Torture - Tumblr Posts
Some OC questions!
--Does Immy eventually leave his faith, or does he try to stay committed to Christianity? Sorry if that's going into spoiler territory.
--Where did Mors learn the satanic beliefs he has now?
Oooo that's a good question. I'm not really sure yet but immy does get corrupted a little bit and he's going to be drugged out of his mind for the majority of the rest of the story so I feel like religion is the last thing he has to worry about. Although I don't think he'll stop believing in God even with Mors kidnapping him and all this bad stuff happening. I feel like he'll continue to be Christian because he'll never really be able to shake that part from him away.
Mors became a Satanist because of his strong hatred for Christians, although we don't know why he feels this way yet. But real satanists don't really hate Christians and are about equal rights and self-expression, so he wasn't really accepted into that. So he's kind of his own branch of Satanist where he actually is evil.
Kidnapping story part 3.
Immy's eyes slowly open as he's still partially unconscious like when you're waking up but you can still hear and see your dreams. He's in a dark concrete basement with nothing but a single light bulb hanging from a string to light the room. The light is a warm orange color. His arms and legs are chained up with the chains connecting to a hook on the ceiling. As he becomes more conscious he realizes he's completely naked. Terrified, Immy starts looking around and then sees Mors standing there with a warm smile across his face. It's so weird seeing this terrible man with such a friendly facial expression. Immy tries to speak but his words are slurred from the drugging. Hello Immy, Mors says, welcome to my home. I hope you're feeling scared because you should be, but that's okay, I like you like that and soon you'll like you like that too. Immy tries to stand up but Falls back down the chains holding his arms up. While you were sleeping I drugged you even more to keep you sedated so you won't put up much of a fight as the first time I cut you. Such wonderful memories. You know I love you Immy, I just have a different way of showing it. Immy knows God can be very cruel at times and often punishes Humanity. Maybe this is also God's way of showing he cares for me, Immy thinks. And don't worry I didn't do anything to you when I undressed you. I would never do something like that to you, Immy. Well not yet anyways. Mors says then smiles. Anyway now that you're awake I'm going to leave you down here for a while to prepare you for what's next, mors says as he turns off the light. Goodbye love. Immy is left down there for 3 days. In his drugged state in the silently cries as he's left in this dark basement. Day one: because of the drugs in his system Immy is constantly fading in and out of consciousness but not long enough for him to fall asleep. The basement looks Pitch Black static. Immy has cried for the 11th time today. To be fair you really shouldn't count it separately because it's been a continuous cry with little breaks to rest his voice. After he's tired out all his cries he stares into the pitch black feeling severely understimulated his mind starts to wander into thoughts of depression questioning his fate and memories. Memories of his family, wondering if he'll ever be able to see them again, wondering if he'll ever be able to go to church again and talk to the other people there. He feels if this is God's way of teaching him he wonders what he did wrong. He feels shame and sadness with himself, not really anger because he is never angry. He's too shy to ever express anger. He wonders for hours what he did to deserve this and why God was testing him. Day two: he's starting to see things moving in the basement but he's not sure if it's real or just his brain Playing Tricks on him. But then he starts to wonder what if it's creatures sent by God to torture him even more? he wonders what if it's Fallen Angels coming to claim him? If this is the end? What if he's going to hell? What if he failed God's test by being kidnapped in the first place? The room looks like it's made out of bugs and Immy starts to see faces. Probably because of the constant exposure to darkness paired with the effects from the drugging. Day three: Immy is starting to break. He is desperate for physical touch from another human being, he was coddled by his parents quite a lot so he's used to being hugged and stuff. Immy's stomach growls. It's 3 days now and he's so hungry.
Kidnapping story part 4
Just then, Mors comes down to give Immy his “medicine”. Mors pokes him with a needle and injects Immy with some unknown drug, probably a special blend made by Mors. Immy immediately starts to blush and cling to Mors, desperate for physical touch. Aaaww I did somebody miss me? Instead of putting a bandage on after Mors pulls out the needle, he starts licking the area where the needle was. Immy blushes more and squirms around, letting out soft moans. foo- food… Immy mumbles. Oh yes, of course I should probably feed you. I don't want you dying. Mors goes upstairs and comes back down with a home cooked meal. I'm not like other kidnappers, Immy. I want to treat you well but I also want you to be hurt and scared… Mors starts feeding Immy himself and helps Immy chew and swallow by grabbing his jaw and gently moving it then holding his mouth closed. Mors kisses him on the cheek after he's done eating. Now, just four more days down here, my love. Immy starts to cry. wh- wha nn- nnuuu. It's okay, you should be happy. I was originally going to leave you down here for a month, but that made me feel bad for you because I do care for you regardless of what you think. Mors goes upstairs. Immy starts crying, and she tries to beg Mors to stay, desperate to talk to anyone, but Mors walks upstairs and locks the door. Day 4: Immy is breaking. He cries and screams and freaks out, needing to be interacted with. Day five: Immy finally starts to be able to sleep more. Day six, he spends sleeping mostly. Day 7: he's finally broken, I mean, it can get worse, but he's pretty beaten down. Morris comes down with a wooden cross and rope. Mors sets up the cross and redrugs Immy. He takes his limpy body and ties his arms and legs to the cross. You see, I wanted to put you on your symbol that you insist on praying to, to mock you and your God. I love you and me, but you are very stupid he says flirtally. But I didn't want to nail your hands and feet into it. That would be too far. Again, I would never do anything to you that I wouldn't do to myself. All of a sudden, Mors takes out a knife, and Immy starts to freak out, well, as much as he can, being drugged out of his mind. Morris takes the knife and holds Immy's arm and glides the knife across it, making a slash. Immy starts making unintelligible noises and tears stream down his face. Mors starts to lick his cut and drinks his blood. He then kisses Immy gently on the lips, feeding him his own blood, and Immy tries to spit it out, but Mors forces him to swallow. Good Boy~. He then goes to the other arm and starts to slice all the way down, cutting his arm open. Immy cries loudly in a mumbled gargle. Mors starts to cry from happiness seeing Immy like this. He sits down next to the cross and bathes in the euphoria he's getting from doing this. He unties Immy and snuggles him on the floor as they both cry. Mors takes out a medical kit. It's time to sew you up so you don't bleed out. Immy sits there and cries like a baby as Mors sews him up. Mors constantly reassures him that it's going to be okay and that he loves him. After he's done, Mors starts to head upstairs. See you later, my love. W- aaaaait! Immy cries. pl- please don't leave me down here… Immy gargles through his tears. Aw, do you want me to stay with you? Come here, love. You look so adorable like this. Mors holds Immy in his arms and stays with him for an hour, cuddling, before leaving. Immy doesn't love Moors, but he's so desperate for human contact after being isolated for so long.
cattle prod / shock / you in there? (I see the danger, it’s written there in your eyes.)
He wondered at first if it was because of something he’d said. Something he’d done. There had to be a reason for the punishment. It was a punishment, right? It definitely wasn’t anything he’d signed up for. There had been no little box on the recruitment application to indicate permission granted for torture.
Perhaps they were upset about his physical appearance. He’d argued that there was science - well documented and thoroughly researched - that held that long hair acted as a sixth sense. Surprisingly, they had permitted him to keep his long locks… but this could still be a form of retribution for that allowance.
Could they have caught him sneaking from the other barracks? It’s not as if it was forbidden. Dalliances were often encouraged in the ranks, in fact, as long as such behavior didn’t interfere with showing up for your shift. He had never been late to the field. Never brawled with fellow soldiers. Never led his squadron into lethal situations.
Sure, he’d been physically violent with a fair number of the enemy - whoever they were. But he’d never instigated the altercations.
There was nothing that sprang to mind as just cause for being tormented for days on end.
Cattle prod marks dotted his arms, his legs, his stomach and chest and back. Whip lashes had left stinging welts and broken the skin in several spots. He’d been wrestled into a device that allowed them to shock him repeatedly which wouldn’t have been so bad if it had been a level of power that gradually increased over time, but they never went in any order he could detect. There was no way to prepare for the voltage of the jolt. Sometimes he’d clench his teeth and close his eyes and it would be as soft as being too near the hum of electricity. Other times it would make stars explode behind his eyelids and could leave him with a bitten tongue and gouges in his palms from the pressure of his own nails digging in.
He was never left to sleep for long. Usually minutes at a time. The lights were always on in his cell. He had no inkling of how long he’d been there for by now. The guards were masked, the doctors were masked, the voices were all modulated by devices around their throats. Though occasionally he suspected some of their identities.
“You in there?” A mocking voice, a rap of knuckles on his forehead. Laughter as he fought against the restraints keeping him locked in place. The height and weight seemed right. The ridicule was certainly what he’d expect. If this particular individual wasn’t one of the first men he’d fought with way back during training on Mars, years and years ago… well, then it was someone just like that asshole. Someone just as cruel and annoying.
One time he’d found his throat less parched than usual. The doctor in with him was soft-spoken and timid in their movements. He detected a gentleness in their manner, perhaps a caring soul that could be coerced into releasing him. It was the only time he’d bothered to beg. Beg for his freedom. Beg for answers.
But the doctor had shook their head solemnly. “I see the danger; it’s written in your eyes.” And on that oddly poetic note, they had taken their leave and never returned.
There was danger in his eyes. There was danger to every inch of him. He was a formidable opponent. He had been trained in violent forms of self-defense, had been broken and healed over and over until he could ignore any agony being inflicted upon his person. He could jab his fingers into a man’s chest and end their life. He was a killing machine.
Briefly, he’d thought he could be more. Thought he had more to give than brute force and incredible endurance.
He’d met a woman. Beautiful, strong, clever. A fighter just like him. She had ignited a passion within him that was impossible to ignore. They’d fallen into bed and fallen into love and his heart had cracked open with all the dreams of a future that could include her.
And then people started to disappear. Not unusual in the military. He’d served enough years to know that and it had not worried him. Until the day she wasn’t there.
Had he gone on a rampage at that point?
It seemed unlikely. But for some reason he couldn’t actually remember.
The past few days, weeks, months even? …everything seemed blurry. Shrouded in doubt. How long had he been here? How long had they been together on this dusty moon so far from their home world? How long had he been bound in this room and made to suffer attacks he was not allowed to defend against?
Time became meaningless. Doctors and guards paraded around him ceaselessly. He was given injections. Bright lights were shone into his eyes. He was beaten, tied, shocked, drowned. He was revived. For a long while he was plagued by bouts of dizziness and nausea so intense he blacked out while heaving. Chills made his limbs tremble. His bones ached, his muscles felt on fire. Images flickering at the edge of his perception - odd things floating in the air, butterflies? It was nonsense. It was not real. Nothing was real anymore.
On and on and on.
Questions.
What was his name? Who was his superior? What year was it? Where was he? How did he feel?
There came a day when he found he had no answers. There was only the shell he inhabited. What contents was a shell supposed to hold? What memories was he supposed to have? This was all a nightmare that had gone on since time began and would continue until time met its end.
Pain and drugs swirled in his system. His vision grew worse and then improved. His teeth throbbed in his mouth and he wanted to rip them out. He knew he was going to die there. The why was immaterial. The how equally so. The when was the only true question he had, the only bit of control he maintained.
He was going to die. But he would damn sure take as many of them along as possible. And if somehow he managed to escape with his life? Well… the world itself would choke and burn. He’d see to it.
collar / touch aversion / Leave me alone (you’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest)
The first few weeks on Titan had been hell. Coming down off a supremely magnificent Red Eye high that he'd managed to stretch out for days - something unheard of and very much frowned upon even by the addicts who jonesed for the drug the most - had been rough. He'd been quite literally out of his mind. Unfit for any sort of company. There were scratches up and down his arms and legs, he'd nearly bitten through his tongue, and he'd lost a significant amount of weight.
Apparently he'd been so wildly out of control - deranged, in fact - that they'd resorted to chaining him up like an animal.
The thought brought him dark amusement. He'd always told Spike that they were beasts. Killer hounds on Syndicate leashes. A hound was hardly a frightening animal though. He preferred to liken himself to a viper. Forget Adam and never mind Eve, the snake was the true hero of the tale of Eden. The controlling power, with cunning and stealth, with wicked fangs to sink into the unsuspecting flesh of prey. The Syndicate named themselves Dragons as if a fictitious beast were more frightening than creatures actually in existence. Fools. Fools for more serious reasons than something that trivial though.
They didn't approve of his fixation on strength and shows of might. They didn't approve of his desire to use terror as an intimidation tactic. They certainly didn't approve of his use of Red Eye. Unlike most who took the drug, he had always been able to will himself into a state of cool-headed self-discipline. He'd had the uncanny ability to subdue the fervor that it awoke in nearly everyone else. It had made him more lethal by far than he'd ever been before, and that was saying something considering the body count he and Spike had racked up over the years.
Chained and collared, he was sent to Titan to languish. Sent to Titan to be tormented by the mad scientists who were truly governing the goings-on of the sad, dusty little moon. He knew the dark reality of this place. The Elders had sent him to get clean, to curtail his shaping of the newer members of the Syndicate, and to take advantage of the despair of the men and women trapped on this rock. The military had and would always be a fine source of customers when it came to drugs that numbed, drugs that distracted, drugs that gave people increased speed and endurance. It was a place he could have thrived, but that was not the intent.
He had torn himself to shreds originally. On the ship that brought him to Titan, he had frothed at the mouth and drawn blood everywhere he could reach. By the time they reached Titan he had been strapped down by more restraints than were necessary. On the moon itself he was freed except for the collar. They kept him in a tiny cell where he could not stretch out and they plagued him with constant pain. Whips, brass knuckles, the collar itself revealed to be able to shock quite powerfully, and of course their fists and boots. None had any of the fighting skill of Spike, of course, which meant he could have bested any or all of his jailors if they'd given him half a chance. But their job was to break him. Physically, mentally if possibly, spiritually if he gave a shit about that type of thing.
He refused to bow to their cruelty. His own ran deeper, pulsed stronger. They were ants in comparison. And eventually the predetermined stretch of time the Van had allotted for his punishment came to an end. He was released out into the general populace for the more important mission of converting soldiers to addicts. Behind the scenes, of course, and with the mission of finding a fall guy to ensure the Syndicate was kept as far removed from responsibility as possible. It was child's play, of course, and then he was called back.
It wasn't until he returned to Mars, returned to Tharsis and to Julia, that he realized something had gone wrong.
They'd always enjoyed quite a few games in the bedroom. Julia loved to dominate. She'd often employ handcuffs, blindfolds, collars and ball gags and other ways to keep him from bringing them both to climax too soon. She got off on being in charge and he had always been exhilarated by the sheer heights of desire he could drive her to while being unable to move as freely as he'd like.
But he flinched when she brought her hands to his bare skin. Not a large reaction but not something either of them could deny having seen. To her credit, she didn't acknowledge the involuntary action beyond the blink of surprise she'd been unable to hide.
And then he discovered a deadness inside himself. Oh, he'd never been emotionally stimulated to much degree... had never been able to sympathize with the people who he was sent to hurt or kill. There had always been a piece of humanity missing from his soul and it had never bothered him in the least. If anything, it made it far easier to be who he was and do what he did. He'd seen the flashes of weakness in Spike from time to time and had counted himself lucky to not have to contend with those turbulent emotions. He experienced delight and disgust and plenty of other things, he had no need to experience the hassle of a conscience.
But there was a new emptiness within him now. He had thought himself immune to the brutality he had gone through on Titan but apparently not.
There was no more appetite within him for anything sexual. No pride in making Julia scream. No urge to find completion for himself.
Beyond that, he was now uncomfortable with physical contact of any sort. Her soft hands on his skin prickled like sandpaper and he was surprised that her palms didn't leave trails of blood to show where they'd lain on his body. Touch aversion, due to the near-constant contact he'd been made to endure by those plebeians?
How pathetic.
It ignited a fury within him. How ironic that they had been so worried about the madness a man could be driven to under the influence of Red Eye when the true danger had turned out to be their attempt to subjugate him. He found himself increasingly unsettled by his own inability to suppress his rage, and by his body's refusal to feel lust.
He knew it baffled Julia. Their animalistic union had once been a nightly occurrence whenever he wasn't on a mission. And now? He couldn't even stand to see her.
He had sat up in bed while she slept, discontent, and found he was unable to feel even the faintest stirring of longing for her. It was a slice of himself that he was not prepared to let go of yet. The thirst for this woman had been a source of such carnal pleasure for years... and now, to have to give up physical coupling just because there was no urge whatsoever? It was not by his choice and that made him bitterly upset.
Days passed in a haze of mounting frustration. Spike had been gone on another assignment and the Van had refused to put Vicious himself back to work yet.
She came to him in the darkness of the night, likely assuming that their first few attempts at joining together again had gone awry solely because he'd been gone for a while. She came to him gently at first, then tried to be commanding. He burned with the need to meet her demands, with the desire to be in charge of his own body's cravings. He was trembling, seething, at the block that existed between his previous hunger and his current... absolute lack. It went beyond a void because he could still not stand to have her touch him.
"Leave me alone!" He erupted at her when she approached him, nude and brandishing a crop.
Her eyes had flashed at him. She licked her lips once, not in a sensual manner but to give herself a moment of recovery.
"Why?" She implored.
(you’re the lump in my throat and the knot in my chest)
But he did not say these thoughts aloud. He chose to chastise her instead.
He sneered at her. "I do not need to offer you any explanation. I do not need you at all. Our time together is over. Find someone else to be your plaything as you seduce and bribe and cajole your way to the top. I will not suffer your presence in my company any longer."
Once they'd had similar goals. To carve a path to the Van itself and wrest authority of the Syndicate for themselves. They had designs in mind, subterfuge and blackmail and backstabbing. It wouldn't do to blaze a trail there while leaving ruin in your wake - the route Spike would no doubt take if he'd any mind for the future and for assuming control. Spike, for all his capabilities and cleverness, was not inspired to take responsibility of his own life let alone a powerful crime syndicate like the Red Dragons. Spike had always preferred being directed where to attack. He was a hurricane force that would do well as Vicious's second in command, rampaging wherever Vicious chose to send him. Julia, with all her beauty and cunning, would be invaluable as a way to infiltrate other syndicates. Her ability to steal into a room and draw attention was impressive, but moreso was her knack at operating behind the scenes and pulling people in this direction or that as if they were puppets to which she held the strings.
The dream didn't have to die. He could still usurp the Syndicate with Spike as his trusty and deadly right hand. Perhaps there could even be room for Julia at the top in that far away future. He had no intention of rushing this process, after all. Time would help deteriorate the grip of the Van on the other members, and time would give him the chance to assume their loyalty instead.
First, he had to cut himself off from the open wound that was his former relationship with Julia. He could not afford to indulge in the outrage that rose up every time he considered what had been taken from him. He had to accept the changes wrought and move forward coldly and callously. Every act the Van took was leading them further from the ruling force they had once been, and bringing Vicious closer to unleash a new wave of savagery upon this forsaken city.
He would rule it all one day, or else see it razed to the very dust.
listen, y’all don’t appreciate
hanging from your wrists
(without touching the ground)
enough.
cw: unwilling suspension, choking, loss of consciousness, begging, beating, broken bones
• Hanging by the wrists puts pressure on the chest muscles. The consequence of this is difficulty breathing, difficulty talking, because the lungs are compressed. The diaphragm that causes in-and exhalation would get exhausted so it’s more and more exhausting to breathe until… whumpee doesn’t have the strength anymore and passes out. It’s like slow choking and there’s nothing whumpee can do than to beg to be let down
• Blood circulation to the hands is cut off because 1) too tightly bound wrists that need to hold the whumpees weight and 2) arms above body in the air, so the arms would get numb after initial pain and sore and turn a pale color. After the suspension the wrists and arms could be swollen and hurting to the touch/bruised
• Straining the shoulder muscles, tearing the shoulder muscles, dislocating the shoulders, all very painful
• Hang your whumpee up and wait until they pass out, let them down until they regain consciousness, hang them up again, and so on and so forth. The realization and following panic after waking up that it’s not over after one time, that whumper will let them slowly choke and suffer again, and again, and again, the helplessness
small addition: whumpee won’t be able to move after this because the muscles (of the upper body half at least) are all strained and sore.
• Get a baseball bat or a cane or smth and spice things up a bit, everyone needs a stress relieve after all, the bruises, the broken bones, whumpee kicking and trashing, the struggling because whumpee doesn’t have enough air to scream
Anyways, lots of potential, you can do anything with this, love to see it. it’s like pizza, when it’s there, it’s good no matter the shape or form. 8.5/10
when I sit on the chair and buckle up, who will play with the voltage switch? or do you release full current?
I don’t understand what’s going on, apparently the buff guy is somehow fucking cruel by getting the other guy’s girlfriend (?!) on the phone. And yet it’s also unbearably hot. So unbearably indeed that even the seemingly straight guy can’t hold it any longer.
