in the air.

He shouldn’t feel it but he does. He knows it’s real and he flinches as she caresses his cheek.

“No!”

His scream draws all their attention to him as they sit at a tiny, scared table. They all look up from their meager dinner plates to him.

“Asterin?”

He’s pale and shaking. He can feel it.

“I’m fine. There is nothing wrong with me,” he mumbles as he brushes Tyril’s hand from his arm and stares daggers into the violet eyes across the table from him.

“Dinvalir,” Tyril leans in and whispers, “that is not true.”

The creature of his nightmares stares back at him with a playful smile on her face.

“I can assure you there is nothing wrong with him. I checked. Thoroughly,,” she says in Tyril’s direction but her gaze remains fixed on Asterin.

“And just what does that mean?” Mal’s hard voice asks.

He narrows his eyes at Valax as he jumps up. Chair legs scrapping harshly against the floor and making Asterin flinch.

“Let’s just eat,” Asterin cuts off any further conversation.

He doesn’t remember that much, only Tyril’s firm, yet gentle, voice in his ear. Bliss found them in their own world of whispered comforts for a moment. Calmness, relief, sanctuary until it was torn from him.

She stands over him.

He’s sputtering on the bank of a river, coughing up water. The rain a deluge around them, watering long dead trees and parched ground. The sky, darker than is natural, adds to the oppressive nature of the realm.

“You saved me?”

It’s half statement, half question, and he is utterly and entirely confused.

“Your light-realm witch made sure I could do no other,” Valax crosses her arms.

“Of course.”

He would thank her but the pain that radiates from his chest stops him from such foolish behavior. After all, the water he is coughing up is from lungs she held, while the bones she cut from his body shield the heart she could have crushed in her hands.

She deserves no such kindness from him for she has shown him none.

“If you are quite through, we should find shelter,” she states and is walking away from him before he can respond.

He stands reluctantly and thinks over his nonexistent options. He does not want to follow her but neither of them have a choice right now. His body screams at him to run but she will find him. She is bound to him.

His worst nightmare, ever present, made hauntingly real. If he thought he could escape it - escape her - before, well he sure as hells can’t escape it now. Nia saw to that.

Does Nia even realize what she has done? Does she understand the re-lived pain she is inflicting on him by binding him to his kidnapper, his torturer. Logically he knows Nia was only trying to protect him, protect them all, but he can barely breathe with the thought of Valax, much less the reality of what he is subjected to now.

The cave is cold but dry and higher than any flash flooding could reach. He follows her in and stands warily off to the side, near enough the entrance to escape if she should turn on him.

“We should build a fire.”

“I suppose you should,” he states, aiming for her nonchalant coolness.

She glares at him and time stretches into eternity. He won’t give her the pleasure of looking away from her no matter what nightmares he sees fresh in the depths of her dangerous eyes. She relents before his resolve crumples and soon enough a fire is lit before them. Small but enough to keep them warm.

She sits down beside it and watches him over the flames.

“You should rest. I’ll keep first watch.”

His laugh is a bitter thing echoing off the high walls.

“I don’t think so.”

“Don’t be a fool. I require little sleep. You do.”

“Did my vivisection tell you that?”

He could almost fool himself into believing there is a flash of regret in her eyes but then again, fire plays dangerous tricks with those that believe it’s warmth will not burn.

“Your mortality does,” she murmurs into the flames.

He watches her a moment longer before settling down on the opposite side of the fire. Leary but exhausted enough to not care.

They watch each other for weeks, days, hours, he’s not sure. But they simply sit there for what could be eternity or mere seconds.

“Don’t look at me like that!” he finally snaps.

He doesn’t like what he sees with her eyes lit by and within from fire. There is something primordial, predatory, primal in the dark emptiness there.

“Like what?” she demands in turn.

“Like there is more you haven’t cut from me, more you haven’t discovered.”

“You think I’ve not exhausted all my options with you, day-walker?” she spits.

He feeezes a moment at her words, her tone, the shifting of her shoulders as if she is only barely holding herself back from ripping into him anew.

“I don’t care. Just don’t look at me like that.”

“What would you have me look at? There is not much here beside you and me.”

“Look at the fire then.”

“Fine,” she says and does as she was told.

Weeks, days, hours later he finds his eyes drooping with the weight of too many sleepless nights. Running from a demon that he can’t fight. A demon that now lies in wait, biding its precious time, before him.

“Talk to me,” he says.

“What.”

“You heard me.”

“What would you have me talk about?”

“I don’t care.”

He listens to her voice, asking occasional questions to keep her talking. She asks questions of her own which he answers cautiously.

He just needs to stay awake or at the very least know where she is by the sound of her voice. He cannot risk sleep with her here.

Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t give anything away. Keep her talking but don’t….

She stands over him.

“Seems there was more to discover about you after all,” she smirks.

He’s on his feet before she can move and he’s backed away from her, realizing too late that he is trapped between her standing in the mouth of the cave and the wall behind his back.

She watches him look around wildly for a moment before he has his sword in hand. She rolls her eyes at him and turns away.

“I hear your friends.”

“You do?”

The tip of his sword drops slightly until she takes a step towards him and he levels it at her in warning as he strains to listen.

Sure enough, he hears the telltale sounds of Mal and Tyril bickering and Imtura egging them on while Nia yells at them to shut up.

He smiles and gestures for Valax to continue on out of their shelter.

The earth is just as parched as it was the day before. Smooth dried mud cakes the ground and is already splitting, cracking, peeling away from the ground. There is no smell of fresh rain, only decay. It is nearly enough to break him until hope springs in his heart at the sight of them.

Soon he is wrapped in Mal and Tyril’s arms and he can’t help the choked sob that escapes him as he sinks into their embrace. He takes a deep breath. He is warm and safe.

“You came,” he whispers.

Joy leaps in his heart as they cling to him tighter in answer.

“You came for me.”

She stands over him.

“There is nothing here!” she fumes.

It’s a shout of disappointment. Anger. Frustration.

“Princess?” the scribe asks.

“Lower cavity shows nothing unusual. All organs are accounted for, healthy and normal. Nothing to explain,” she glances down, “him.”

He blinks a few times until she is in focus. He’s on his back on the same hard metal table. A bright, unnatural light hangs overhead.

The same thick, suffocating shadows blotting out the surrounding room.

She continues to look down at him, into his glazed over eyes, as she closes him back up.

The needle she uses to sew him up reflects the light into the shadows where it is consumed. Along with what little hope he may have been clinging to.

There is only that familiar all-consuming dread.

“I will learn your secrets. You will beg to tell me them before the end.”

How long has it been? Weeks, days, hours - he doesn’t know any more. Doesn’t know if he ever did.

But he’s alone.

So very alone.

And no one came for him.

#playchoices #choices blades #choices bolas #blades of light and shadow #content warnings #blood cw #medical experimentation cw #kidnapping cw #torture cw #trauma cw #art exchange #my drabble

[fictionkinfessions]

yknow what, i dont feel bad for all the scientists and security guards that died during the rescas that were active in bio, xenobio and biochem. thats what you get for flying too close to the sun with all your “experiments”.

what was the scientific value behind torturing a poor child that has just lost their entire homeworld, huh? what was the point of separating that child from their companion, the ONLY other thing left from their homeworld, within hours of discovering them? what was the point of stuffing that child in a cell in the darkest pit of black mesa, with barely enough space to even fit one person, and chain them to the floor? of repeatedly cutting off limbs just to see if they come back, to repeatedly take blood, flesh and bone to see what composition they had, to electrocute them, and then to kill them during experiments when you figured out they’d come back? what was the scientific value behind all that?

sometimes ill fall asleep and dream of that dark cell. sometimes i dream of the comparatively blinding lights of the test chamber in xenobio. sometimes i see the faces of the same scientists that put me through hell in my dreams. sometimes i hear them call me by the test subject ID black mesa gave me in my dreams. sometimes i get phantom pain where the ID tag used to be, where i ripped it out of my ear within a week of being outside of black mesa. its been several lifetimes and it still sticks.

the worst part is knowing im not the only one. they put bubby through a similar kind of hell, i know that. they put hundreds of creature with varying degrees of sentience through similar shit to what bubby and i had to deal with.

so yeah, i dont feel bad for all those people that died during the rescas that worked in those departments. i dont feel bad for any single scientist or security guard or soldier that the science team shot on the way out when we passed through that sector.

-benrey

x

#fictionkinfessions #fictionkin #benreykin #hlvraikin #prevabuse #child abuse cw #torture cw #experimentation cw #gore cw #medical abuse cw #amputation cw #electrocution cw #blood cw #mod party cat #death cw

[lookinghalfacorpse]

dsmp characters and smoking?  yes?  yes.

- c!wilbur’s cigarettes carry different scents with them.  it doesn’t take long for people to suspect that they’re laced, and oftentimes they are, but not always with what you’d expect.  he gets herbal mixtures from his father; jasmine, tendu leaves, green tea leaves, and plenty more.  he smokes in calm moments, and in stressful moments.  during conversation, and when he’s alone.  sometimes, the smoke in his lungs is enough to remind himself that he is, in fact, breathing.

- c!quackity used to be shit at it.  an absolute disaster.  each hit he took came with ugly choking and watery eyes-- he failed to see how wilbur found this relaxing (though he might admit that shotgunning hits off of the man, their lips close enough that quackity would time his inhales with wilbur’s exhales and breathe in his smoke, was... nice.) but he was nothing if not determined.  by the time las nevadas is over 50% constructed, he’s an expert.  he looks good with it.  the cigs sit naturally in his hands, like they were made to be there.

- (quackity smokes in the prison, which sam hates.  the scent lingers in the cracks of the obsidian, and on dream’s prison uniform.  sam doesn’t know where he finds the time to smoke during his “visits,” but he’s not about to ask.)

- c!philza smokes from a long, elegant pipe that sits gingerly between his fingers.  he makes his own mixtures, specifically designed to help him with his aching joints and the lasting pain from ancient injuries, and he likes to design mixtures for others.  wilbur has tried many types, but phil prefers to give him something calming, like jasmine and sativa, to help with his anxiety and nerves.  for technoblade, chamomile and sativa, to quiet the voices.

- (philza makes a green tea and indica mix for c!dream.  good for pain, and for chasing away insomnia.  he’s not sure the young man ever actually smokes it)

- c!ranboo turns down offers from both wilbur and philza.  his mind is unreliable enough, and he’s afraid that the extra substances would make things worse.

-  (lying awake on the obsidian floor, dream holds the mixture of green tea and indica between his fingers.  it was pre-rolled for him, which was thoughtful-- philza knew he wasn’t experienced enough to do it himself.  supposedly, it would help him sleep.  sleep was elusive lately, although admittedly better within the safe walls of the prison than it was when he was hiding in the open.  but dream knows how the scent will stick to the obsidian.  to his clothes.  he sets it aside, unlit.)

#sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry #tagging the shit out of this #smoking #drugs #cw smoking #cw drugs #self-medication #implied abuse #implied torture #cdream #c!dream #cwilbur #c!wilbur #cquackity #c!quackity #tntduo #drabbles #my writing #dsmp #dream smp #dreamsmp

[chasm-side]

I'm reading an academic article about autism and neurodivergence, and this stopped me dead. What the fuck, what the fuck

"Furthermore, at the time of writing, there is still one facility in the United States (the Judge Rotenberg Center in Massachusetts) that employs electric shock on Autistic people as punishment to enforce neuronormative behaviour, despite an initial ban in 2020 (Young and McMahon, 2021). Given that these residents are among the most vulnerable members of the Autistic population, those who are non-speaking or with high support needs (overlapping but not identical groups), the lack of public will to end this abuse is a significant political and human rights issue."

-- Eleanor Thomas, "Why critical psychology and the neurodiversity movement need each other." Frontiers in Psychology, vol. 15, Jan. 2024.

#cw torture #autism #autistic #nonspeaking autistic #high support needs #neurodiversity #neurodivergent #electric shock #cw medical abuse #cw institutionalization #cw abuse

[facts-i-just-made-up]

Why must I yawn? 🥱

Yawns release tiredness the same way sneezes release nasal pressure. If you couldn't yawn, you would simply fall asleep. Other bodily necessities include flatulence, blinking your eyes, popping joints, and smiling. If a person refrained from smiling for over a week, the happiness would build up in their brain stem and drive them insane. Medieval torture often included smile-preventing devices, rendering the victims oddly happy in appearance for their pain:

#medical #history #yawn #yawning #unreality #torture cw #skinning art cw

[iliketowatchmyblobrossuffer]

Fuck it I’m posting my zal Whump. Zal got their brain Invaided by a party member who has the ability to see their memories, this memory was blocked before this point. It’s from 2nd person because of the nature of retrieving the memory.

Cw!

Blood, torture, child abuse, loss of a limb, medical torture. Forced amputation graphic depictions of violence, manipulation. mind the cws

You open your eyes and the world is painted in swatches of color. It reminds you of the impressionist style of various artists you’ve met over the years . You Try to look around but you soon realize your tied to the chair. You yell. Scream even. But your voice is scratchy and ash still burns your throat. Somewhere across the room a door opens. rats rush around your feet. You know this place you spent hours and hours here experimenting trying to impress…

Him.

You can’t make out his features. He’s like a blob of paint in the shape of a person. You scream and beg and he just sighs “such a disappointment… if you hadn’t run away…” there is a metallic click and suddenly your laying down. “Maybe I wouldn’t have to do this zal” he says. all you can muster is a sob in response. As he leans over you studying your arm you see it. Hanging there from his neck are two horns you recognize. Those are Jax’s horns. he…

He..

You feel sick.

Finally the man leans close enough for the paint to form a face you know this man

That is your father.

He doesn’t say anything as the knife digs into your shoulder he doesn’t even blink when you scream and scream until you can’t anymore blood soaking into your feathers.

“You know… I Found the Arm” he says finally , discarding the blood covered gloves reaching for another pair. “And I thought, I’d never find a subject to test it on” there’s a note of excitement in his voice “ but…then… well i found you” he looks at you. His voice fades again you can’t make out anything else as blood loss causes the darkness to wrap around your brain. The last thing you hear is the sound of your own bones being sawed away

#cw: gore #gore #cw torture #cw medical torture #there isn’t any sedation and that’s a problem. #cw child abuse. #child abuse #torture #medical torture #Whump #medical Whump #Whump for science #this period in Zals life actually lasted a few months #so if you have science/medical Whump ideas shoot me an ask I might use them haha #abusive father #graphic depictions of violence #I’ll answer any questions about zal here btw the person I don’t wanna spoil is blocked from this blog so dw #manipulative Whump cw

[helluvahotelx]

A Doctor's Obituary || Dr. Destitute Bio

William Miller October 12th 1864 - March 4th, 1916 Cause of death - Grenade Explosion

William was born to a father who worked a sawmill, and a mother who would care for the children. By all accounts, his childhood was normal. Ever since childhood, he had a fascination with medicine. Begging his parents for any medical journals that they would find when they went into town.

He'd read them over and over, and over. When he finally finished with schooling, he'd go on to gain an apprenticeship. Studying under a doctor in the town his parents would always go to, until his mother fell ill when he was 19.

He would go home, and treat his mother. Hoping to find a cure, but there was little chance. Tuberculosis had long since set in, and William had to think quick. That was when he would take his first victim. He didn't think that hard about it, the knowledge he had was minuscule, but he had to try. He'd kill in the night, bringing the body to the sawmill and dismembering it.

He'd give his mother a transplant, one of his first. It worked, and she took to the new set of lungs. Though infection would set in, she would survive that too. With the crime quickly covered up, no one would even question where he'd gotten the organs from in the beginning. After all, the doctor had preformed a miracle.

He would set up a practice, in a city a few hours away. Always writing to his parents, to keep them informed, at least....On his legal practices. In the background, he'd have corpses piling. The poor would be killed in order for him to care for his richer patients. Slaughtered, and their organs harvested for the doctor to keep preforming his miracles.

He'd do experiments too, with a few unfortunate destitute individuals. Keeping them in his own homes basement, at least, until they'd pass from the torture. Then whatever was good, he'd recover from their bodies. It was around then when his sources came into question, but not by many. War was imminent.

Once it struck, the now 50 year old would join the war effort as a doctor. Serving the British forces until 1916, where he'd see a grenade hit the ground beside him only seconds before it blew.

He'd awaken in Hell, with two sets of arms. Representative of the parts he'd taken from others. He'd gain power, through his name, some knowing him from the living world, and he'd make deals. Draining the life force of some, to fuel others. Keeping them alive, through the deal made. Those desperate enough becoming the fuel, while the deals made with others drained them.

He'd get bigger, patching sinners up after executions. Though one day, he would be struck down. A dangerous newcomer walking into his practice and wounding the doctor so badly, he'd be assumed dead. Though the doctor would crawl out, and using his knowledge, he would stitch himself up.

Waiting in the shadows for months, or even years, before finally showing his face again. Ready to rise back to what he once was.

#{{ medical malpractice cw }} #{{ gore cw }} #{{ tuberculosis cw }} #{{ torture cw }} #{{ muse: dr destitute }}

[wri0thesley]

If you're still doing that ask game C and H for Dottore? Thank you!

Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?

Despite being what many would definitely term a 'cruel' man, as his darling, you are afforded certain privileges. The others are disposable lab rats and test subjects; you, to him, are something rather more precious . . . and that means that your treatment is at least minimally better than most. He will mock you; but it's a fond kind of mocking. Ask him what is in the syringe he is holding and he'll give you a sharp smile and rattle off scientific forumlae and compounds until you can't keep them straight, and then he'll pinch your cheeks and tell you not to worry your pretty little head about it; after all, he's the scientist. Your job is to react to them, little mouse, you don't need to know what it is that's in them!

Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?

Dottore is not cruel for cruelty's sake . . . most of the time. In a way, some of the crueller experiments are easier to take because you know he has a purpose for them - Dottore would like to improve humanity, and though as his darling he does think you're closer to perfection than most . . . he would not be satisfied if he had nothing to work on. So he does work on what he considers your flaws; he takes so many tests, does so many experiments, and tries to fix you. Your greatest fears (fear is unneeded, irrational). Any of your medical issues (your blood sugar is low? Well, it could be controlled via medication and diet, of course, but Dottore would prefer something more permanent that keeps it solved for good). But these experiments are done with purpose. He has a goal.

Worse experiences are punishments for disobeying and angering him where the only aim is to make you regret your folly. Dottore can bring you back from the brink of death, so torture is a laughing matter for him . . . it's far worse when he's making you beg and making you hurt for no reason other than hurt, than it is when he's using you for research material. And Dottore is not afraid to use drugs (this one makes even the slightest touch feel like you're on fire, this one makes you hallucinate, this one keeps you conscious but paralysed whatever it is he does to you). Dottore is not afraid to use knives or scalpels or fire or needles. He will not kill you - oh, you see, he loves and adores and needs you and wants you too much for that - but you will wish he would.

No. No matter how awful the experiments are . . . they are not the worst thing he could do to you.

[yandere alphabet ask game]

#yandere for ts #genshin impact posting #ask game #torture cw #medical cw

[cyberneticasset]

A vivisection of ME

Done by GOD for all to see

(Don't remember it, don't return to it)

Another warmup 🥰

Lyrics / Inspo from “Honey, I’m Home” by Ghost + Pals

I need new paints— All acrylic!

#definitely gonna do this digitally #after I finish Rumlow #anarchy’s art #winter soldier #medical #tw #cw #medical torture #medical horror #medical experimentation #medical trauma #vivisection #hydra trash party #htp #<- blocking #whump #whump art #scars #scarring #painting #body horror #horror #bruise #bruising #fanart #gore #blood #whump tropes #med whump

[dustypinetree-reblogs]

My Masterlist of Favourite Works, so I can reread them whenever~

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• Pet Whump:

1: WRU: Pet 205-843 (No official title) — 29 Chapters &C (Ryan/843/Pet/Joey - Human Pet, Pet Whumpee, BoxBoy Universe, WRU, Extreme Conditioning, Dehumanisation, Institutionalised Slavery, Physical Whump, Medical Whump, Compliance, Sir/Master/Handler, Reluctant Caretaker, Regression)

Written by @highwaywhump

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2: Unintentional — 25 Chapters &C (Whumpee = Aiden/839, Clueless Caretaker = Leo - Human Pet, Pet Whumpee, BoxBoy Universe, WRU, Trauma, Recovery, Experimentation, Drugging, Dehumanisation, Institutionalised Slavery, Medical Whump, Conditioning)

Written by @distinctlywhumpthing

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• Captive Whump:

1: In The Woods Somewhere — 36 chapters (Whumpee = Buck, Whumper = Fletcher - Held Captive, Torture, Physical Whump, Mental Whump, Violence, Stockholm Syndrome, Training Camp, Whumper Turned Caretaker)

Written by @knivestothroats

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2) Behave — xx Chapters (Medical Whump, Hospital Whump, Drugging, Experimentation, Whumper Turned Caretaker)

Written by @jordanstrophe

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3) The Basement Whumper — xx Chapters (Torture Whump, Sadistic Whumper, Violent Whump, Captive Whump)

Written by @jordanstrophe

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• Uncategorised:

1: MD-264N — 13 Chapters &C (Living Weapon, Dehumanisation, Conditioning, Whumpee Escape, Caretaker)

Written by @pigeonwhumps

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2: A White Rose — xx Chapters (Non-Human, Kidnapped, Put On Display, Physical Whump, Loss)

Written by @itsleighlove

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#whump writing #whump community #whump fic #whumper #whumpee #conditioned whumpee #whumpee and caretaker #bbu whump #pet whump #pet whump bbu #cw wru #medical whump #torture whump #sadistic whumper #noncon drugging #conditioning #dehumanisation

[memesomething]

uhhhhhh also kind of soft for nearly-dead whumpee with v suspicious injuries but unable to speak (damaged/recovering voice, ventilator, just too heavily sedated still because of the pain, etc etc), and their “concerned friend” (whumper) who is always around in the hospital room. their “concerned” friend who refuses to leave their side unless absolutely medically necessary/unless they’re dragged out. their “concerned” friend who waits until they’re alone with whumpee to threaten them: if i hear you say one single thing to anybody here i will kill you, and then I’ll kill them. you’re lucky i even brought you here, don’t make me regret it.

#medical cw #hospital cw #whump cw #abuse tw #torture cw #yknow all these things #whump