#prompt: isolation

[wincestwednesdays]

thank you to all of our creators for week one! while you browse their beautiful creations, get ready to begin week two with us 💗

creations for week two are due july 17th.

your prompts for this week are:

isolation— isolated from society? isolated from each other? isolated in an abandoned canadian shack? the choice is yours...

creative solutions— whether in the bedroom or on a hunt, we know sam and dean are regular macgyvers. how will you demonstrate this? we look forward to finding out!

your posts that follow our guidelines will be reblogged throughout wednesday and thursday. if you get your submission in after thursday, we'll reblog it next week. merry brotherfucking (or brotherpining, if that's more your speed).

[pranzill]

for the @wincestwednesdays wincest fest, week two: isolation

Alone, Together - Read On AO3

Summary:

“What is it, Sammy?” He tried to make himself microscopic, closing around the phone like an armadillo and whispering: “Dean, I…I really missed you.” Dean's breath hitched inside the receiver: “Mh. Me too, yeah.” Dean hesitated, like he didn’t know what to say. Could it be that he felt just like Sam?

[serickswrites]

Island in the Sun

Warnings: captivity, restraints, torture

The room was hot and Whumpee sweated profusely. They were shackled to the floor in the center of the room directly beneath the sky light over head. The sun beat down on the window, heating the room to an unbearable temperature.

Whumpee's eyes burned with the sweat that poured down their face and with the unshed tears in their eyes. Whumper had locked them in here days ago and hadn't returned. It was unbearable.

Whumpee had thought that when Whumper kidnapped them they would be beaten and tortured. They didn't think Whumper would abandon them in this locked room.

They knew time had passed because of the passage of the sun across the skylight. They slept, though they weren't sure when. They just knew they had because a tray of food appeared periodically as well as a bucket to relieve themself in. They never saw Whumper bring those in and take those out, so they must have been asleep.

Whumpee was hopeless. Being alone was so much worse than being beaten. Being alone with their thoughts and imaginings was so much worse than having their bones broken. Being abandoned was so much worse than being tortured.

Perhaps this was the special kind of torture Whumper had in mind when they kidnapped Whumpee. Whumpee could only suppose as their loneliness became insurmountable.

[justwhumptypethings]

tw: isolation, dehumanization, captivity, panic attack mention, self harm (not in vivid detail)

isolation punishment in whump.

say whumpee tried to escape, and almost succeeded. Or hurt whumper, or killed someone working for whumper. something whumper would consider serious.

whumpee who gets trapped in basically a functional apartment- self restocking food and a working bathroom but no tv, or books, or board games, or anything made to entertain or keep them busy. there are no windows, and the lights turn on and off by themselves, and the door is heavy, dark, and grey- not to mention, locked. the only reason why their prison resembles a home is so that they would take care of themselves and wouldn’t be allowed to see the people who are giving them food or taking their dishes.

whumpee who starts hurting themselves just for something to do.

they get kept in there for sometime above a month, and when whumper finally comes in to check on them, they are so, so desperate for any kind of human touch.

whumpee who gets down on their knees in front of whumper, begging and pleading for forgiveness while sobbing violently. whumpee who’s just begging for whumper to not leave them alone. they’ll be good, they’ll be exactly whatever whumper wants them to be, just please don’t leave them. maybe whumper sees how desperate whumpee is to not be left alone, and decides based on that to leave them in there for a little while longer.

Or a whumper who likes to portray themselves as kind, holding whumpee in their lap while they cry and talking about how much they missed whumpee and how they hate doing things like this, but if whumpee would just be good, they wouldn’t have to.

whumper who found their breaking point, and every time they’re disobeying from then on, whumper just asks them if they want to go go back in their room, and whumper is instantly going completely silent. whumper smiles and ruffles their hair, saying something demeaning like ‘good pet’.

whumpee who never really gets over it. after recovery, they can’t be left alone at all so that they don’t have debilitating panic attacks. caretaker at a loss, because they love whumpee, but they have other obligations in their life and whumpee can’t come with them to all of them.

maybe caretaker doesn’t notice at first and whumpee doesn’t say anything, so whumpee stays home for a couple days just pulling at their hair or scratching at their skin to stay calm. whumpee who’s confused and so lost, because they don’t know why they’re being punished.

[noxcheshire]

I have done a brief yandere Damian post in the past, it is now time for the next best boy.

Yandere! Tim x Danny

Tim loved watching the sun setting over the skyline of the city buildings. He loved watching the reds, the purples and blues blending until finally the night encased Gotham entirely.

He loved watching the hurried steps of strangers as they maneuvered around packed crowds through worn streets. Or small groups slipping through dirty alleys where clinging shadows whisked them away to disappear into the ever-present smog of Gotham.

He loved pacing across rooftops, quiet feet leading him from ledge to ledge so that he could peer over the edge and see the world from above.

From that point of view he could see everything and anything, the same as he had done when he was younger and chasing a man dressed as a bat and a boy adorned in reds and yellows rushed through the air with gleeful laughter.

Even now as a vigilante, named as Red Robin, the results were the same.

Tim loved people watching.

And Tim loved watching Danny the most.

Danny was different from Gotham and its people.

He was softer and warmer — a flame that crackled and flickered amongst the coldness and wariness of this city that Tim has known all his life.

Danny with skin as pale as moonlight, whose touch was as soft as a feather kiss because all he had ever known were cruel hands and tight grips. Danny with eyes filled to the brim with stars of beautiful blue that shimmered with delight, because he had never been taught to wrap himself up in masks and placid words just to get by. Danny with a smile that barely pulled up on sharp fangs because Danny always felt guilty when people would flinch at the sight of his too animalistic teeth.

Danny, Danny, Danny, Danny Danny DannyDannyDannydannydannydanny —

Tim loved watching Danny as much as he loved Danny himself.

The boy whose heart beat unsteadily, and whose heart ceased functioning when black hair turned white.

This is who he loved.

And Tim hated nothing more than when the things he loved were hurt.

Danny didn’t understand.

He was different.

He was soft.

He was damaged.

He didn’t understand the harm that came with a heart that still pumped blood in sluggish and tired bursts. He didn’t understand the harm that came when his heart fell abruptly still, cold and empty as blue eyes turned green and black hair turned white.

He did not understand the harm that came with pale skin bruised by larger hands, both young and old.

Danny didn’t understand how much harm truly came upon him from the threats within this world. Threats that not only existed in his rogues, but by ordinary, simple humans.

The harm that can exist from fellow students, from neighbors, from the GIW, and his fucking p a r e —

Danny didn’t understand.

He was different.

He was soft.

Even when physical abuse and emotional abuse littered across Danny’s flesh and sensitive ears like poison on open wounds. Even when he became Phantom, a lost soul on the brink between living and dead, who tried so hard to protect.

Even for people who didn’t deserve it.

Tim had never known someone as stubborn as Danny.

But Tim loved that about him too.

Tim loved the sheer determination to be good. To be kind… .

It was heroic. It was Danny.

And just as Tim had done, once upon a time when dogging the steps of Batman whose mourning bled into violence, Tim did what he had to.

He did what he had to.

[smile-files]

NO ONE ELSE CAN HELP YOU

NO ONE ELSE CAN HELP YOU

(objectober 2024 day 20: dream)

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumpee had been kept in isolation for all of their stay with the whumper, only seeing the whumper deliver them food and water without saying a word. The whumpee knew that they were desperate for someone to talk to them, desperate to see another face- yet as soon as they were free, they isolated themselves. The whumpee would stay in their room, ignoring anyone that tried to talk to them, and barely even paced around the little room they had.

[the-wandering-mage]

I've seen a lot of Batfam meets the Justice League fics where Batman has hidden his family. I'd really like a Batfam meets the Justice League fic where he doesn't try to hide his family no. The Batman who loves scaring people, popping out of shadows, disappearing into them, and overall just fucking with people, the head of the chaotic Batfam, he knowing that the other heros don't know a lot of what goes on in Gotham so he just pretends like they know. He tells them it's Oracle's system that runs watchtower and he make a bunch of vague references to the other bats knowing they are going to take it a different way. He doesn't try to hide his relationship with the other bats when his kids and their teams run into the Justice League. He just sits back and watches the chaos as the leaguers try to make their perception of The Batman fit with what they are seeing.

And his kids and their teams? Well they should have believed them when they said Batman was they're dad. It's not their fault they thought they were joking. Even Alfred is in on it making calls to watchtower and Titan's tower about being home in time for dinner and forgetting their lunches at home. Alfred is happy how this is bringing them together and that Bruce is making friends.

Meanwhile the Hero community is scared shitless about Batman's retired dad that doesn't have a no kill rule. They've never met him in person but the overall respect of the Batfam has towards Agent A as well as the fact he raised Batman makes them never want to meet him or for him to feel a need to come out of retirement.

***

"oh Batman isn't the head of the Batfamily"

"what?"

"Agent A is"

***

"who's scarier than Batman?", one of the leaguers asks rhetorically

Batfam member who pops up behind them from the shadows, "Agent A, he doesn't have a no kill rule"

"who's Agent A?"

"The man who raised Batman"

The leaguer who once referred to him as that old guy that answers the batcave phone: 😨

[whumpster-dumpster]

Thinking about magic or mind/emotional control that brings out all the whumpee's worst qualities, leading them to drive away all their loved ones so they won't have anyone there for them in the vulnerable aftermath when they snap out of it and need them most 😊

[castillon02]

“Make them clean their own guns,” Nguyen said, leaning her considerable bulk over Q’s desk. She was just starting her shift. “Or at least wear gloves.” 

Q kept plunging a bore brush soaked with cleaning fluid into the barrel of 007’s Walther PPK. His eyes burned with fatigue. “I’ll take it under advisement.” 

When he finished, he left with gun oil on his fingers, fingers that had traced over the gun’s every crevice, every curve and angle, every metal and electric anatomical fold. 

—

“Why not tell us to clean our own guns?” 006 asked. 

“I'm a control freak,” Q said. “Which is also why I know that yours is in the middle of the Atlantic and not in need of cleaning at all.” 

This was a lie. 006 had reported the gun lost at sea but had actually smuggled it back into his own flat, where it was currently residing in what Q suspected was his bedroom and knew for certain was the room that also had a backup earwig that Q had personally assembled, a Ka-Bar that Q had archaically sharpened on a whetstone, and one of the decoy keychains and keys (Alaska) that Q kept on his desk so that agents had something harmless to swipe. Probably there were other things that 006 also had in his nest, but they would be things that Q hadn’t touched and could only theorize about. 

Q was bad at lying. 

006 visibly recognized this, realized that Q was lying in his favor, and couldn’t stop his eyes from widening. “Right,” he said. 

Q smiled. Fixed him with a specific knowing look. You don’t ask, I don’t ask. “If it hadn’t sunk into the fathoms below, I would recommend a new hammer spring. Sometimes these things get a bit fussy when you use a gun as a bludgeon. That’s part of why I do in-person maintenance.” 

Part of the reason; not the whole reason. 

006 muttered a Russian curse. “Thank you, Q.” 

“Happy to help.” 

---

001 brought his guns back clean, but with a new part in them each time; a replacement firing pin, hammer, ejector rod, bullets. 

Q always asked about the replacement. He did it before disassembling the gun, like a magic trick.

001 always grinned like a mischievous schoolboy. “I’ll get you next time,” he would say, wagging a finger at him. Perhaps you’re more fallible than you believe. 

“It’s good that you’re optimistic,” Q would reply loftily. No mistakes. I see your gun. I see your tricks. I see you. 

—

004 never cleaned her gun and always brought it back. Hers was a semi-automatic of Theseus, parts replaced naturally when there was wear and tear. 

“Same as always?” she asked when she picked up her kit. 

“Same as always,” Q confirmed. 

—

When Q was a child, he asked, “Mum, why do you always shout about your car keys in the morning? And why does Peter never know where his pencils are?” 

She frowned into the mirror and finished applying her lipstick. “Sometimes people lose things, dear.” 

“How?” Q asked, boggled. 

She looked at him with squinched eyes; that meant she was thinking hard. “Well,” she said slowly, “we forget where we put them, or someone puts them somewhere we don’t expect.” 

Q squinched his own eyes too. What could she be thinking so hard about?  

Mum smiled. “Tell you what, we’ll see if I can give you a demonstration after school, all right?”  

Mum didn’t turn on the telly right away after dinner like she usually did. Instead, she sat down next to him on the sofa. “Sweetheart, you know how you asked about when I lose my keys? Does that ever happen to you?” She was trying to be casual about it, but if it were really unimportant then she would have asked during a commercial. 

“One time I pretended it did,” he told her, “because I was curious to see what it was like. So one day while you were doing the shopping I put one of my books on top of the telly and stomped around in the other room going ‘Where the hell is my story book?’ in a loud voice like you do with your keys. It was a little fun, but not much.” 

“It’s not fun to lose things. Do you know,” she asked, “where your story book is now?” 

“Yes, of course,” he said. His story book was immense and well-thumbed, so heavy that it made him grunt whenever he had to lift it, but he had already read through all of it at least four times. It had hard edges and corners that were beginning to bend; chocolate fingerprints littered the pages at the beginning because his hands had still been sticky from birthday cake when he first opened it—he can put his fingers on them now and see how much he’s grown. There’s a stain of pomegranate juice at the beginning of the Persephone story from the pomegranate that his mother had bought before they read it together; a special treat, expensive, but “you have to know what a pomegranate is before you read it,” she’d said, “otherwise you’ll wonder why they’re eating the seeds.”    

“And where is it?” his mum asked. She had to know that Q knew, because why wouldn’t he know? 

He answered anyway. She ‘humored’ Q a lot, she sometimes told him, so he could humor her this time. “In the vegetable drawer,” he said. “You came home for lunch and moved it there. But that’s a silly place for things that aren’t vegetables, isn’t it?” 

His mum closed her eyes and sighed, long and deep the way she did every so often when Q asked too many questions that she couldn’t answer. “You’re right,” she said after a moment. “I’m lucky to have a son who knows that. But most people can’t keep track of their things as well as you can, so let’s not talk about it too much and make them envious, all right?” 

That was something he knew how to do. He had already had a few talks about not stirring the other kids up with how smart he was. Plus he could tell from the tightness in her voice, like when she talked to her boss’s boss or Q’s headmaster, that she was nervous. “Sure, Mum,” he said. “I won’t.”   

So he never mentioned it again. 

He also never lost his keys, or his rucksack, or his socks, or anything else he touched and touched often. He might as well try to lose his own foot.     

—

“You know, we can clean our own guns,” 002 said, dropping her pistol onto Q’s desk. “In fact, you’ll find I did.” 

Q smiled. “That will make it much quicker when I do it, then.” 

002 pursed her lips and blew a pink bubble with her gum, which Q Branch had also issued her. “And where do you want this?” She took the sticky wad out of her mouth and held it out to him. “Gonna chew it for me?” 

Q held out a petri dish. “We have better chemical analyzers than my tongue, I’m happy to say. We do want to see about the wear and tear on the product.” He met her eyes. “Reliability is important in our field.”  

002’s performatively petulant glare softened. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and next time you’ll make it into plastique instead of a tracker.” One corner of her mouth quirked up.

The sticks of gum were actually one of Q’s least favorite gadgets; like most gum, it was sensitive to heat, so he couldn’t hold it for long without destroying its structural integrity. Couldn’t sense what he usually sensed. But if it put a smile on 002’s face as well as being useful to her, he’d keep issuing it.   

—

“A gun and a radio,” Q said. He waved his hand at the corner of his desk where he’d perched the usual equipment case. “Earwig will be distributed at your landing site. Unless things go terribly wrong, the local team should be able to support you for this one.” 

Bond took the case. “Anything else?”     

Q looked up; he’d been double-checking Bond’s mission brief and wondering how much structural damage the Managua team could make excuses for. “Cufflinks.” He pulled a small box out of his desk drawer and opened it. Inside lay a pair of cufflinks, copies of ones that Bond already owned and wore frequently. “They have little folding knives in them.” He demonstrated how the outside half could be pulled apart to reach the blade in the middle. 

The corners of Bond’s eyes were all happy wrinkles. “Am I expected to need tiny knives?” 

“No,” Q admitted. “But you brought the Walther back last time and I thought you could use some positive reinforcement. May I?” He removed the old cufflinks and put the new ones on, his fingertips brushing against the warm skin of 007’s wrists as he did. “Good luck in the field, 007,” he said after he closed the last French cuff. “As always, try to bring the equipment back in one piece.”   

“As always,” Bond echoed, his eyes meeting Q’s before he left. 

The cufflinks weren’t just positive reinforcement, of course. They were a connection; this meant that it was even odds that Bond would destroy them. (Paradoxically, Bond had the best equipment survival rate when that equipment self-destructed; he wore the latest exploding watch for three months and four missions before he had to use it.) 

Q didn’t touch the other 00s, who stayed near their equipment, more or less, and who deserved their privacy, deserved not to have their footsteps tracked through the crevices of Q’s brain. In fact, he didn't touch anyone. Not if he could help it.

With Bond, Q made excuses for the tiniest bit of extra assurance, the mental tip-toe of 00 feet sneaking across the globe. 

—

“Make Hutchinson do it,” Nguyen said, back again. “He loves guns; he’d be thrilled to do maintenance on company time.” 

Q met her eyes. “I take personal responsibility for the equipment of our most senior agents. They deserve that level of consistency.” He changed out the cleaning swatch he was using. 

“How consistent will you be if you burn out because you never leave this place? Guns, radios, earpieces--you can delegate. Our work is important, but...” 

“I’m almost done,” Q said, implacable. 

Nguyen sighed. “Sleep well, Quartermaster.” She showed herself out.             

Q dried, oiled, and reassembled the gun. He would make sure to catch up with Doctor Who and a few blockbusters so he could convince Nguyen that he sometimes made an effort to think about things that weren’t work or work-related. They could collaborate on blueprints for a sonic screwdriver. It would be fine. 

He would even give the same advice if he were in her position. She couldn’t know that Hutchinson doing as simple a thing as cleaning a Double-Oh’s gun until it shone would be detrimental to the delicate safety net that Q had been building since he had arrived at Six.  

Q touched everything his agents went out with, enough that he could still sense 007's old Walther in Macau, 001's discarded ejector rod in Tunis, 004's stack of worn-out gun parts secreted in a tea tin hidden behind a book on his shelf because he liked the thrum of them all together like that, and there was always the risk, at work, that they'd be disposed of.

He never lost things that were truly his. Guns, radios, earwigs, cufflinks.

He hadn’t lost an agent yet either.

[jordanstrophe]

Whumper cracked open the cell as the light revealed their captive on their knees. Their hands were bound behind their back and a chain bolted to the wall wrapped around their arms and chest.

The chain was nearly off, not enough they could get free but enough they clearly struggled for a long time. 

"Almost got it off, huh?" Whumper smirked, standing over them as whumpee looked up with an exhausted expression.

"No worries. I'll tighten it for next time..."

[martyr-inthedark]

Their friends were gone. At least, that's how Whumpee felt after being rescued, hospitalized, and receiving ongoing treatment. They had spent who-knows-how-long away from home, being used and abused, and now they can barely recognize the people they had clung to in their darkest moments.

The team all had the same features as before, if not a bit aged. That wasn't the problem. Whumpee slowly realized with a sour feeling in their stomach that the problem was that their friends now had a history that did not include Whumpee. The problem was that there were seemingly an unending number of new inside jokes. New music was played on the sound systems. New politics, new clothes. Whumpee was only invited out as an afterthought, often with a caveat that, "they didn't have to if they didn't want to!"

The base was remodeled. The previous Leader had a kid and stepped down. Someone was hired to fulfil Whumpee's job. Caretaker had gotten married. Whumpee hadn't been there to experience their friends' joys and sorrows. Instead, Whumpee got to watch from the outside as people tiptoed around their trauma, sharing pitiful smiles, and giving them photo albums to look through to catch up or menial tasks to do.

Whumpee's friends were gone because they had moved on with their lives. None of them were any where close to needing Whumpee as much as Whumpee needed them.

[abhainnwhump]

Whumpee is locked in an empty dark room with a metronome. It ticks back and forth at a steady pace, 24/7. It never stops. Whumpee has no idea what time it is, how long they've been there, or even when they are fed. They can't even find the source of that metronome, it's like it changes places. Soon enough, they start going mad.

Another metronome prompt:

Whumper uses a metronome to hypnotize Whumpee and make them repeat every cruel, messed up word they say. The ticking never leaves Whumpee's mind.

[mintflavouredwhump]

Thinking about a living weapon whumpee who has only known chaos and fear throughout their life, either from their victims or themselves when faced with their boss(es).

They've been physically, mentally and emotionally isolated from the rest of society and as much as they try to cover it all up with apathy, they can't help but want some comfort, someone to hold them and care for them.

[ikiprian]

The DC Universe is unstable. Danny goes to investigate.

All realities are connected to and accessible from the Infinite Realms Hub through natural portals. These portals dot the surface of random planets within each universe— some are familiar, like alternate versions of Earth, some are wholly unique, like… Well, like nothing else. When Danny’s got downtime, he loves to explore them. Frostbite appreciates his efforts to expand the Infini-Map.

One universe, though, and all its affiliated pluralities has got its ecto-connection on the fritz. (And there are. So many pluralities. The timeline wraps back on itself, it’s duplicated a thousand times over, it keeps crossing over what should be parallels and resets every couple decades or so…) Something is definitely wrong.

Danny goes in as the Infinite Realm’s self-assigned plumber to see what’s what. It’ll be fun!

He pops out the other side screaming, dragging his half-melted body out a Lazarus Pit.

[the-three-whumpeteers]

The whumper would leave the whumpee alone for long periods of time, only providing them the necessities. The whumpee is happy at first, but slowly they realized how much they craved any kind of human interaction, to the point where they try to beg the whumper to stay- they can be tortured, they can be hurt, they don’t care they just need that human contact.