#mind whump

[snakes-events-blog]

All in Your Head: A 1-week mind whump event

Prompts:

Fantasy Creature: Siren / Fae / Wisp

Mind Control: Superpower / Technology / Magic

Altered State: Drugging / Hypnosis / Intoxication

Brainwashing: Conditioning / Manipulation / Indoctrination

Possession: Alien / Demon / Ghost

Infection: Puppeteer parasite / Mind-altering disease / Zombification

Mesmerizing Quality: Eyes / Voice / Touch

Alts (dialogue): “This isn’t you.” / “Yes, [title].” / “What did you do to them?”

Info:

The event runs for one week. Each day has one broad prompt, and three more specific prompts that fall under it. You can use any one, some, or all of the four prompts for the day. If there’s a day where you don’t like any of the prompts, you can use one of the alternative dialogue prompts instead. Prompts can be interpreted however you want.

You don’t have to use all of the prompts for a day, and you’re welcome to combine days and/or do them out of order. You’re also free to combine this with other events.

You’re welcome to join in early or late, but I’ll only be religiously checking for entries to reblog while it’s actually running. This year it’s officially running the third full week of January (18th-24th), but since I was late in getting this post out I’ll keep checking entries for the rest of the month.

In addition to being related to a prompt, an entry should be at least somewhat related to whump/hurt/comfort to count, since this is intended as a whump event. (I won’t be strict about it; if you’re unsure whether it counts, it’s probably good enough.) You’re welcome to use these prompts for other/non-whumpy purposes, but please don’t use the official event tag or expect to be recognized for it on this blog in that case.

The event tag is #all in your head whump event. This tag will be the main place I look for entries to reblog, though you can also mention the event blog @snakes-events-blog. I plan to reblog every entry here that I’m able to find, but if you don’t want yours reblogged you can specify that or ask for it to be taken off.

Specific days’ tags are in the format: #aiyh26dayx, with x being the numeral (1-7). These tags are entirely optional but may help with organization and browsing.

You should do seven different prompts if you want to be counted as a completionist, but you’re also welcome to participate without doing the whole thing!

NSFW is allowed but MUST be tagged appropriately. It might not get reblogged here depending on the level of explicitness but it can still count towards completion.

[whumpmancer]

Whump scenario: A mage/psychic tasked with using mind magic to ensure that the former enemy of their faction, who betrayed his superiors and offers information - is indeed truthful. There is a catch, though - the traitor had been found out before escaping, and tortured by his former masters. He also accepts the mind probe as necessary evil, but he is not exactly willing. Venturing into his mind is going to be both morally squicky, and a hell of a ride.

The traitor is asked questions during the procedure, so that his thoughts stay close to the matters at hand - but the lingering pain, and the memory of torture cannot be fully pushed into the background. Even dipping in the shallows of the his mind is vastly unnerving.

When the mage focuses on the reasons behind the traitor's actions, his feelings and emotions, the traitor feels as vulnerable and broken open as during the past interrogations - painful memories flare up, causing the mage to recoil. At first, it is a reflexive reaction on both ends - but when the mage apprehensively resumes, and again they poke around the intimate spots in his mind, the traitor deliberately uses his own pain to push them away. Despite wanting to cooperate, he is angry, fighting to keep the last shreds of his dignity. The mage, still deep in his mind, feels and understands this anger whether they like it or not. They have to make a choice - push further and inflict irreversible trauma on them both - or pull back, announce failure, and go from there - wherever it may lead.

…

OK, this is a serious, possibly tragic scenario full of tension and drama, let's acknowledge that-

BUT!

On another note

HEAR ME OUT:

[snakebites-and-ink]

Does anyone know of or write mind control whump that doesn't involve vampires? Please I am starved.

[auroragehenna]

Whumpee to teammate, voice shaking, whispering: „I don‘t feel like myself/I don‘t think I’m the only one in my head.“

[whumpiary]

For Tucker: "Oh goddamnit, not again."

just.... a wee bit longer than five sentences.

content warning: unreality/hallucinations, mindfuckery, whumping the whumper, torture, vaaaaguely referenced past family violence

-

There had been a crate under his feet a while ago. A small mercy, Tucker supposes, from the people keeping him here. A kindness would have been untying his fucking hands from the ceiling, lowering him to the ground, letting him rest, but no. Kindnesses weren't given here, now, were they?

Would defeat the point.

The most he got was a crate under his feet so he could stand more or less comfortably, take the pressure from his straining shoulders and cramping calves. A tap on the side of his hip with a playful smirk, “Take it easy, won’t you, love? Got a long night ahead of us.” 

Stupid as he fucking was, however, he had not taken it easy. He’d tried to swing his feet out to hit the wall, tried to get enough momentum to push in the button there that would lower him to the ground a fraction. Get his arms low enough to even think about escaping. But after a few flimsy attempts the crate had toppled on its side and skittered sidelong and he was back to feet barely brushing the ground, to respite found only on his tiptoes. 

Infuriating.

Borderline humiliating.

Pathetic.

He had screamed his frustration, swearing and spitting, swinging uselessly from his arms until the momentum let up. Without the crate, there was not enough traction on the ground to stop himself, to push up, to kick. The one attempt he made without it nearly made him sob, a jolting tear through one twisted-up shoulder the only reward for his efforts.

The only comfort came in the fact that, apparently, his attempts had gone unobserved by anyone beyond the doubled sided mirror along one wall. He’s sure they would’ve come in to either stop in or laugh at him otherwise.

The first time they had left him, he’d been able to doze a little. Or, at least, he’d passed out. Woken again to a bucket of freezing water over his head and electric shocks shortly after. This time, though, he doesn’t have enough energy to attempt to sleep. He hangs limply, body aching, head throbbing from dehydration and too much exertion. Too much screaming.

Exhaustion had come and gone in the hours before. Sweat had slicked his back and face and long since dried. He’d had to swallow his pride on the tears and begs they’d managed to wring out of him.

He understood, theoretically, that this was torture.

Nobody had told him for what yet. 

Every rib felt bruised, if not already splintered. He could feel blood dried and congealed under his nose. One swollen eye. The cooling itch along the side of his torso suggested there was some sort of opening in the skin there as well, though he couldn’t remember from what. It all… blurred together after a while, didn’t it? 

If he had more energy to care, he might’ve even found an observation like that interesting.

It’s only when he’s been alone long enough to think that this really might be it for the day, that it really might be over, that he feels, once again, another test on his endurance. At first its just a wave of dizziness, vertigo that tugs his attention and makes the world feel far away. Then the ground starts to slip and tilt under him, warping into a swirling sinkhole a few metres from his feet.

He groans, an involuntary sob shuddering his aching chest as his head rolls back. "Oh goddamnit, not again."

Did these fuckers never sleep?

“Give it up,” he growls, making another attempt to kick. He’s barely sure if he’s talking to his own dim reflection or the people behind it.

His rage, he has found, is nearly endless. Even the fear of death and pain had seemed to bottom out after a while, though it made its resurgences. His fury at this torment, the fucking gall of these people, on the other hand, was infinite.

What kind of person hooked their fingers into another's thoughts? Twisted their perception? Raped someone's fucking mind?

If Tucker got out of here with all his teeth still in his mouth, he’d be using them to tear some throats out. 

The ground keeps swirling. A slurry of shadow and tile and stained, tepid water around a drain. It makes him dizzy, makes his stomach lurch. The thought passes him briefly that if he threw up right now, he’d be at risk of choking on it. Maybe that’s their intent.

He closes his eyes. Tries to focus. He knows this one. He does. He knows it. He knows the way about it. 

Find your centre.

Craft the walls.

Feel them cold and solid about yourself. Feel the wells of deep, dark tar that keeps the fingers from reaching. Feel yourself steady in the centre. The impenetrable centre. The untouchable, perfect centre. Impervious, unwavering, total control.

When he opens his eyes again, the room is back to just being a room. No swirling shadows, no warping floor. No feeling of claws piercing into his mind. The breath down his neck, the unwelcome weight, the pressing pressure of an impending violation kept at bay again.

He laughs, manic and gleeful at the triumph, however short-lived it might be. “You’re going to have to try better than that, you mindfreak fucks.”

Perfectly in control.

He can taste the effort of holding it steady, metallic and flat on his tongue. Smooth and sharp, cool as obsidian. The smell of brimstone. The smell of blood. It sends another quake of shudders through him. Like the aftershocks of the stun gun.

Still, he laughs. Not this time.

The silence that follows is appropriate for the emptiness of the rooms, but it is weighted. A hefty pause between moments. Someone behind one-sided glass who is thinking.

He can still feel the sticky fingers, the slowly creeping weight…

His stomach lurches as the room does and he can't help another groan. Not again. Goddamn it, not again.

“No,” he insists through gritted teeth, eyes closing again, trying desperately to distinguish himself from the tarrish shadows that press in. “No. No. No.”

Again, the pressure alleviates. He sobs, hands clenching and releasing above his head, every muscle shaking, head hanging, drool trailing from his lips in a long string that swings and with each gasping breath.

He can't hold it.

If each attempt before this had been the slimy push of persistent hands, this one is a truck barrelling him over, turning him to pulp against asphalt.

He is falling. He is falling. The world is ending. Impenetrable centre, yes. But that doesn’t mean the walls around it won’t cave.

“God. No, no, no, no, no…”

He can feel the floor, he can feel it, toes just barely pressing into it. But still… still it falls away, away, away. He doesn’t have the energy to scream as he feels the whole world plummet from him, plunged into an abyss.

When the world stops moving – seconds later, hours later, time folded in two – he can hear the hum of fluorescents, feel the damp on his skin. He's unsurprised, when he opens his eyes, to see the floor of the exact same room he left, the drain just inches from his feet.

The sound of heels against tile is exactly what he expects. The swaying motion. The cloying scent of a very particular brand of perfume. Reach for the big bad wolf. Go for the jugular. Why wouldn't they? That's what he would do.

“Oh TJ, TJ, TJ…”

It's exactly as he expects. But she is not real. Tucker knows she is not real.

When he raises his head he is looking at his mother’s blond hair, her arching brow, her expression somewhere between apathetic and mocking. If he looks closely, he can even see the rim of her contacts around her iris.

She tsks. It echoes around the room like the sound of a stone thrown down a well. “What have you gone and gotten yourself into now?”

He has nothing in him left to keep the walls up. His eyes roll back in his skull. Just before he passes out, some final words out come slurring otu, "Oh, goddamn it."

And then there's nothing left.

[legendarywhump]

Psychological Whump: When the normally controlled and calm character been hallucinating/experiencing unexplainable things, and they haven't been telling their team, because they'd been afraid of being seen as weak. But then something happens, and their secret's out. Everyone knows. And it's bad enough that the character doesn't even care if they look weak anymore. All that's left is the broken whisper: "I think I'm losing my mind."

[just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi]

If His Mind Was a Garden

[Masterlist] [Next?]

CW: intimate whumper, mind whump

Victoria laid on the dated, flowery bedspread. Her eyes glanced to the obnoxious commercials blaring on the TV, but she was more focused on the boy’s head in her lap.

He laid next to her, head resting on her, hands and lips still bound with tape. His eyes were open, focused on the TV. She felt his steady breathing against her side, the stiff angle he was too weak to shift away from.

She carded a hand through his curly hair, pulling a strand taunt to watch it return to the soft coil. She scratched lightly at his scalp with her acrylic nails, knowing he hated the way it felt nice. He didn’t look at her, didn’t fight the ritual, didn’t fight the soft touch.

She slipped into his mind, not searching, not barging in, just observing. Observing the way his mind worked as he tried to focus on mindless commercials. Before, he tried to remain blank. Keep his mind as uninteresting as possible so she would lose interest. Cute really, considering she was there for the coaching he gave himself, heard his frantic reasoning, saw exactly where he tried to hide the memories he had so desperately wanted to keep.

Cute he thought he could keep them.

Something in the show triggered a memory. Victoria smiled and leaned in for the real show.

He was so young, far before they got him. His hair was lighter, dressed in jeans a size too big and shirt a size too small. He giggled and ran, almost tripping on the field he played in. He ripped up blades of grass by the handful, tipping his hand to watch them gently fall into a rain puddle. He was happy, safe, young, and free.

He was alone in the memory now, now that she had removed anyone worth fighting to go back to. She had worked hard to make him docile. Pliant. Empty. He only had memories she approved.

She didn’t approve of this one.

As if she was in a garden, she reached down and picked the memory like a daisy. Like a schoolgirl with a crush, she plucked the flower, letting the petals drift away. She pinched off the head and tore the leaves before dropping the empty stem.

She felt the tremor ripple down his body at the loss. She loved that tremor.

If his mind was a garden, she was the wild rabbit that squeezed through the gate. If his mind was a garden, the soft earth was covered with discarded petals and stems, leaves gnawed from their branches. If his mind was a garden, there were patches of empty, overturned soil where the roots had been ruthlessly ripped out. If his mind was a garden, the gentle grass had been trampled down into a path by careless and heavy footsteps.

She looked around at her own handiwork, admiring the destruction in her wake. If his mind was a garden, it was her garden and she loved the way it looked. It was carefully pruned by her own hand and watered with his tears.

Tears fell from his eyes as he watched TV. He couldn’t remember why he was crying, but he never did anymore.

[my-whumpy-little-heart]

Consider: whump in which the whumpee is tortured for an extended period of time for the purpose of causing them to lose their memories (perhaps head trauma or causing some kind of grand mal seizures). Perhaps they are given a set of false memories as they recover so that they are more likely to reject all of the things/people/places that would cause them to regain their true memories.

Ohhh, oh I hear you loud and clear anon. 

Reminds me a bit of WRU in the box boy universe, but I think considering this sort of strategy in a one on one whumper and whumpee situation has so so much whumpy potential.

The whumper’s first order of business might be getting to know the whumpee’s memories better, using torture as a motivator to get them to spill about their past. Obviously torture usually isn’t a viable interrogation method for accurate confessions, but I believe this would work simply because being in a state of constant pain and perhaps sleep deprivation would make it very difficult for a whumpee to formulate lies, and they figure what reason is there anyway? If telling this person different things about me is how I’m gonna keep from getting hurt then so be it, you know? 

And then after that, when they’ve found the weakest cracks in their whumpee, that’s when the whumper starts to really wear them down. Take every insecurity and worst fear and use that against them. Like you said, that head trauma and everything could do a really good job of wearing them down and jumbling their thoughts around, and to torture them until they’re delirious and confused and genuinely would do anything for relief from their constant, pounding headaches. It makes it so hard for them to think, but so easy for the whumper to solidify false concepts and memories in their mind.

Personally, I’m thinking about the forced repetition of phrases to brainwash, but there’s so many different ways you can instill the new sorts of memories in the whumpee. Perhaps the whumper wants to go so far as to fabricate pictures or “proof” that the whumpee’s life is what they say it is, and they can’t prove it wrong because ‘look, don’t you see? that’s you right there in the picture,’ and they can’t deny that they are in that photo. 

The gradual uncertain acceptance that happens as it sets into their mind. Obviously these memories won’t come with much detail or precision unless the whumper reeeally takes their time and tries hard, but that can effectively mold the whumpee in at least slight ways...

But oh anon that’s such a lovely and flexible concept that you could really take it any way you wanted. Love that, thank you for sharing!!