#we stan!!!!

Whumpee has zero independence, (whumper feeds them, bathes them, dresses them, etc).

tws: loss of independence, dehumanization, delirium, hallucinations

i’d like to say this takes place in the puppet!pink au, where pseudo steals chase away for six months instead of henrik :3 i wanted to make more content for this hdnxjsjzjs

. . .

Six months have passed. They’ve just entered a seventh.

Pink stares at the calendar posted on his bedroom wall. It’s somewhere in February, that’s what the page says . But he isn’t sure exactly... did February come first or last? And what day is it, what time is it? When did he get here?

Pseudo sits on the bed. Pink sits on the floor. The doll’s hair is combed neatly away from its face, carefully pulling out every tangle. It drips with water and smells of pretty conditioner, sweet and made for dolls just like him.

“What day is it?” Pink asks, watching the numbers on the calendar shift and change. 1 switches places with 7, and 9 has turned upside down. 5, 6, 1, 8, 6. He huddles into himself as he watches, covered only by shorts and a towel.

“Today is Saturday,” Pseudo replies. “Saturday, 6th of February.”

“Saturday. 6th.”

“Mhmm...”

Pink closes his eyes as the comb’s teeth scratch at his scalp for the last time. A sigh breathes out his nose, relaxing, relaxing, relaxing...

“I probably should have gotten you dressed before I combed your hair,” says Pseudo. “What do you think?”

Pink tilts his head. “What do you think?” he mimics. Pink doesn’t think like that, not with decisions.

A kiss is planted on the top of the doll’s hair, and he melts. Good boy, good boy, it can hear Pseudo say, and Pink mimics that in a whisper.

The calendar dates continue to melt. There are no numbers anymore, just empty squares and the word Yraurbef posted at the top.

“What day is it?” Pink asks.

“Saturday the 6th of February,” Pseudo says again, picking out clothes for his doll. Today, he will dress in a white button down with black overalls and dress shoes, and a black Irish cap. If he gets cold, there is a matching jacket to put on.

“Saturday the 6th,” Pink murmurs, sitting up with hearts eyes as he sees what clothes are picked for him.

. . .

“Don’t,” Chase spits. “Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.”

Pseudo smiles wide, laying the doll’s clothes out on the bed. He points to the calendar on the wall.

“Three months,” he says. “Three months and you’ll adore this part of your day.”

Chase curls his lip. “You’re a fucking creep.”

The monster nods, stepping closer to get him dressed. “You’ll soon adore that, too.”

. . .

When breakfast time comes, Pink sits in the chair closest to the wall. He places his hands in his lap, looks forward, and plasters a small smile on his face. He stays still, silent, smiling soft. Just like a doll.

A plate of pancakes, toast, and bacon is placed in front of him. He doesn’t move from his position until Pseudo raises a bite to his mouth, and gives him a command. “Eat.”

Pink opens his mouth, and Pseudo feeds him. Every morning, every afternoon, and every evening, their routine is the same. It’s structured. It’s comfortable.

When he is allowed to speak again, he thinks, he’ll ask what day it is. He’ll ask what day it is, he’ll look at Pseudo with big eyes and ask if he was good without saying a word. He’ll ask what day it is, he’ll ask what time it is. Oh! He’ll look at Pseudo with big eyes and ask if he was good without saying a word at all. He’ll wonder what they’ll do together today. He’ll ask what day it is. He’ll ask what day it is. He’ll ask what day it is. What time is it?

. . .

Chase’s eyes are fogged and glossy as he sits in his chair. His arms are restrained behind him, head laying back. The ceiling crawls and melts all over the kitchen. Is he being spun or is he just dizzy?

Pseudo brings a bite of food to Chase’s lips. They’re pale, cracking. His eyes are sunken and his ribs show.

“Eat,” Pseudo says softly, and Chase can only look at him.

Pseudo opens his mouth, crooning softly at the doll. Eventually it opens its mouth too, and accepts the food given. With dead eyes, it stares at its captor, hoping to be fed rat poison.

. . .

“What day is it?” Pink asks, sitting pretty and still where Pseudo positioned him in the living room.

“Saturday the 6th of February,” Pseudo says. He holds a camera up, and takes a picture.

“What time is it?”

“Uhh....” Pseudo starts, and the camera clicks again. He supposes it doesn’t matter what time he says, so he doesn’t bother to check. “4:30.”

“4:30.”

Pink’s eyes close during one of the pictures. The clicks of the camera echo in his ears, and the light shining through the windows feels far too bright. He looks to the wall, and watches the texture in the paint twist and turn and dance. The floors move beneath him. He wonders how Henrik is doing.

“What day is it?”

“Saturday...”

Pseudo flips through the pictures, trying to decide which ones to keep and which ones to send back to England.

“What day is it?”

The monster smiles, kissing the picture he’ll send to Stacy. To Henrik. To the kids Pink barely remembers. The kids Chase broke for.

“Hack said I was fine,” Sweetie protested, and Angel snorted.

“I’ll be the judge of that. You’re stranded on a temperate planet with no bacta and no bandages. You have one medical scanner, and your sergeant has an open wound. What do you do?”

Sweetie shut their eyes, running through their options.

“Temperate? So we should expect dropping temperatures,” they said.

“You don’t know what to expect from the weather.”

Cutting up blacks wasn’t going to be great in that situation, but they did have a medical scanner, and GAR issued scanners had survival options.

“Scan the ground,” they decided firmly. “High iron concentrations in clay can make a poultice, which should mitigate bacterial infections, and plastering it should stop the bleeding.”

“Hmm. Good. Your medbay is low on bacta and antibiotics, and you’ve got vode coming in from a skirmish. What do you do?”

“Surface or ship?” Sweetie asked, and Angel hummed.

“Surface.”

“Do I have holonet access?”

“You do.”

“Are we in a high risk area or low risk?”

“Moderate, but it’s a long campaign and you’ve established decent perimeters.”

“Most planets have Human compatible medicinal plants to fight off infections, and the majority are natural to the planet. Send out a scouting party to gather what plants I can find, perform a triage, determine who needs higher concentrations of bacta to get back in the field, and who can have a diluted mixture. Treat the high risk first, then distribute the diluted bacta to the remaining, and if possible retain some high grade bacta in the event of further skirmishes.”

Sweetie didn’t actually mind the impromptu pop quizzes, but there was always that little pressure to please Angel under the surface that wasn’t as evident with Hack, so it could be a little nerve wracking. Angel didn’t seem displeased with their answer though, still tapping away at his datapad and sending off requisitions. He could be hard to read sometimes, but if Sweetie messed up with that answer, he didn’t say anything.

“Good. Next question. The general is stalling on approving funds for medical. What do you do?”

Sweetie paused. These kinds of questions were their least favorite, and always charged. A silence stretched out, and they ignored the itching on the back of their neck as Angel stared at them.

“Sweetie,” Angel said softly, and Sweetie pursed their lips.

“Engineering always has a higher priority on funding, and they generally have extra,” they finally said, carefully as they could. “Rizz approves system fund transfers, and that flimsiwork isn’t seen by… the general. Talk to Iso.”

They’d seen Hack do it. Well, they hadn’t seen Hack do it, but Hack had taken them down to engineering to talk to Iso before. Sweetie hadn’t specifically heard anything, was left at the door to ‘stand watch’, but there were a lot of friendly conversations had between systems, and they always predated funds mysteriously appearing for medical. If Krell asked Sweetie, not that Krell had ever spoken to Sweetie, they hadn’t heard a single thing.

“Mmm. Does that sound underhanded to you, Sweetie?” Angel asked mildly, and Sweetie took as deep a breath as they could manage.

“Nothing in the regs says we can’t, sir,” they replied, and carefully peeked up to see that sly smile hover around the edges of Angel’s lips. It was pretty rare that anyone could pull that specific crooked little smile out of Angel, and a rush tingled down Sweetie’s spine at the sight. They’d answered correctly.

“That’s right. We always follow the regs,” Angel said firmly, and Sweetie smiled quietly to themself.