summary: in the puppet!pink au. chase (pink) disrespects pseudo and is hypnotized to a state of extreme delirium and confusion.
i'm still a little rusty comin back but i'm building myself up to continue our cyoa :)! anyway please enjoy!
. . .
The table is set, and Chase sits in the chair assigned to him. Nervous feet dance about under the surface, shaking the glass of water placed before him. He is not allowed to drink until he asks permission.
"Um..." the man starts, looking up at the monster. It cooks at the stove, French toast and hash browns today, with a side of blueberries and strawberries to put on top.
"Um..." mimics Pseudo, after a period of silence.
"Um, I- I was..... I was wondering if I could call someone today."
"Who would you call?"
Who would he call?
Chase perks up at the question.
"C- can I call Stacy?"
Pseudo flips a piece of french toast in the pan. With the way his kitchen is built, whoever cooks at the stove has their back turned to the table. Chase cannot read or attempt to read his captor's expressions.
"I don't think so."
"You d-" Chase bites his tongue, holding back his outburst. "Okay, how about Niko?"
The monster thinks on it. Or maybe he doesn't. Chase wouldn't know. But it's silent in the room, and the water is still shaking, and the pan is still sizzling, and Pseudo's back is still turned.
"I don't think so," Pseudo finally says.
".... Why not?"
Pseudo only shrugs.
The man's brows furrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Pseudo shrugs again.
Biting his tongue once more, Chase has to take a deep breath. Instead of bickering, he takes a sip of water, giving his sharp tongue something else to do.
Pseudo stops cooking.
"Put the glass down," he says, back still turned.
Chase realizes what he's done, and his heart falls to his stomach. In an act of his own fear, he goes to set the glass back on the table.
But then.. he doesn't.
The room is frozen. Chase isn't sure why he's doing this. But he's angry, and what else does he have to lose?
He takes another drink, staring at Pseudo's back.
"Pink."
"No, I don't.... I- I don't think so."
Pseudo puts the french toast on the plate, decorating with powdered sugar, syrup, and the fruit.
"What don't you think?"
He turns to face the puppet now, plate in hand.
"I don't think I wanna listen to you anymore. I- I think..."
Pseudo steps forward, and the toy falters a moment.
"...... I think I deserve to go home."
The plate is set before Chase, at the table in the chair he is assigned to sit. Nervous feet dance under the surface, shaking the water he wasn't supposed to drink from.
"I think," Pseudo sits down with him, "you aren't feeling like yourself this morning. And you're very sorry for acting like this. Aren't you?"
Chase frowns. He loses eye contact with his captor.
"I don't think so.."
Pseudo shrugs once more, chuckling.
"Then you shouldn't think at all."
Before he can even think to protest, Chase's head is swimming with hypnosis. His entire body goes weak, and the glass ends up crashing to the table. Groaning, the puppet tries to fight, but it feels like the syrup that was used for his breakfast is pouring itself down his throat, his eye sockets, his bloodstream. There is not a single thing he can do to stop it, and every coherent thought he had is replaced with a confused babbling string of nonsense. He can't understand what he's feeling, can't understand what he's saying, can't understand any of it.
He hears cooing, baby talk, somewhere far away. He didn't realize he fell into the table until he's being guided back up, a firm hand on his neck and jaw to keep his attention.
"Pink, Pink? Can you hear me?"
"Hkk-"
"No no, don't try to speak. Just nod or shake your head."
Pink nods, desperate for stability. What's happened? When did? What does powdered sugar sees to the table one hand on the on the theres? Does the stove on counter down wear the?
"Ah- h--!" Chase whiiiiines, fearful of his own messy train of thought.
A blueberry is plucked from the plate and presented to Pink's mouth.
"Open up."
He obeys without thinking. Pseudo is the only thing he can focus on, even with vision blurred. For once everything else is scarier than he is.
"Good job, Pink. Now I have a very important question for you, are you ready?"
Chase nods his head. Is he ready? What's going on?
"What do you think?"
Pink chokes on his own words, shaking his head.
What does he think? What does he think? What does he think? The nonsensical words jumbled in his brain begin to die, and he is left with nothing but empty. Nothing but Pseudo. Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo is what he thinks. He thinks, he thinks? No, he isn't thinking. He's confused, wait, what does he think?
"Help," Pink finally whispers, terrified in his confusion.
"Poor thing," Pseudo frowns. He is sure to speak slow, steady. "You need to answer my question first, and then I can help you, okay?"
What was the question? What did he say??
"Wh--- H?"
"What do you think?"
Pink begins to cry, not understanding what's being asked of him.
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Your choices leave your character lost. He has no choice but to succumb to the will of his captor.
CWS: non human whumper, whumper is also caretaker, captive whumpee, failed escape attempt, sick whumpee, brainwashing, torture, dehumanization, delirious whumpee, suicidal ideation, force feeding alcohol, hallucinations and delusions of bugs crawling on and into whumpee’s body, hypnosis. let me know if i should add more!
Masterlist.
Tag list (lmk if you’d like to be added or removed, my apologies for forgetting about it the last handful of parts): @skid-row-seymour @welcome-to-the-whumpfest @the9645archives
sorry this one is kinda long, but i felt like y’all deserved a bigger part for waiting so long to hear from this series :cryface:
. . .
The keys hang on the wall, the car sits outside. It’s time to go.
In one swift motion, Chase sheds the blanket off his shoulders and snatches up the keys. He strides outside the house, making easy and confident steps down the porch. Getting in the car is easy, starting it is easy, driving is easy. For once, he isn’t afraid.
The puppet opens his eyes. Now that he’s pictured his half assed plan, he can begin the attempt.
He sheds the blanket onto the couch, feeling a rush of cold air hit his skin. For a second he pulls it back, but ultimately elects to fold it and leave it on the couch. Maybe Pseudo won’t be as angry with him if he doesn’t leave a mess. Maybe he’s just stalling.
Once finished, he begins his steps towards the keys. They’re clumsy and painful, causing him to fall into the arm of the couch before he even leaves the living room. He manages to get to the keys, and with a trembling hand, he plucks them from the wall.
He feels nauseous.
Is he really doing this?
He could turn back at any moment, and Pseudo would never know. He wouldn’t question it, because Chase would still be in bed when he got home, and the keys would still be on the wall. He could turn back. He could be safe.
But instead he opens the door, against everything inside him. He can hear his inner “Pink voice” crying inside his head, “bad idea, bad idea, bad bad bad idea!”
But he is ignored, and Chase finds himself in the driver’s seat of the car.
It takes him a few minutes to muster the courage to start it, and then a few more just to remember how. His whole body shakes in cold and fear, and he feels like he could vomit at any given second. His nervousness cracks him down to his core, splitting through every cell and piece of tissue there is to have inside a human. Once the car rumbles to life, he adjusts the mirror, and sees Pseudo in the back seat.
“Fuck!!”
Chase whips around to look at him, but finds the car empty.
The relief, the fear, the sickness, the fighting Pink and Chase, God, he can’t take it. He can’t tell if what he saw was real or fake, if he’s just hallucinating or if Pseudo’s onto him and is just toying with him. But he’s come this far, and what he can’t take even more than the situation he’s in now, is staying another day here in Denmark. He wants to go home.
Chase puts the car in drive, and starts his terrifying journey.
. . .
If starting the car was difficult, driving should be its own category of horrendous.
He’s completely forgotten how. For the first ten or so minutes he either goes too fast or too slow. He almost drives off the side of the road into the wooded areas, (which he absolutely scratches the car), and at one point, he nearly crashes when trying to turn too fast on a curve. As time passes, the sun falls farther and farther beneath the trees, to which Chase panics when trying to find the switch for the headlights. He considers pulling over for a while just to cry about it all, but he gets the hang of most of it. He gets the hang of most of it, and he drives just fine for a while, despite having no idea where he’s going.
As Chase drives and drives, he starts seeing a house in the distance. Pseudo’s house.
Did he drive in a circle?
The roads don’t curve like that, do they?
Chase speeds up, terrified to be met with this fate so soon. He hopes he’s hallucinating again.
The same woods and lake and curves meet him again. He tries harder this time around to make sure he’s careful, taking different turns as not to end up in the same place. This cant be for nothing.
The same stretch of time seems to pass for Chase, though he can’t say for sure as Pseudo’s clock is stuck at 10:05. It all feels like the same terrifying drag to him either way.
Eventually, even with his precautions, he’s met with the house again.
He speeds up once more, gripping the steering wheel as tight as he can. He tries the same plan again, taking different roads or even going straight through the woods wherever the car can fit. At this point, he’d try anything to go home.
But once again, the house appears in his view.
Tears blur his vision as he tries again. He pleads to get free, more afraid of the punishment than anything at this point. If Pseudo isn’t on to his escape, then his lack of driving skills are going to be his downfall.
Again, the house appears, and again, he tries to drive.
He cries as he keeps the car going. It’s hard to see as it is, but he might need to pull over if his emotions keep getting the best of him like this.
The next time he gets back to he house, he sees Pseudo standing there, watching him. His hands are in his pockets and he doesn’t look upset, although Chase knows better than to assume. He knows he’s been caught, and that driving would be useless now. But he cant stop, this cant be for nothing.
He drives around again, and Pseudo stays put. Their dance continues, Chase driving, Pseudo waiting, until enough turns have happened that the puppet accepts his defeat. On the last drive, the car comes to a stop, but his tears don’t.
Pseudo approaches, opening the door and tilting his head at the doll. Chase has yet to stop crying.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” says Pseudo.
The puppet covers his face, smashing tears into his fingertips. He feels like Pink. Or maybe wants to be Pink. Pseudo is nicer to Pink.
“You know what happens now, don’t you, dolly?”
Chase feels sicker and sicker. He covers his mouth just in case.
“I asked you a question, Chase.”
The name names his skin crawl. Pseudo doesn’t call him that anymore, not unless he’s in serious trouble.
“Yes,” Chase whimpers. He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks up at his captor, hoping to reason with him. “Yes, I’m sorry. I don’t- I don’t know what I was thinking, I was just scared and-“
Pseudo puts a finger to his lips. “Hush. You know where you’re supposed to go. I’ll be in there later.”
“But-“
Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth, and the puppet shuts up. He leans in close to his doll, making sure their eyes meet and the attention is captured.
“Hush.”
He then unbuckles the seatbelt that ties Chase down, and takes the keys from the ignition.
“Put these back on your way in.”
The monster drops the keys in his puppet’s hand, and leaves him to follow his commands. But Chase is paralyzed.
He stares down at the keys in his hand, shaking like a leaf about to fall from a tree. He pictures the cellar, he pictures the garden, he pictures the car, the vague idea of children he forgets the names of. He pictures the stupidity of his decision, and how much easier his life would be had he just stayed in bed to sleep like he was told.
But there’s no point in picturing.
Chase stands up and shuts the door. With each step he takes he feels knives digging into his feet, roots trying to plant themselves in the ground to make him stay away from his punishment. He starts losing his breath from the panic, and while his hands go numb, he simultaneously crumbles to the ground. The keys find a home in the grass, and Chase’s mouth begins to salivate from the need to vomit.
He covers his mouth, trying to take deep breaths and prevent a mess. He can’t stop shaking, can’t stop crying, can’t stop thinking about what’s going to happen to him.
It takes him a few minutes to gather his strength again. Soon enough, he’s entering the house to place the keys back where he found them, and heading out the back door.
He wipes the tears from his eyes and looks at the cellar. Why, why, why did he have to be so stupid? Why can’t he just listen?
With trembling hands and closed eyes, he opens the doors for his consequences.
. . .
Pseudo takes a long time to come downstairs.
Chase isn’t sure if he’s just letting the tension build, or if his punishment is being locked in here for an unknown amount of time. God knows he’s spent long enough down here, weeks at a time, and every memory makes him more and more afraid of what’s to come. He tries not to focus on that part. Instead, he drags his hands against the wall for balance while he paces.
And paces, and paces, and paces
and paces and paces
and paces.
He paces until his feet ache from the weight of his bones. Until he has to cover his face and kneel on the ground, considering ending his life before Pseudo can come down to start the pain. But that thought leaves his mind as light drips heavy down the steps, and Chase becomes a lightening bolt to sit in the chair he’s supposed to.
His eyes lock on the drain below him. There are still stains on the concrete from his own blood, but more recently, from the man who was planted in the garden. Chase shivers as he pushes the thought from his mind.
Pseudo comes down the stairs with his eyes trained on the chair, pleased to see the seat taken. His stride is easy and comfortable, but there’s some kind of itch in his fingers that twitches as he gathers tools onto his little cart. He takes his time to think about his supplies, and what is or isn’t chosen. Chase steals a glance, but turns away when he sees a stun gun thud onto the surface.
“I don’t know why you do this to yourself,” says Pseudo, still focused on his task. “It’s like you enjoy being punished, I don’t know. Or maybe you’re just dumber than I thought.”
He places a few other tools on the cart, but Chase keeps himself blind to what’s there. Once finished, he rolls the cart closer to his prey, and stands in front of him to speak.
“Which one is it, Chase?”
The puppet frowns, shaking his head. “I-“
A hard smack to the face cuts him off. Chase goes reeling to the side of the chair, but is yanked back by his hair. The man cries out in pain, leaning as far into Pseudo’s grip as he can to avoid extra pain.
“If you speak again without permission, I’ll sew your mouth shut. Am I understood?”
Chase nods.
Satisfied, the monster lets go, and the puppet’s hands come up to soothe the pain in his cheek and scalp. The relief is short lived, however, as Pseudo grabs his wrists to strap them to the arms of the chair with thin metal wire. It digs trenches into his skin, so he tries not to squirm.
His ankles are met with the same restraints, and he clamps his jaw down as hard as he can to avoid pleading. His eyes unconsciously drift to the tool cart and he catches the sight of a Sjambok, which he can already feel the sting of. He closes his eyes and keeps his head down, but Pseudo doesn’t like that.
“Look up. Look at the cart.”
The puppet chews on his tongue and obeys. His eyes scan over what he sees, and the pit in his stomach doesn’t stop growing.
The Sjambok. The stun gun. Gardening scissors. Barded wire. Needle and thread. A small jar of table salt. Shards from the plate he broke. Whiskey. A nail-gun.
Chase’s breath picks up as he scans the cart. Tears sting his eyes, and he chews and chews into his tongue. His head swims with the anticipation and anxiety of it all, heart thumping like a bird’s inside his chest. Once he’s gathered the sight of what will be used, he turns back to his captor to see him staring like a stalking, hungry dog.
“What do you think, trouble- maker? Was it worth it?”
The man shakes his head. He feels pathetic and afraid. He only wishes he could go back in time to stop himself from being so stupid.
Pseudo nods in response.
“Good. I’ll tell you what though, doll. Once I use a tool, I’ll put it away. But everything will be used. Got it?”
Chase’s eyes glance to the stun gun. He nods his head, feeling sick all over again.
“Good. How about you pick first then? Since you like making stupid decisions so much.”
He rolls the cart closer to Chase so he can get a better view of it, and perhaps to point with his eyes what he wants. But Chase shakes his head, a hum of fear crawling up his throat against his will.
“Hey, come now. You want to make choices, so make one. Pick something.”
The man brings his head back up to meet Pseudo’s gaze. He pleads with his eyes, with his frown. He doesn’t want to. Don’t make me, please?
Pseudo tilts his head, waiting.
“Pick.”
Chase blinks tears from his eyes and turns back to his options. He points with his eyes, and says what he wants in his head, just in case Pseudo is listening.
Whiskey.
Pseudo points at the stun gun. “This?”
Chase shakes his head. No, no, whiskey. He moves forward slightly to stare harder at the bottle.
“This?”
The gardening scissors.
Chase shakes his head again, pleading, pleading, chewing on his tongue. Whiskey!
Pseudo lands on the whiskey, and Chase nods and relishes in his relief.
“Alright...”
Pseudo opens the bottle, and presents it to Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”
The puppet obeys, drinking swig after swig after swig, until its spilling over his mouth and down his chin. He starts coughing and spitting it up, but Pseudo keeps it trained on his lips. He begins to feel like he’s drowning in the alcohol before it’s pulled away, and Chase’s throat is left to burn like a hungry fire while he coughs out the poison.
“Catch your breath… it wasn’t that bad.”
It takes him a few minutes of back patting and condescending encouragements to finally settle down. He tries breathing through his mouth to calm the burning in his throat, but Pseudo takes it as an excuse to pour more poison into his body.
The same motions repeat, and the bottle is halfway gone by the time Pseudo pulls it away again. But the cap goes back on, and just as Pseudo promised, its put on the bottom shelf of the cart.
“That was an easy one… so I think I’ll pick next.”
He picks up the nail- gun, and places it to Chase’s shin.
The puppet sits up, and the wire that holds him down digs into his skin. With eyes wide and breath fast, he shakes his head, clamping down his jaw to keep himself from speaking up. His tongue endures more abuse from his teeth.
“Which leg pressed the gas?”
Chase shakes his head again, tears falling down his face as the fear takes over him. Please, please, no. He shrivels into himself like a raisin, and the wire once again digs deeper and deeper into his flesh.
“Which leg, dolly? Point with your eyes.”
The doll sobs a little harder, shaking his head.
“No? Maybe I’ll just hit both, then…”
His eyes shoot open to stare at his right leg, tears blurring his vision. At this Pseudo chuckles, tilting his head and keeping his eyes on the doll’s face.
“I’m just messing with you,” he smiles. “But it would’ve been very interesting had you pointed at your left.”
As soon as he finishes speaking, a nail goes shooting through Chase’s tibia. It digs down as deep as it can get, cracking the bone with the force.
He screams as loud as he can muster. His already burned throat doesn’t do well with the strain, but its even worse when another nail goes shooting through just below the first one. He can’t stop himself from crying about it.
The nail- gun drops into the bottom shelf, and Pseudo calls his puppet back to focus. He coos at him, tapping his face, until Chase gets the hint.
“It’s your turn, puppet.”
The doll looks at his leg. His pants are soaked with blood and alcohol, but he cant see the nails from this angle. Perhaps thats a good thing.
He turns back to the cart, and makes his choice.
Salt.
Pseudo points at the Sjambok. Chase shakes his head.
Pseudo points at the gardening scissors. Chase shakes his head, leaning closer to the salt.
He points at the stun gun. Chase loses his breath, and leans even closer.
Salt!
“Mh, I’m just not sure what you’re saying. I suppose I’ll pick..”
Pseudo picks up the glass shards, and starts shoving them one by one into Chase’s thigh. He uses the last one to give his doll’s cheek a little cut, and tosses it into the cart. The remaining shards stay planted in flesh like sprouting seeds. It hurts, but it feels like a break compared to what he just felt.
Next, Pseudo picks up the Sjambok, and stands up.
“Lean forward.”
Chase groans, shivering. He feels dizzier and dizzier, and the world feels harder to navigate. Is he getting drunk already?
“Don’t make me ask again, dolly. You don’t want this to hit your face, do you?”
The doll succumbs and does as he’s told. Once he’s in position, Pseudo waits to watch his puppet just breathe. His chest rises and falls fervently in his lap, just barely grazing the glass. After enough tension builds to make Chase whimper, he strikes his back hard.
A large slice of blood erupts from the source, and the doll screams into his knees. Another three strikes are given, and the Sjambok is tossed to the floor.
Chase sobs like a child. He can’t get enough air in his lungs, and the tears seem to be never ending. Everything already aches, and there’s still so much to do. He feels dizzy and faint, unsure if its the blood loss or the alcohol, or both. But before he can get his bearings again, the wounds on his back sting bad enough for him to wail all over again.
Salt, salt, salt, like trails of snow, poured into his open wounds. Pseudo holds the back of his neck to keep him in place.
“Stop!” Chase weeps, squirming and crying like it’ll do something useful. “Please, please, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry!! Please stop!”
Pseudo clicks his tongue three times, finishing the last row and putting the salt away.
“You just can’t get enough of this, can you, sweetheart?”
Chase sits up once free, writhing in pain. He sways as the alcohol takes over the remaining of his control, and the pain takes its place close behind. He can’t press his back to the chair, but cant lean forward, either. Everything hurts. He’s too dizzy, he feels drunk already. His wrists ache and look as red as his crying face does.
Pseudo plucks the needle and thread from the cart.
“Quiet, dolly, or this will hurt a lot more than you’d like it to.”
“Nonono, please, please!” he weeps. “I wont do it again, I won’t ever do it again, I’ll do everything you say, I’m s— ah!!”
Pseudo smacks Chase on the mouth hard enough to shove his back into the chair.
“Enough. You’re being awfully stupid..”
The needle comes up from his bottom lip first, snaking its way to the top lip. Row after row, sob after sob, every sound that comes out of Chase’s mouth becomes muffled. Blood drips down his chin to follow the paths that the alcohol took beforehand. The salty tears sting the cut on his cheek, and whatever wound from the stitches that they can get into.
The gardening scissors cut the remaining thread, and both tools are tossed to the bottom of the cart. At least his fingers wont have the same fate as Richie’s.
The next tool that’s chosen is barbed wire. Pseudo uses it to wrap around Chase’s torso and arms, making sure to roll up any clothing so the razors meet his skin instead of fabric. Then, the stun gun finds his hand.
Chase’s head swims. He shakes his head, his cries becoming weaker but more afraid by the second. He’d take anything over the stun gun. Even the nail- gun. The sensory hell that comes from electricity is simply too much for him to take right now.
“Readyyyy?” Pseudo sings. “You’re almost done.”
But Chase isn’t, nor will he ever be, ready for the stun gun. He shakes his head again, a pathetic sob bubbling up from his throat. He sinks deeper into the chair, regretting everything he’s done within the last two days. He wants to wake up in the attic with the sun on his face and be confused about what’s happening again. He wants to be hypnotized and treated like a doll, to be coddled and loved and doted upon for whatever fucked up reason Pseudo has for doing it. He wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink, he wants to be Pink.
Pseudo aims at Chase’s shoulder, and shoots.
His entire body tenses up from the electricity. What little control he had before has now left him, and he is left to scream and endure for 10 seconds.
15.
20.
Chase opens his eyes to see Pseudo standing over him. He can’t breathe, he cant see, the world swims and twists in his eyes. The room spins and there are fire ants crawling across his entire body, with burrows dug deep into his flesh. He looks down at himself, seeing bugs crawling all across his skin.
“Mmm- mmmm!!!”
Chase writhes and hollers like his life depends on it. There are bugs on his skin!! He can feel them burrowing into his flesh, into his shin, his wrists, his torso, his mouth, his thigh!!!!! They’re everywhere!!!
He screams and screams and screams as they take over his whole body, making a home inside every space they can. Pseudo grabs hold of his doll’s face, forcing his eye contact and attention.
“Settle down,” he commands. “You’re alright. Deep breaths, Pink. Deep breaths.”
He keeps squirming and fighting, keeps sobbing and sinking deeper into the chair as the bugs eat him up like candy. But Pseudo comes soothing, and kind, and Chase feels heavier and heavier until the whole world feels too far away to focus. But Pseudo is there, and Pseudo is helpful. Pseudo gets the bugs away.
“You’re okay, Pink. Listen to me now, deep breaths. You’re all done.”
All done? All done?
Pink shivers. He remembers what he did, how stupid and dangerous that was. He can’t believe he’d do such a thing, especially when an angel like Pseudo is here to take care of him. What’s wrong with him?
Pink whines as he’s set free from his restraints. As all the barbed wire is peeled from his body and the glass shards are plucked out one by one. He sighs, especially thankful, when he’s able to take a breath through his mouth as the thread is cut away. He has no choice but to lean into Pseudo when scooped up into his arms, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He wants to be good now, and he’ll promise that once he’s allowed to speak again.
“You’re alright, Pink. I’ve got you back now, hm? You’re alright.”
Pink whines once more, feeling overwhelmed with the urge to fall asleep.
. . .
Oh, his head hurts.
Where is Pseudo?
Pink opens his eyes to find himself alone in his room. His body feels heavy and beaten, and everything hurts. Upon seeing the sun shine through the window, he is overcome with a wave of nausea so strong that he has to lean over his bed. When he tries to sit up, however, the pain in his back and ribs is enough to make him cry out. The nausea gets worse until he gags, covering his eyes and mouth and pretending Pseudo is there to coach him through it. Once it passes, he opens his eyes, half expecting to see Pseudo already there and waiting.
The puppet groans, observing his empty room. He wants to call out for Pseudo, but closes his mouth upon remembering he’s not supposed to speak. He wishes he could ask for some water, or a hug.
Instead he asks for attention by knocking on the wall. Everything in his body hurts, so standing up to make noise doesn’t feel like a safe option for him. He just hopes that Pseudo notices soon, whether that’s through annoyance or wanting to be by his puppet. He can’t take much longer without seeing his angel.
The knocks are eventually returned at the door, and Pink hears a key turn into the lock. The door opens, and Pink smiles dopey and adoring.
“Ps-“ he starts, before covering his mouth. He wants to say sorry, but then he’d have to say sorry for saying sorry, and then sorry for saying sorry for saying sorry. So he just clamps his jaw shut, and prays that Pseudo forgives him for his near mistake.
“My Pink,” Pseudo croons. The key is concealed inside his pocket, and he makes his way towards his doll. “Do you feel sick this morning?”
Pink nods, sighing and relaxing when Pseudo comes to sit beside him. As if that weren’t enough, Pseudo runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and the doll leans as far into his touch as possible. He wants moments like these to last forever.
“Poor thing… but you’ll be good now, won’t you? No more slip ups like yesterday.”
Pink’s face burns in embarrassment. He can’t believe what he did; the regret consumes him. He shakes his head, holding Pseudo’s hand and kissing his palm to show his devotion.
Pseudo smiles and runs his hand through Pink’s hair, and the puppet basks in the attention. He can’t get enough of it. He isn’t sure why he ever tried to leave in the first place. Stupid, stupid puppet.
“That’s precious.. but, I have to make sure you’re being honest, don’t I?”
Pink nods. That makes sense, and he’ll do anything to prove himself.
“Good. Because if you’re good..”
He runs a hand through Pink’s hair, and a thumb across his cheek bone. The puppet melts.
“Then I’ll bring you back home, and I’ll spoil you rotten.”
Pink smiles. This time, he blushes from contentment. From adoration.
“But if you’re bad, if you show me you want to escape again, I’ll make sure you end up alone. No one will take care of you.”
Pink frowns, afraid. He points at Pseudo, and shakes his head. Not even you?
“You’ll be alone, Pink. Out of your head,” he pets Pink’s hair again, “and all alone. Do you understand?”
Yes. Pink nods.
“Good. Then I should see you soon, dolly. Don’t fret about it when you get there, hm? Nothing to be afraid of if you’re a good puppet.”
Pink wants to ask where he’s going, but is left to wonder until it happens.
could we perhaps get puppet pink interacting alone with someone from the outside world for the first time when pseudo takes him someplace?? if that makes any sense
yesss!!! this is when chase is pretty much completely puppet pink.
tws: food, brainwashing, captive whumpee. lmk if i should add more!
. . .
"Can you stay in the car for a while?"
Pink nods at his caretaker, holding close his bowl of frozen yogurt. It's a sweet spring day, with warmth and life slowly urging its way back into the world. Pink adores the sight of it.
"I can," he smiles. "H- how long will you be away?"
"Just a few minutes," Pseudo replies. "Can you be brave? Stay in the car?"
The puppet nods. "Yes, Pseudo."
"Good. I'll be right back."
And with that, the doors lock, and Pink is by himself.
He takes a moment to look at his surroundings. Bright tulips and tree blossoms reach for the sun, aching to split open and parade their pretty colors. He can see ladybugs and bees flying about, gnats twirling in the grass. Weeds spring up from the cement, and although most would find them ugly, Pink stops to admire those, too.
He takes a bite of frozen yogurt, gazing more upon the gardens that line the houses around. He isn't sure what neighborhood he's in, or whose house Pseudo just walked into. Whoever's inside isn't very happy to see him, and Pink wonders what words she spits out at him as he backs her away from the window.
He raises the spoon for another bite-
"Hello!"
Pink startles, almost dropping the bowl entirely. A clumsy show of snatching it to and from the air lands him with frozen yogurt dripping on his fingers, lucky to have that be his only spill.
He turns to the open window, only halfway rolled down to let in the air. There is a small child standing outside, with black hair and eyes dark as dirt. He wonders what flowers grow from her irises.
"H- hello," he finally responds, wiping the frozen treat away on his pants.
"What are you doing here?" she asks him. Her eyes wander his face, his hair, as his do the same to her.
"U- um, I'm waiting for Pseudo," he says. "He'll be back soon."
"Who is Pseudo?"
Curious child. Pink turns more towards her, resisting the seatbelts pressure to pull him back. "He's my- my best friend. Takes care of me, lots. Lots, lots, lots."
She smiles, stepping closer to the car. Once she peeks inside, she spots his frozen yogurt.
"What do you have?!"
The sudden holler makes him jump, but he settles quickly.
"I- ice cream. Ice cream."
"..... Can I have some?"
Tulips in her eyes. Ladybugs and bees and blossoms. Pink remembers little voices like hers, little hands like hers, curious eyes like hers. His heart aches.
"You can have all of it," Pink whispers, handing her the bowl. He feels an odd urge to protect her. Ruffle her hair. Tell her not to stand in the street.
The little girl bursts into a smile, bouncing up and down in her excitement. "Thank you!" she exclaims, and doesn't waste a moment to take a bite.
Pink smiles, smiles. "Do you li- like it?"
Nodding, she asks the next question.
"Why does Pseudo take care of you?"
"Oh, I... I'm not... I can't do it."
"What can't you do?"
"Well.... anything, anything.."
"Why?"
Pink has to wonder. Why can't he? He can't remember. Maybe that's why.
"I don't remember how," he says, deciding it's the easiest way to explain, as long as she doesn't ask anything else.
"Why not?"
Shoot.
"Um..... u- um.... I... I don't remember why."
"Why?"
Pink sees vines growing from her mouth. Proteas from her irises, ladybugs and bees and twirling gnats inside her mind. She asks so many questions he can't keep up.
"You sh- shouldn't stand in the street, kiddo," he tells her. The word feels familiar and foreign at the same time. Kiddo, kiddo, kiddo, who was kiddo before this little girl?
"Oh, I guess you're right.."
She opens her mouth to speak again, but is cut off by a woman across the street standing at the doorway.
"Mina!" she yells. "Who are you talking to??"
The little girl giggles, giggles and giggles and shoves the frozen yogurt back at Pink's clumsy hands.
"Bye sir!"
Pink sits up, grasping desperate at the window as she skips away. "B- bye, bye kiddo..."
He sits back into the seat as he watches the door close.
"Kiddo, kiddo, kiddo," he sings. His lip quivers, and a deep, horrible ache breaks into his chest. He misses someone, two someone's, whose voices remain hushed in his mind. Blurry faces and far away touches tap at the walls of his heart, a love ingrained so deep within him he couldn't escape it if he tried. He can't remember who they are. He can't remember who they are, he can't remember who they are. He loves them, he knows them, he misses them, but he can't remember who they are.
"Kiddo, kiddo," he chirps again, staring into the empty bowl for an answer.
YOU CHOSE: REACH OUT FOR CHASE- “Why did you make me do that?”
Your decisions leave Pink at the forefront of the mind. Chase tugs at the strings left behind, but your past obedience leaves him wondering if being dormant is safer. You’ve left your character confused, and searching for a guide.
cws: non human whumper, captive whumpee, brainwashing, dehumanization, whumpee forced to drink soap water, whumpee forced to drink whumpers blood, emesis, descriptions of emesis, descriptions of blood, descriptions of self made wound (just a small cut on the finger), implications of whumper bathing whumpee (platonic), delirium, hallucinations, sickness, descriptions of dismembered human body parts
Link to part six.
. . .
Chase is quiet for a few more moments, mindlessly scrubbing a plate with a soapy rag. He finds the strength to speak his mind.
“Why did you make me do that?”
Pseudo doesn’t stop washing his dish. Nothing about his countenance changes. “Make you do what?”
“W.. what you did in the cellar yesterday.”
“You chose to come downstairs with me, Pink. I didn’t make you do anything.”
Chase stops washing his dish, heart turning inside his chest. He feels like he should keep his mouth shut, like he should accept the truth, that Pseudo is always right, but something else tells him to speak up. He deserves to speak up.
“You could’ve just told me to go inside, I- I wasn’t in my right mind…! You hypnotized me!”
The monster rinses the soap from the plate, and sets it on the dish rack to dry.
“Watch your tone, pet,” he warns, grabbing a glass to wash next.
“But-“ Chase turns to look at Pseudo, bewilderment and hurt spreading from his brows to his breaking heart. How can he really be in this situation? How is this his life??
Inside his head, he feels a shift. Pink takes a step back, and in turn, Chase takes a step forward. The man cannot balance between the two for long, so he must shift to the weight of whoever is stronger in that moment. For the time being, Chase is allowed to take control.
“NO!” he yells. His entire body faces his monster now, and Pseudo gives him the courtesy of eye contact. “You had me hypnotized! I wasn’t in my right mind to make a decision- you never let me make a decision, and the first time I’m allowed to in months is when I was in a state so mentally fucked that I couldn’t even put two and two together that I was helping you lead an innocent man to the cellar! And instead of telling me to go inside and wait for you, you let me walk down those stairs and sit through three! Fucking! Hours! Of torture! You made me stay because I can’t fucking think on my own when I’m in that state, you- why can’t you just answer me!! Why did you make me do that!!?”
At his last two words, Chase slams the plate and soapy rag against the ground. Glass flies across the kitchen floor, and water splatters and puddles at their feet. Pseudo stares at the mess, and slowly rakes his eyes up the body of his captive puppet. When their eyes meet, Chase knows he’s gone too far. There’s no going back now.
“Pick it up.” says Pseudo.
Chase is motionless. Every inch of his body screams to obey, but he must stand his ground. He’s waited too long to be heard like this.
“Pick. It. Up.”
While he cannot muster the courage to say it, an unspoken “no” lays between the two bodies. Chase’s breath is at a stand- still, and his disobedience comes with his frozen body.
Pseudo turns his attention to the sink again, filling the glass about half way up while the remaining space is taken up by soap bubbles from the rag. Once full, he sets the glass on the counter.
“Statue, Pink.”
And against his will, Chase is left without the ability to move.
“I’m not sure where this little outburst came from,” the monster crouches to roll up the legs of Chase's pants, just above his knees. “But I wont tolerate it.”
He stands back up, placing both hands on Chase’s shoulders. With a hearty shove, the puppet’s bare knees come colliding with shards of glass. He hollers as the pain of it shoots up to his hips, and his blood doesn’t hesitate to taste the sweet freedom of air outside the skin. He wants nothing more than to fall to his side and rip the glass out, but he must stay still.
Pseudo presents the glass of soap water Chase’s mouth. “Drink.”
Chase clamps his jaw down, eyes wandering up to meet his monster’s. He shakes his head. How stupid.
“Aww,” Pseudo coos. “You’re really testing me today, aren’t you?”
The monster shifts his hand so his pointer finger is above the liquid. Then, he reaches to the set of knives placed nearby and cuts a small knick in his finger. Thick black poison drips into the glass, eating the soap bubbles like candy as it passes through. The water turns to look like a cloudy sky, ready to tear apart whatever it comes into contact with.
Chase’s jaw tightens up further. Pseudo's blood is a thick and awful poison, not meant for human consumption. Even a few drops can make him sick for days on end. The monster lets five globs hit the drink before bringing the wound to his mouth, licking the blood clean. What remains drips down the side of the cup.
“If I have to say it again-“ Pseudo starts to chuckle, amused and annoyed at the puppet’s resilience. “I’ll make you drink your vomit, too.”
“I—,” Chase whines, shame heating up his face. “I’m sorry, I-“
“Stop it.”
Pseudo pushes the glass to Chase’s lips, tilting up his chin with his other hand. In turn, he tilts his own head downward, reinforcing a stronger path of eye contact. He waits, giving the toy a chance to redeem his disobedience.
Chase turns his attention to the cloudy mess inside the glass. There's no point in fighting. There never was.
The water is warm when it enters his mouth.
A sour sting takes up every space it can. His face scrunches up in disgust, and a pathetic little noise escapes his throat before being drowned by the dirty water. Once the soap has passed and the blood reaches his tongue, he recoils, but Pseudo is quick to catch him. The hand on the puppet’s chin darts to grip his hair instead, forcing him to keep contact with the glass. It stings his tongue and makes his teeth rattle and chatter, while everything inside him screams to spit it out.
Gulp after shivering gulp, the contents of the glass are emptied. Pseudo sets it in the sink and covers the toy’s mouth with his hand. Trembling, Chase forces himself to swallow the ick, and his monster sets him free.
With no water to wash it down, it’s a heavy thing burrowing down his throat, like a slug squirming its way through his esophagus. Chase gags, slamming his head into Pseudo’s thigh and curling his fingers into his pant leg.
“I’m sorry,” he pleads, tears burning his eyes. He can feel the blood almost eating him inside. Fire ants. “I’m stupid and clueless and you know what’s best, you didn’t m- mm- make me do anything, anything, I’m sorry, I’m really sorry..!”
Pseudo reaches a hand to pet his toys hair, hearing glass crunch under its knees as its weight shifts back and forth. “You’re only sorry because I punished you,” he says cooly. “I know you, Pink.”
The man gags again, feeling his stomach bubble and churn with the poisonous blood. He buries his face inside his monster’s leg, regretting every decision he made in the past ten minutes. He is a weak, pathetic puppet, and he needs to start acting like one.
“I’m sorry,” he tries again, “I’m sorry, I’m-“
Chase gags once more, feeling bile rise up into his chest. Instinctively he covers his mouth, shaking as he feels his insides writhe.
“Sorry?” Pseudo finishes for him.
Pink opens his mouth to respond, but pukes into his hand instead.
The monster watches the mess grow and grow, vomit now covering his socks and pant leg. He does nothing to comfort the doll, instead leaving him to heave and choke on his own. Glass has wormed its way deep inside his knees, and now, on all fours, it has made a home inside Chase’s palms as well.
Once his breakfast and punishments are painted across the ground, Pseudo perches on the balls of his feet as he crouches to get a better look at his puppet. He takes the doll’s chin in his hand once more, forcing him to look into his eyes.
“Pick it up.”
The monster lingers in his gaze for a moment, making sure the command is understood, before letting go to change his own clothes. He takes off his soiled socks before stepping into the other room, leaving his puppet to obey in solitude. Perhaps some time alone will help him think about what he did.
. . .
Staring at the mess in front of himself, Chase can’t help but vomit even more. He is a shaking, disgusting mess by the time he’s just dry heaving, and he cries like a child while he tears glass from his bloody knees and hands. His composure is yet to come, but there is no room to wallow and feel sorry for himself. He must do as he’s told, and prove to Pseudo that he deserves no more than what he’s already been given.
Chase takes a deep breath. His body shakes and his teeth chatter again, and he wants nothing more than to lay down on the cold and dirty floor. Sick, sick, sick, he feels. Stupid, puppet, stupid, he knows. He pushes himself up, leaving a dotting trail of blood as he drags the trash can to the mess.
He mops the sick up first, with the rag he tossed carelessly on the floor. Glass is next, threatening his already bloodied hands with sharp edges. He tries to use the rag to keep the smaller shapes from entering his skin, but he can feel the larger ones poking through.
Finally, he uses the clean rag on the counter to get rid of any germs left over. The hot water and soap burn the cuts in his hands, but he has to ignore it.
Another trail of blood follows him as he sweeps the floor. He is clumsy, miserable, sick. His vision blurs and his insides churn, but he hasn’t the strength to let anything come up again. Chase sweeps up as much as he can, before mopping up his blood to finish everything off.
Blood clots begin to dry on his skin, stinging in the cool air of the cottage. He lies down on the floor, and although he freezes in the cold, he sweats as though overcome with heatstroke. Chase whimpers like a kicked puppy, waiting for his master to return to the kitchen. He holds his stomach with one arm and his shoulder with the other.
Minutes tick by. The puppet’s eyes close.
Sick, sick, stupid, sick.
. . .
Chase wakes up on the couch, wrapped warm in a heavy blanket. His hair is damp and his entire body feels soft and clean, smelling of vanilla and shea butter. There are bandages on his knees and hands, and Pseudo sits in the chair across from him, reading silently. Chase blinks and squints his eyes, trying desperately to clear the blurs and occasional black splotches in his vision. He sits up-
And falls right back down.
His head swims and he feels a nausea from hell bubble up inside him. Flies and slugs and fire ants swarm inside his stomach, and his whole body cries out in aching bones and wailing muscles. He feels like a popsicle left on the porch in August heat. Cold and melting at the same time.
He groaaaaannnnnss, covering his face with clammy hands. “Pseudooo,” he tries. “Pseudo..”
“Yes, dolly,” replies his monster.
Oh, God. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”
The toy takes his hands away from his face. His shoulders creak and whine, or maybe those noises came from his throat. He can’t quite tell.
“Mhm… you still have to help me in the garden.”
Chase rocks his head to one side, feeling his brain turn a mushy, uncooked pancake. Perhaps shaking his head no is not an option.
“I caaaaaaan’t,” he whines, like a child at the doctor’s. “I can’t, I can’t, I feel sick-“
Pseudo clicks his tongue three times before closing his book. He sets it to the side, stands, and grabs at Chase’s blanket.
“Come now,” he croons. “Up we go.”
Somewhere, he feels it, Chase is lifted up to stand. His body is ten miles behind his head, or maybe his head is ten miles behind his body? He can’t see straight. Sick sick sick, Chase’s stomach threatens violence in the form of a dry heave.
“Please, Pseudo, c- can I lay back down?” He practically hangs off the monster as they walk through the house to the back door.
“Not yet, Pink. Pick up your feet..”
. . .
When they reach the outside, Chase is quick to sit down. He slouches like an old stuffed toy, with his body hanging pathetically over the dirt. Gardening gloves and a sun hat wear him with pride, happy to be placed on such a sick little thing like him.
“Awfully stupid this one,” the sun hat whispers. Her voice is higher pitched and soft, like a bird. “Haven’t you learned by now? Stupid, stupid puppet.”
The gardening gloves giggle.
“Stupid stupid puppet!!” their voice hollers, wiggling sounds sprouting from his fingertips. Their voice is smooth and slimy like worms. “He deserves this, don’t you think?”
“Yes,” Chase answers, before the sun hat can.
“Yes, what?” says Pseudo, confused. He has a small bag in his hand. It looks like crushed up candy.
“Yes, Pseudo,” Chase replies, though it’s something automatic. He isn’t sure Pseudo has said a word yet, as it would be rude to interrupt the hat and the gloves. Pseudo isn’t rude.
“Idiot, puppet,” the gloves hiss.
The sun hat spits at his shoulder. “Are you even paying attention?”
“Im trying..” Chase rubs at his eyes. Pseudo takes his hands and places the bag of candy inside.
“Spread it across the dirt,” he says, and picks up a bundle of lollipops.
For a moment, the toy thinks its rather odd to spread candies and lollipops across the garden. But he’s learned his lesson on questioning his monster’s authority. The sun hat and gloves approve, whispering sweet praises as he tosses the candy about.
“Ask him what kind of candy it is,” the sun hat requests, and Chase obliges.
“Pseudo? What kind of candy is this?”
“That’s blood meal, Pink.”
“Oh…. Then what kind of candy is that?” He points at the lollipops in his monster’s hands.
“These are Richie’s fingers.”
“Oh.”
Pseudo worms the fingers deep inside the dirt, and plants seeds right above where they lay. Several vegetables and fruits display a proud selection of food across the entire garden, whispering old screams of those lost inside the soil. Richie should be pleased to sprout zucchini.
“Pseudo?”
“Yes, dolly?”
But Chase does not respond. He mutters the name over and over under his breath, Pseudo, Pseudo, Pseudo, and nothing more. The sun hat and gardening gloves enjoy singing along.
Chase sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He rests his chin in his hand, yawning.
“Sleepy?”
When the puppet opens his eyes, he finds himself in the kitchen. He is set in his place at the table, with no hat and no gloves to whisper in his ears.
“Hhh-“ Chase sits up, fumbling for his senses. When did they come inside? What time is it?
“How did I get in here??” the puppet asks. His stomach growls, but not with hunger.
“You walked inside,” says Pseudo. He cuts the crusts off a turkey sandwich and pours a glass of homemade strawberry lemonade.
“I don’t remember…”
The monster carries the dishes to the doll, setting them in front of him. The sandwich has tomatoes and lettuce from the garden. The drink has strawberries and lemons from the garden. The garden has victims from the cellar. Chase begins to wonder how many people he has indirectly eaten.
He stares at the glass, watching ice cubes bathe themselves in pink.
“Here, drink,” says Pseudo, presenting the glass to his lips. “I know you’re thirsty.”
The puppet hesitates, but obeys.
Sugary sweet and delicious and cool. The lemonade is easy to drink, sour in the good way. Not the soap way.
He keeps drinking until he feels something warmer and softer than ice hit his top lip. Did Pseudo put fresh strawberries in it?
The puppet opens his eyes to look, and sees one staring right back at him.
“AHG!”
Chase spits the lemonade across the table, shoving the glass as far away from himself as he can. The drink comes pouring onto the sandwich, and the lettuce screams and cries as it is forced into a cold shower.
“Thats cold!!”
“Eye, eye, eye!!!” Chase cries, standing from his chair. Tears stream down his cheeks, stinging his eyes and blurring his sight. He falls dizzy back into his seat.
“You what, Pink?” Pseudo asks, setting the glass on the table in a puddle. He reaches one hand to gently push at the puppet’s arm, watching it struggle to regain its balance.
“Noo, eye!!” Chase points at his own, hyperventilating. His mind is spinning. He vaguely remembers helping Pseudo plant eyeballs in the dirt last year, beneath strawberry seeds. He wasn’t Pink when it happened, he was Chase.
“I can’t drink that!! I won’t!! I c-“ Chase covers his mouth, screaming into his hands. He rocks softly forward, side, backward, side again, unable to collect a stable posture.
“Shhh,” Pseudo hushes. He tries to pry Chase’s hands away from his face, but they are glued to where they sit.
“Hey, heyyyyy, it’s okay, look at me, Pink..”
Chase shakes his head. He can feel other memories tugging at his mind, but he’s terrified to open those doors. Part of him pleads to keep them shut, to listen to Pseudo’s words and sink back down into the comfort of Pink. Part of him claws at the handles- he’ll wretch those memories from underneath the doors if he has to.
Majority vote decides the next part- and the fate of your character’s mind. Choose wisely.
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since it's been so long, here is a link to part four: https://www.tumblr.com/jaeyleo/700114166317547521/locks-or-keys-part-4-objectives-majority
MAJORITY VOTE: PERSON A, MALE, 34, CART CONTAINING HEALTHY FOODS, SHOWER SOAPS, INCLUDING CHILDREN’S BRANDS.
Your obedience has left Chase forgotten. You are now playing as Pink.
tws: parental whumpee, brainwashing, kidnapping, hypnosis, non human whumper, memory loss, captive whumpees, lmk if i need to add more
. . .
Bug eyes, bug eyes, bug eyes.
Pink stares ahead at the gentleman, fixed on his appearance. Big and strong, big and strong.
"Pseudo..?" Pink tugs on the sleeve of his caretaker. "Pseudo?"
"Hm?"
"I th- think I found someone."
Pseudo looks up to see where the toy points. The man ahead is oblivious, staring at two packages of fruit snacks and comparing the ingredient list. Eventually, he decides on the one labeled "Organic!" and places the other aside.
Pseudo turns back to Pink, a praising smile on his face. "Good job," he says, and gives his hand a squeeze.
The next 15 minutes are spent searching for the garden supplies. A helpful hand from Pink places items handed to him in the basket, eager to help with anything Pseudo may need.
And Pseudo needs chicken wire, for the tomatoes.
Duct tape, for.... the shovel. The shovel's handle likes to give splinters.
Rope, to hang vegetables, perhaps.
Barbed wire. To keep the deer from getting all the good stuff.
Gardening scissors. They can cut through the toughest of branches and weeds.
Bleach, for....... for...
"For the tub," Pseudo tells the puppet, catching his thoughts wandering.
"The tub?"
"We'll have to clean the tub."
"Oh, i- it's already dirty?"
Pseudo shakes his head, another smile coming to his face. This time, it's more devious. Wicked.
"It's not dirty yet. You'll see."
"What abou-"
A finger comes to Pseudo's lips to hush, and Pink obeys the command. His lips are sealed until he is given permission to speak again.
"Let's get going."
Pseudo leads the puppet up to the cashiers. The man he chose is nowhere in sight, but Pink isn't worried. If Pseudo wants something, he gets it. He's very good at that. Good at everything.
Scan after scan, everything is placed in paper bags and eventually carried off to the car. Once more, the puppet is buckled in, secured, and the journey home begins. Except...
The woods never come. They're in a town, leading to something near suburban. Pink has so many questions, too many questions, bug eyes bug eyes bug eyes out the window. He turns to Pseudo, suppressing a whimper in his pathetic state of silence.
The puppet frowns. His mind begins to race, and nervous fingers come to pull at pink hair.
"Hey, come now, hands in your lap."
The puppet places his hands in his lap, and pulls at pant legs instead.
"We're getting garden supplies, Pink. Remember who you picked out?"
The toy nods, yes, yes, he remembers. He did a good job, he remembers.
"Good. That's all we need now, okay? You're alright."
Pink sighs, closing his eyes. He wants to hold Pseudo's hand, wants to feel the warm embrace of his most precious friend in the world. Instead, he keeps his mouth closed, his hands in his lap, his mind from wandering. You're alright. You're alright.
The car ride continues. A silver minivan stays within view the entire time, until eventually pulling up to a small house in a small neighborhood. It's quiet here.
A few houses down the road, Pink watches ahead as the man he chose hops out of the van. When the trunk opens, almost the entire back is taken up by a big red wagon. Stuffed inside of that, a stroller.
The puppet scrunches his hands. He feels the faint vibration of pushing one against a sidewalk. The vague stickiness of the cup holders filled with crumbled crackers and sippy cups of juice. In the back of his mind, he hears a little voice, a little laugh, a little girl. He feels the sun against his face. They're at the zoo.
"Can you stay in the car?"
Pink is taken from his trance. He searches around, landing once more in Pseudo's gaze.
The puppet feels as though he could choke. The vibrations in his hands, the sun on his face, the sticky cup holder and little laughter is replaced with a painful kind of numbness. Warmth and light and heaviness fill his mind again, drowning the memory that found it's way to the surface.
Pink's eyes sting with tears. What happened, what did he remember? He doesn't remember, he doesn't remember, what did he remember?
A soft whine escapes the toy, and he leans back against the passenger seat.
"Listen, Pink. Can you stay in the car?"
Shaking hands, shaking breath. He doesn't remember the past, but he can understand the here and now. Pink nods.
"Good. I'll just be a few minutes..."
Sleepy eyes watch his caretaker exit the car. He finds it hard to stay awake, hard to breathe. He whines once more, sick, sick, sick, and shuts his eyes.
. . .
Soft clicks, soft hands. Pseudo runs his thumb over Pink's eyelashes, coaxing him awake.
"There you are, babydoll. Sleep well?"
Seeing his caretaker, the puppet smiles. He has no recollection of the past three and a half hours, save for a few glimpses of the store and a silver van. Or was it red? He remembers something red.
Pink opens his mouth to talk, but Pseudo gives him a warning look. Oh. That's right, he was hushed. The toy holds his breath and nods.
"Good. You needed it... Hop out."
Pink unbuckles himself and follows Pseudo to the backseat, presenting his arms for bags to be placed inside. Once that's taken care of, the trunk is opened.
Oh.
Pink remembers a little more now.
Someone big and strong lays bound and gagged. He struggles, sweat dripping down his forehead. He tries to scream behind... duct tape. But it's wrapped over his mouth, his jaw, around to the back of his head.
Rope keeps his hands and feet still. His skin is raw and red, he must have been fighting for a while. But Pseudo wanted it that way. He doesn't have to tie people up like that.
"Shhhh," Pseudo is gentle. Pink hopes the man is comforted by the simple gesture, but he won't stop squirming and screaming.
"Take the bags to the cellar," Pseudo orders. He doesn't look up from the man when he talks. Something hungry stirs in his eyes. His hands.
"Leave them by the doors."
The puppet lingers. Bug eyes, bug eyes, bug eyes. The poor man in front of him doesn't understand what's happening, but Pink does. Pink knows.
He sends himself off before Pseudo can command again. Once at the cellar, he waits there. He's quiet there. The muffled screaming at the front of the house grows closer, and closer, until a thud makes everything silent.
Bug eyes. Pink stares at the cellar door. Bug eyes. Pseudo drags an unconscious body into his view.
The monster watches his puppet. He's lost again, poor thing.
"Still with me?"
Pink doesn't respond.
"Pink."
Click, there he is. Pink looks up at his friend.
"Do you want to keep helping me, dolly?"
. . .
Majority vote decides the next part. Choose wisely!
Maybe Pseudo taking Chase to the store but he isn't fully Pink yet, so he tries to go get help but just kinda stops in his tracks and gets really upset??
I love the fics you've been writing btw :D
thank u so much!!
tws: implied stockholm syndrome, captivity, panic attack, general distress
. . .
A tight grip on his hand keeps him close. Chase isn't allowed to leave Pseudo's sight, not for a moment.
Which is why he's so, so terrified.
Darting through the aisles, Chase is nearly tripping over his own feet. Pure terror keeps his legs moving, but it also threatens his lungs with a tight force. He can't help but reach to his shirt, gripping at his chest with every heaving breath.
He can't quite understand how he slipped away. Pseudo notices everything, doesn't he? He only let go for a second, only a second, before Chase started stepping back. He had to have done that on purpose. This is part of his plan, isn't it?
He's already gone this far.
Chase peeks around the corner of the candy aisle, expecting to see that sugar craving thing picking out a candy for the day. Lucky for him, it's not there.
He continues forward, hands going numb from the panic.
There's too many people around him. He needs to get help. He needs to get help or he'll never get out of here.
...But, does he really want to?
Pseudo takes good care of him. If he's good, really good, there's no problems. He doesn't have to make decisions or worry about anybody else. He doesn't have to think, everything is taken care of. Pre- planned. Decided.
Slower steps, tighter grip on his shirt.
"No, nono no," he whispers, bringing his hands to his face. He needs to get out. He needs to. Doesn't he? That's why he left.
He can't breathe. He can't see. It's too loud, it's too bright, there's too many people and not enough space. He can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe!!
Chase slinks into another aisle, shoving himself into the corner. It's dusty, and cold, but nobody's around.
Shaking hands come back to his face. He takes shelter in the darkness behind his eyes, sobbing as quiet as he can. It hurts to move, it hurts to think, it hurts to breathe, he wants Pseudo. Why does he want Pseudo?
thinkin abt puppet pink after he gets home from denmark, hearing words of commands out of context and getting stuck in them. like, for example, "statue." pink hearing the word in someone's conversation and getting stuck as a statue for hours. no one knows the release word, no matter how much they try to coax him to move he can't.
it isn't until he collapses and eventually passes out from exhaustion that he moves. and when he wakes up, he thinks he's disobeyed.
