#*malnourishment

[the-lady-maddy]

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[danskjavlarna]

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[kuro-is-doodlin]

Loop 853

(A sadness spots you, you feel too weak to move)

(You just woke up, but you feel.. a tug... on your stomach)

[good-old-gossip]

Israeli Terrorists are STARVING BABIES in GAZA!!!!

[sunnynwanda]

Could you do a story where a guard of a Supermax prison befriends a supervillain, because he treats him like a genuine human being instead of an animal; and later, all the power-dampeners suddenly fail; and all these villains just revolt against the guards; but supervillain makes sure he’s safe since he was always kind to him?

I understand if you don’t wanna write this!! 💜

Soulitary

It was silent. Excruciatingly so. Supervillain could hear his own heartbeat, the rustling of the fabric over his chest that accompanied every exhale, the strained motion of his eye ticking. He could almost feel the darkness surrounding him.

At first, it was painful. Supervillain was so reliant on his powers that getting deprived of them physically hurt him. His limbs were too heavy, his chest too stiff, and his body too weak. He couldn't move for a fortnight and barely ate anything until he had lost enough weight to be able to lift his body off the floor. Movement, as limited as it was in his cage, seemed to keep him sane. 

The pain subsided, drifting into the back of his mind over time. 

He adapted to the constant darkness of his cell, too. The initial nightmares of horrible creatures lurking in the dark no longer occupied his shattered dreams. There were no monsters with long claws and cold, slimy fingers reaching for his neck, looking to choke the last breath out of him. No, there were no monsters in his cage. The monsters were outside. Patrolling the corridors, mocking the beasts they were ordered to guard, spitting at them and laughing like hyenas, beating up anyone who dared to answer. Supervillain learned to tune out their voices and ignore their sneering remarks. 

But human nature is a terrifying thing. Supervillain got used to the weakness weighing him down. It was not as difficult to lift his head or hold a spoon to eat whatever animal food he was getting fed anymore. He came to terms with the absence of sunlight as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness. He even went so far as to condition himself to tolerate inhumane treatment.

The only thing he could not adjust to was the isolation. Solitary confinement. The actual worst they could have done to Supervillain, who adored the confused commotion of his big family. He thrived in chaotic environments, where people talked over each other, laughed out loud and always had something to add to the conversation. 

Conversation. That was what Supervillain was bereaved of. And he felt it - the need, the yearning of human connection. As little as a hello would be enough. Just a word that was truly uttered – not conjured by his frenzied consciousness. 

When he first hears the gentle knock on his door, he doesn't believe his ears. The guards never ask for permission, they barge right in, not dignifying the captives with boundaries. Animals deserve no respect. Thus, Supervillain waits, allowing his eyelids to drop again. He doesn't know why he bothers to open them in the first place when it's pitch black around him, regardless. 

The knock comes again, this time louder. Then he hears a hushed voice. "I'm coming in." 

When no reply follows, the Guard (Supervillain assumes it must be a new one) turns the key, pushing the door halfway open and entering the cell. 

"God, why is it so dark? I can't even see where I'm stepping... Ouch!" He springs back upon stepping on Supervillain's foot and crouches down to place the bowl of food on the floor. "I'm so sorry, I couldn't see."

With his hands now free, the Guard reaches for the flashlight on his belt and turns it on. Supervillain has to cover his eyes - he did not remember light hurting this much - squinting despite his hand obstructing it. It takes him a few moments to adjust, then he wipes the tears off and focuses his gaze on the Guard in front of him. Too young for this miserable place, he thinks to himself while his captor studies him. It's only when their eyes lock, that the Guard comes to his senses, apologising profusely.

"I am so sorry! I did not see you there. I mean, it's hard to see anything in such darkness, but still. My bad." Supervillain is too stunned to react for a number of reasons. Since when did the guards apologise? It was part of the job to inflict suffering on their subjects. Did this one not complete the training? Or was this a trap? Was he acting deft to catch Supervillain off-guard and wound him unexpectedly? 

The Guard, however, keeps rambling. "I thought you would be asleep when you did not answer. It's not an excuse though. I should have checked. That's part of my job, is it not? Ah, you probably wouldn't know." He runs a hand over his face, clearly distressed. Supervillain is amused and too shocked to react. That's the most talking he has heard in months, and a part of him desperately demands to answer. The Guard rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Anyways, here's your food. I don't exactly know what that is, but you're so skinny, you should eat it."

Supervillain's mind is screaming at him, begging his mouth to talk, to say something – anything. God, move! Talk, god damn you, a word, any word!

But before he can squeeze out said word, the Guard waves him goodbye and locks the door, leaving him alone. 

He never touches the food, too consumed by the incident to think about anything other than the ray of light – literally and figuratively –that walked into the solitude of his cage. He spends the next several hours in feverish dreams bordering reality until the morning arrives, poisoning him with a blood-curdling idea that the Guard was nothing but a figment of his own imagination – a chimaera created by his delusional mind. Yet, despite his best efforts to convince himself it was an illusion, his memory opposes, bringing forth every detail of the interaction – albeit one-sided – that he managed to engrave in his brain. 

Supervillain is still deep in deliberation when a knock on the door attracts his attention. He freezes, breath hitching in his throat as he waits with desperation for it to come again. It does not. Instead, the key turns in the lock, and the door screeches open. 

"I'm going to turn the light on, if you don't mind," the Guard warns. Supervillain is dumb enough to nod in the dark. "Here we go." 

He flicks the switch outside the cell door; the bulbs buzz worriedly, and light floods the ascetic room. Supervillain looks around, seeing his dungeon for the first time. He notices his blanket in the corner and the untouched bowl from yesterday. 

"Hey, you didn't eat at all! Is everything alright?" The Guard chimes into his thoughts. His voice is laced with concern that feels foreign in this place. When Supervillain shakes his head, the Guard smiles – the room, somehow, becomes brighter. "It's bad, isn't it?" 

Supervillain nods, and the Guard chuckles, placing a new hot bowl in front of him. He looks up in surprise and is met with a shrug. "Figured it might taste better hot." 

The expectant gaze of the Guard is the only reason he reaches for the bowl. It's as shitty as before, but it warms his insides. He hums in appreciation, taking another spoonful. The Guard smiles again, now more cheerful. "Should I leave the lights on? Or do you like it dark?"

Supervillain finally finds his voice. "Light. Thank you." 

The Guard nods before exiting, and Supervillain curses himself for not saying more. He should have talked, for god's sake. This is the first person to treat him like a human being for the past eight months, and all he could muster were three words. 

He feels pathetic. This wasn't him, not really. The true Supervillain was voluble, articulate with his words and emotions and loud. Very, very loud. He loved the attention it earned him, loved being on stage. Performance was part of his persona, his public image of a supervillain. The presentation was what gained him the fame. The same fame that led him here. Alas, he sighs, leaning his back on the wall. 

At least he has light now. 

***

It's been almost four months since Supervillain's confinement changed - the granted light and occasional conversation made his exile from society feel less strenuous. His Guard would come in once a day, as per the rules. Aside from that, he gained a habit of sitting outside his door after the evening rounds, telling Supervillain about his day or the news. His cheerful voice would catch Supervillain off-guard at first, but he grew accustomed to it, as well as to the daily dose of prison gossip. The people in the city were dejected - mass arrests that were supposed to bring peace to the streets had a reverse effect. Supervillain couldn't help the foul smile this knowledge brought to his face. He did not comment. 

After two weeks of talking to the wall, the Guard was ready to give up. He had promised himself he would stop trying after the fourteenth night, which ended up being the night Supervillain replied. It was a short comment on the newly installed power dampeners that were to substitute the old ones. Supervillain pointed out that the old ones were more than efficient, leaving him drained of strength and energy. The Guard then asked if that was the reason he was so skinny, and so the conversation flowed. Supervillain told him about the thorny months of his captivity, how it took him countless days and nights to submit to the unfamiliar weakness. 

During one of the many conversations that followed, they talked about his past, the origin of his unnatural power and the reasons for his incarceration. Supervillain never denied being dangerous – he embraced it gladly, though he never used his power against innocent civilians. Sure, he had committed his fair share of crimes, as regarded by the authorities, irrespective of his cause. But there were worse things he could do.

The Guard told him of his past dreams and aspirations, all of which were crushed when he lost his parents and had to step up to provide for his younger siblings. He came from a household where no one got left behind, and Supervillain finally understood where his kindness stemmed from. 

One day, when the Guard came from the last round, Supervillain was the first to speak. They sat on the opposite sides of the door, back to back and separated by thick metal, yet connected stronger than before. 

"So, will you be leaving soon?" Supervillain fails to mask the melancholy in his voice. So much for being supportive!

The Guard pauses for a long moment before shaking his head no. Supervillain can't see him, but the reply is clear as day. "Your brother's graduating next month, is he not? You can stop working here and search for a new job. More suitable for you."

"I can't," his voice comes softer than a rustle. He presses a clammy hand to his forehead to calm the burn beneath his skin. 

"Why?" In all honesty, Supervillain does not want him to answer. He doesn't want him to go either, but keeping him here feels blasphemous. Despite the cell draining his life force and loneliness ravaging what's left, Supervillain would rather be forlorn again than allow his friend to waste his youth here.

"I can't, Supervillain," the Guard repeats, even lower now, not trusting his voice to speak louder.

Supervillain curses under his breath. "Why not?

Do not say what I think you're going to say, they plead. I don't think I have the strength to alienate you or push you away to make you go. 

"Because I won't leave you here alone." The Guard gets up, walking away to avoid being lectured on the stupidity of his reason. He lacks the nerve to be any bolder. 

He doesn't return until later at night. Supervillain is stiff against the door when he hears approaching footsteps and shuffling. Then comes the soft voice. "I'm sorry."

Supervillain sighs, rubbing his eyebrows to ease the tension. "You did nothing wrong." The claim is met with silence, so he adds. "Apart from getting attached to the wrong person, that is."

The Guard chuckles, shaking his head and bringing his knees to his chest. "Are you the wrong person?"

"I'm a convicted criminal." A fact he had to remind himself daily when he first got here. You are a convicted criminal, and the guards will treat you as such. Except the treatment was far worse than that, until his new friend showed up.

"Doesn't mean you're evil," the Guard chimes into his thoughts, dragging him back to the present. 

"You don't know me," he notes, though it's not entirely true. 

The Guard smiles, leaning forward and placing his chin on his knees to rest his neck as he mumbles. "I think I know more than anyone else."

***

The wailing of the sirens forces Supervillain awake in the most unsettling way. The alarm lights under the ceiling flicker red, alerting him further. He springs to his feet with a speed he hasn't had in a long time and then stops in his tracks because it strikes him. The overwhelming force that hits him right in the middle of his chest, spreading all over his body, obstructing his lungs with suffocating constrictions, rushing through his veins and reaching the tips of his fingers and toes to erupt in sparkles of sheer unrestrained raging power. It's surreal. All-consuming. Galvanising. He revels in the agitation that washes over him, wave after wave. His senses are overstimulated and raw. 

He feels lightheaded as he attempts to focus his eyes on his prickling fingers. It takes him a moment to identify the cacophony of sounds outside. 

And then the realisation dawns on him. 

The power dampeners are off. 

In a prison with the worst criminals of the damn century. He closes his eyes to tune out the noise and think, but his mind is too frantic to concentrate. The moment the inmates realise their powers are back, all hell will break loose. Supervillain knows they will revolt. He would, too – after spending months being treated worse than an animal.

The Guard. The image flashes through his thoughts so fast it almost burns him. With renewed anxiety, he bangs on the door. There's no response, and the ideas running through his head coat his stomach with dread, hot and muggy. He knows it's about to get dirty, and, in all honesty, those guards deserve it. But not his Guard. Not him. Anyone but him. 

He presses his palms against the door, channelling all his fears and worries into heating the metal till it melts under his fingers. It drips down to his feet, forming a pool. When the lock is soft enough, he whips the door open, but as he is about to step outside, someone crushes into his chest, pushing him back and shutting the door behind them. 

He lets out a sigh of relief as the Guard presses his back to the door, holding it closed. 

"That's not going to work." 

"Please don't go out there!" 

They speak at the same time, and Supervillain can't help the smirk that fights its way to his face. "Scared I'll harm your friends?"

"I'm scared they'll hurt you." His eyes are enormous as he stares up at Supervillain, who looks much healthier now. He looks alive. His skin is no longer grey, his lips and cheeks are coloured in pink hues, and even his eyes sparkle with new vigour. He takes hold of Guard's shoulders, pinning him further against the door to stabilise his shaking form. 

"Stay here. Be quiet." The Guard shakes his head no, grasping Supervillain’s arms with an unspoken plea. Supervillain softens. "It's okay. I will keep you safe. I promise." 

With that, he moves the Guard to the side and exits the cell, sitting down against the door – roles reversed from hours before. From time to time, the Guard hears people come and run the moment they spot Supervillain's menacing form.

It's only four hours later that the military arrives, clearing the area and arresting the surviving prisoners. As they bring order to the facility, checking floor after floor Supervillain opens the door. He is met by a tear-stained face and hard stare of his Guard. Supervillain huffs out a laugh and draws him into an embrace before pushing him out the door.

"Try not to forget me when you leave," he jokes half-heartedly, but the Guard shakes his head with surprising firmness. 

"I will get you out of here no matter what it costs me."

He never steps foot in the prison again but manages to keep his oath three months later. When Supervillain exits the gates with release papers in hand, he does not expect to be met by a mixed bunch of his siblings and strangers who all seem to be acquainted. It's moments later that he notices another familiar face he failed to spot for lack of the usual uniform. He shakes his head with a cheeky smile and rushes towards the kindest people in his life. 

Supervillain never has to endure silence or solitude again. 

Alright, there's a lot to unpack here :) First of all, thank you for the wonderful request. It turned out longer than expected, as well as took me longer to finish, but then again, the idea deserved to be worked on. I enjoyed crafting this story immensly. So thanks for that as well. I know other writers have been doing the request too but avoided reading their stories to keep mine clear of influences.

I hope you enjoy this despite the delay. Once again, thank you! xo Sunny

Masterlist

[odinsblog]

Little baby Muhammad Fattouh didn’t starve to death on his own, Gaza is intentionally being starved. By Israel. Israel is using famine and starvation as weapons of war. There is no justifying this. 🤍🕊️

[gfbrokenlocksau]

Ford has not exactly been taking care of himself recently. Being preoccupied with a dream demon tends to do that to you, huh?

more

[news4dzhozhar]

Michael Fakhri, the UN's Special Rapporteur on the Right to Food, calls out the nations of the world at the UN Human Rights Council, even those allegedly supporting Palestine, for doing nothing to stop the starvation of Gaza.

[vivicarnivorous]

goretober day 1 - cannibalism

this is my beloved ambrosios de lécaille from my vampire cabaret ocverse with @shadycreatures and @freakyjakob !!!

[britishassistant]

Not me combining my dunmeshi and bg3 hyperfixations to headcanon that the reason Gale has abs is because he’s in a state of constant malnourishment.

It’s like an actor or a bodybuilder. If you deprive the body of enough water, enough fat through fasting, even with little exercise you can have a physique that’s fit for a magazine cover, or doing an action scene in a movie. But it’s not sustainable for long periods of time. It means you’re drained. Tired. Unable to perform physically or mentally at your best.

And the orb is constantly draining Gale. It’s eaten away at his magic to the point where he’s gone from an archmage back to level one at the start of the game.

And maybe some of that is the tadpole, but we see the orb physically affecting him in game, when he’s afflicted with arcane hunger. He’s hunched over, struggling for breath against the pangs wracking his body, snappy, cranky, desperate. The magical items he’s fed give him relief, but less and less each time, like someone starving slowly receiving the same small snack and expecting it to feel as filling as when they were mostly full.

Who’s to say that, once Gale’s magic is drained, the orb doesn’t begin eating away at other forms of energy his body produces? Siphoning away the nutrients he gets from eating and drinking, gradually eating into stored fat and water weight. Until the desperate grasp for sustenance, for nutrients, for energy, results in a supernova exceeding the limits of the human body.

The brightest stars burn out fastest, after all.

[whumpshaped]

Also, way too hungry for the bingo pls 🥺

masterlist bingo card

tw vampire whumper, vampire whumpee, multiple whumpees, semi-starvation, malnourishment, conditioning, torture mention

Days. Weeks. Helle had no idea when they'd last fed from a human. The thought was quite appetising, given they still had the scent of fresh human blood in their nose from the hunt earlier — the reality, well... less so.

Lady Marie never allowed them to feed on a live human. Aside from that one time on their very first hunt, they'd only ever been granted scraps; small animals and dead humans.

There were no drawbacks, not for her. She would get a moderately strong vampire, able to charm and talk their way into the largest of gatherings to grab the most delectable of humans. But to them, it was torture. Kept on the edge of malnourishment, almost sick, their head filled with cotton and whatever thoughts of food they could conjure.

Dead humans tasted vile, like goddamn acid. It was nothing like the sweet, sweet taste of fresh blood, the memory of which was growing more and more distant with each day. They could almost taste it, whenever they walked past a thrall in the corridors, or captured a new human to bring back. It was so tempting. So goddamn tempting.

They brushed past one such human on their way to the parlour, and they couldn't take it anymore. They grabbed the mindless thing and slammed him against the wall, fangs bared and ready to bite into his neck.

But someone grabbed their hair and yanked them away, eliciting a displeased whimper in response. The thrall barely reacted to any of it, merely resumed his journey to whatever part of the mansion he had business in. "The lady would flay you alive for such an offence," Nikolai said quietly, and Helle went limp in his hold.

"She has so many of them– these thralls," they whined. "Must I live on the blood of pigs and squirrels? When will she allow me to feed again? Actually feed?"

He let go of them and crossed his arms, and Helle felt like they were about to be scolded for being hungry. But as they looked into his eyes, they could see a surprising amount of empathy. "Never," he said softly. "Possibly. I cannot remember my last decent meal. And as far as I am aware, Isabella has given up hope in this matter."

Helle frowned, unable to comprehend such a heavy statement. "What? She cannot simply– that is–"

"It is well within her right as our sire, is what it is. I would advise against holding a grudge. It only makes the lashes sting more. But worry not, you will learn restraint and discipline, as we both already have." He nodded towards the end of the corridor. "Shall we? I assume we have all been summoned."

They nodded in a daze, but then ended up grabbing onto their sired brother's shirt to keep him just a moment longer. "Would the lady actually do that?" they whispered, their quiet voice full of terror. "Would she flay me?"

He glanced back at them, then quickly averted his eyes again. "I have made the very mistake you were about to." He paused, and Helle had a feeling that maybe the torture they had endured so far was in fact not the worst of it. "The lady would do a great many things to ensure we all abide by her rules. Now, let us not waste any more time. Perhaps I am wrong, and she will give us all an opportunity to earn ourselves a splendid dinner tonight."

As if. The words had no hope or reason behind them; they both knew Lady Marie probably just had some guests over and wanted to parade all three of them around for their entertainment. Helle's stomach rumbled loudly, and they placed a gentle hand on it, as though they were trying to calm a feral beast.

They weren't going to spend the rest of eternity so hungry. They were either going to get out of here, or die again trying.

~

taglist: @whumpsday @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night @delicateprincepaper @whumppmuhw @florissimps @nicolepascaline @oliversrarebooks @the-cyrulik @pirefyrelight @there-will-always-be-blood @pigeonwhumps @echo-goes-mmm @whumpycries

[the-lady-maddy]

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[author-chan06]

They’re so malnourished that even when they press themselves close enough to hear each others hearts, they still are not touching stomachs,

Roman thinks of breaking their ribs out of their skin and sowing the imperfect skin together.

[marshmallow-biscuit-blog]

Her name is Embrace (idk trying to be funny but ig that's what I'll call her)

[green-with-envy-phandom-event]

@jamiethebeeart's GORE color of @crunchyplastic's line art!

[healing-through-reflection]

When I was a kid, Halloween was so awesome because I got a stash of food that I could eat whenever.

A frustrating reality of my childhood was that we were food insecure but not because my parents couldn’t afford food, but because they chose to prioritize their own vanity. I didn’t get snacks, even at school, lunch was a slice of bread and cheezwiz, and no breakfast. Dinner was the only meal. Yet my mother had her nails done and her hair dyed at the salon on a monthly basis.

The house was relentlessly under construction, mainly projects that would benefit my parents (bathroom, walk-in closet, other upgrades that were meant to show company that they were sophisticated).

The food budget remained the same, 200$ biweekly for a family of six, and didn’t raise even when we all became teenagers, even when the economy got worse, even through all my father’s fad-diets (expensive health foods that took more than half the budget).

I was hungry all the time. I was underweight. I was exhausted. Yet when I complained, I was told “there is so much food in the house!”. When is ask to show me, I was scolded for “talking back” and told to shut up about it. My siblings and I all complained there was no food, and when there was free food offered at our high school, each of us were not allowed to go and get it. It was for “poor people and we are NOT poor.”

If I dare tried to contradict that statement, I was getting hit, verbally assaulted and then grounded.

So, Halloween was a great day. It was so much fun. The decorations, the costumes, the candy! We would strategically plan our route to get the most candy possible. And for weeks, I’d actually have food to snack on before school and a after school (I was not allowed to bring candy to school). If I could make the candy last until Christmas, then I could save my Christmas candy. Then Valentine’s Day. Then Easter. Then my birthday.

Happy Halloween! 🎃👻