#self-inflicted whump

[cepheusgalaxy]

Self-inflicted whump. Is this anything?

*chef kiss* Oh, my beloved illuminopseudonymous, it certainly is

Self influcted whump, hurting oneself, but why? Are they being forced? Do they have no other choice? Is it for the sake of someone else? Is it for a friend? Is it for someone manipulating them? Is it to prove something? Do their powers only work this way? Would they do it again? Are they afraid? Are they apathetic? Is it— *dramatically and figuratively dies*

[thecareandkeepingofwhumpees]

My entry for @febuwhump day 16: came back wrong. I strayed a bit from the original prompt, but that’s where this idea originated.

Hi, @whumpy-wyrms! You asked to be tagged if I ever wrote anything about Maddox.

Content warnings: medicinal drugs, surgery, description of a corpse, dry heaving, needles, possible body dysmorphia/dysphoria triggers, and myriad scientific inaccuracies.

Maddox viewed himself, his body, as expendable.

So was it really any surprise that he, like the favorite toy of a toddler, dragged around with them everywhere without care or caution, had grown ragged; stained and fraying at the edges? No, of course not. But the fact of the matter was that his scarred and needy body had caused him more problems than it was worth.

As a scientist, it was his job to discover innovative solutions to any problems that may present themselves, and as a mad scientist, those solutions were not limited by a code of ethics or lack of government funding, meaning he could, should, and would find an alternative to his current situation.

As was so often the case, the solution came in the form of a robot. Two robots, actually. One that would become his new body, and one to hold the scalpel, because he couldn’t very well operate on his own spinal cord, now could he? No; no, that wouldn’t work. He would need to be under anesthesia, at the very least, throughout the entire procedure. Thankfully, being self-employed, he could grant himself as much time as he saw fit to build, code, and perfect two robots. It’d taken a few years and many sleepless nights, but the time had finally arrived.

Maddox laid himself down on his operating table, the robot that was soon to be him poised nearby, and slid a needle into the vein in his wrist, connecting it to the IV that would pump the anesthesia into his bloodstream. Arranging himself into the planned position, he allowed the drowsiness seeping into his mind from the drug to carry him into nothingness.

When Maddox regained consciousness, everything was wrong.

No, that- no, nothing was wrong. The procedure had gone perfectly. He should be ecstatic.

Years ago, Maddox had given himself top surgery. It had been, at that point, the most invasive procedure he’d performed on himself. It was messily done, and the scars it had left were long and jagged, but what he had felt when it was finished was relief, like an itch just out of his reach had finally been scratched.

Now, the only thing he felt was something close to horror.

His brain was spamming him with the urge to double over vomiting, an instinct that, as he was no longer in possession of a stomach, was rendered useless. Of course, he must allow for an adjustment period as his brain adapts to its new situation, he reasoned as he sank to the floor, retching. He stayed on his knees until his mechanical breathing fell back into a normal rhythm.

Then he pulled himself back up onto his feet, and glanced at the operating table, which was a bad idea because he was on the operating table. Well, no. Not him-him, but his corpse. An incision, cleaner than Maddox’s human hands could ever have achieved, slit his corpse open from the top of his head to the middle of his back, flaps of skin hanging loose as if he were a frog abandoned in the middle of dissection.

Maddox was surprised that the sight didn’t send him into another round of dry heaving, but perhaps his brain had finally realized the futility of the motion. Instead, he pulled himself back onto the table, and curled up against his corpse. As he now had no reason to worry about going hungry or contracting a disease, there was nothing to prevent him from mourning himself for as long as he needed.

[whumpygifs]

[lemissingmask]

[ID: Art showing several shards of what looks a bit like glass floating around, each with an image of Loki from some points in canon in greyscale with his eyes in colour. Shown include Loki in chains when standing before Odin in The Dark World, Loki just after he finds out that he’s Laufey’s son, Loki just after he arrives on Earth in Avengers, when The Other is threatening him in Avengers, him when grieving Frigga in the dungeons, and from the show after Silvie betrays him and as he turns back before going to become the god of stories, and him in full frost giant form. Smaller shards also show him smiling at Thor in Ragnarok when saying “I’m here”, him when watching Thor and Odin in the first Thor film, and a couple of more traumatic moments in the series, but only really his eye is visible there. Loki’s hands are also visible, one with an Asgardian shackle around it and the other wrapped by a timeline that’s fraying on one side. He’s holding one shard in his hand, cutting into him, and his hands and the edges of some other shards are covered in blood. End ID] -

Whumptober Day 31: Self-inflicted

Bit of a weird one that got carried away, but just, well, Loki being pretty damn broken and perceiving all the moments that broke him as being self-inflicted. Could go down a rabbit hole of ways they were and they weren’t, but this is Loki’s POV art and weird and conceptual sooooo words are irrelevant

[literarystarfish]

Voodoo Doll - part one

Villain has Hero under their voodoo doll-like powers and is nearly ready to enact their plan against Superhero. Until, of course, they are forced to pause that plan by some curious, unforeseen events.

Part one ~1900 words

Part two (Final) here

Kind of dark, not really a hero x villain since there's not really a relationship unless you squint really hard at the end, angst with a happy(-ish?) ending, a few curses, heed warnings in the tags (more to be added in the next part)

This will be two parts

~~

What? No… How?!

Villain gasped as a burning pain in their shoulder ripped through them as if their arm was being twisted the wrong way, feeling as if it would pop from its socket at any moment. They watched in surprise and pain as small red marks appeared that would surely turn to finger-sized bruises along their arm where a heavy, painful pressure was holding just too tightly.

What’s happening? 

The person they have under their voodoo power at the moment is Hero. They were sure it was Hero. It couldn’t have been anyone else.

But Hero was safe, back at home. Villain made sure of it. They had silently followed the defeated do-gooder as Hero had retreated and made their way back to their home, where they lived with Superhero.

With Superhero, for gods’ sake! That was the safest place they could be in this damn city.

How were they getting hurt?!

Villain had wanted to be sure they could keep their voodoo spell connected with the hero so that the next phase of their plan could go smoothly. Which meant Hero had to stay out of trouble and out of any fights or else Villain would have to sever their connection. They can’t have Hero getting hurt and, in doing so, hurting themself in the process as well while their spell over Hero was intact. 

I’ve been careful. They can’t have figured out my power works both ways... The villain’s thoughts ground out just before the pain started to let up in their shoulder. They let out a sigh of relief, though the finger shaped marks and bruising pressure remained.

For all the heroes knew, if someone was under Villain’s voodoo powers, then the masochist that was Villain could hurt themself and cause that damage to the one under their influence. Villain had carefully built up their pain tolerance for years to have this advantage. 

It was a wonderful distraction mid-fight to have their opponent taken off guard by sudden wounds opening up on their skin. The hero would look up in terror and see Villain holding eye contact with them with a sinister smile spread across their face. The villain would slide a knife across their own body and an identical bright red pool would slice itself open on the hero's own body. 

That fear from the heroes was priceless.

The dense patchwork of scars that littered Villain’s body only added to the disconcerting aura that their opponents feared. Each one a clear indicator of what they were willing to do to win in a fight.

Villain had heard whispers of the fear it brought the heroes to see the marks littering their skin. The violent masochist. The scarred villain. They wore them now as a badge of honor.

What kind of person would willingly hurt themself to the point that their body was more scars than skin just to win a fight. They were even missing half a finger for god's sake! Though the story of how Villain had sustained such an injury was lost to the heroes, it didn't stop the rumors spreading about it. Surely it was done to get the drop on some poor, unsuspecting hero who perished in their fight!

Never mind that Villain, themself, had never once killed a hero on purpose unless that hero had forced Villain's hand for their own survival. Though the death toll of heroes who fought them was steadily growing, it was no skin off their back to have less of them crawling around the city. It was less vermin to drain the city of all its worth and infect its citizens with their righteous disease as far as the villain was concerned. 

The people were too blinded by the dazzling brightness of the hero's fools-gold exterior to see how much the heroes leeched from them in the name of doing good. Like a frog in slowly boiling water, they wouldn't know until it was too late.

So Villain took great pride in making sure to annoy and torment any and all heroes who participated in such blatantly fake morality. Unfortunately that left little more than a handful of heroes that they considered truly good.

And if it wasn't for their association with Superhero- head of the "Superhero's Guild" and one of the most corrupt of them all, though they have yet to gather any true proof until they soon pulled off their plan-, Villain would even consider Hero to be one of the more moral heroes.

And until Villain could pull the rug out from that corrupt kingpin, they would have to continue to annoy the heroes and foil any underhanded 'heroism' in any way they can.

The desperation and terror that Villain could watch form in their faces from not being able to control what was happening to themselves as they fought them was an amusing bonus.

And even better were the ones who didn’t know... The ones who had come into the fight blind to what Villain’s power was. They were the fun ones to torment. It was all over for those heroes with one measly touch. That's all it took. One moment of contact with Villain and they were at the mercy of their power. 

The immediate confusion and pain and then the slow realization of what was happening as every attack they landed affected themselves as well. Watching the slow shift in their tactics to see what the limitations of Villain’s power might be as they fought only for them to inevitably come to the same conclusion: they cannot harm Villain without harming themself. 

Villain's power terrified them. Why would you hurt the person if it means you were hurt too? How do you fight an enemy like that?

God, that fear and desperation was addicting. Delicious.

How many of these heroes had never felt what their own powers could do? What they had put each and every villain or criminal through that they had ever fought in the past? Never knowing what kind of harm and pain and fear they could do first hand? Some of them—the moral ones at least, bless their righteous little hearts— were hesitant to use their powers again, full strength or otherwise, after they had felt what they could do for themselves. Some even retired completely. 

But, unfortunately, the voodoo spell goes both ways. If their victim sustains damage, so does Villain. It was easy enough to sever and then reestablish the connection if Villain ever wanted to do any true damage to the hero without receiving it themself as well. Just a quick thought to dispel it and a simple touch to connect it again. This is what made it easy to hide this unfortunate side effect. 

And this was the part of their power that they knew they had to keep silent. A hero with that knowledge? One that was feeling a bit too self-sacrificing? That could be dangerous. Villain would cut off the connection before anyone could truly kill them by taking their own lives, of course, but it was dangerous nonetheless. Too many close calls already. 

But now… Villain suddenly wasn’t too sure if their carefully kept secret was as secret as they’d hoped. Why else would Hero be taking damage in the safety of their own home? 

In a home they share with Superhero no less! If there was anywhere Hero would be safe, it was there. 

Villain was ripped from their thoughts as the breath was knocked out of them and they fell to the floor gasping for air. Villain felt as if they’d just been punched in the gut. Hard. 

Maybe Hero did get into a fight?! Villain hadn’t actually watched them go inside. They couldn’t get close enough to the house to see the door without fear of getting caught by the tight security measures of the heroes’ home. But they saw Hero walking up the path that couldn’t lead anywhere else but that front door. 

Were they ambushed? 

The spell’s connection was silent for a while. If Hero was in a fight, they must have finished it already. Or perhaps Hero’s opponent was monologuing, as so many of the more ridiculous villains in this city seem to do. 

But, if it was over, then Villain’s plan could still work, as long as Hero went home… now! 

Villain willed the Hero to get to the safety of Superhero’s residence, wishing their voodoo powers also influenced the will of the other person and not just their physical being, but knowing it did no such thing.

The next hit Hero must have sustained wasn’t what Villain would expect from a fight with a villain. It was a slap across their face that took them fully off guard. Villain’s hand shot to where they had just felt the phantom hand hit. Their cheek burned at the force, the hand print sized spot was warmed to the touch, their jaw ached. 

Who the fuck is Hero fighting that would hit them like that? What a useless attack! Villain would have found the idea of Hero being slapped shitless by some villain like that hilarious if it send a jolt of confusion through them. Something about this wasn’t right. 

Villain has felt what others have felt when the other was in a fight. This didn't seem to be the same.

What the hell has that damned hero gotten themselves into now?

Then, the moment oxygen was being restricted from their airways by an invisible grip around their neck, Villain dropped the spell, sputtering for breath as they coughed and heaved in shock. 

Why did it feel like Hero wasn’t even putting up a fight?! There was no stinging on their hands or legs from any counter punches or kicks. There had been no straining of their fingernails if Hero were to scratch and claw away from the hand trying to squeeze the life from their throat. 

What was going on? Surely Hero wasn’t that exhausted that they couldn’t fight. 

How annoying it was that Hero had a pension to get themselves into the middle of fights so often. Why do they have to stick their nose into everything? 

Or perhaps they really had figured out Villain’s secret?

This put a damper on Villain’s plans either way. They’d have to make contact with Hero again now, if they want to get away with their next phase. Preferably without their knowledge if their secret was compromised. 

What a hassle.

Villain grumbled to themself, cursing the hero’s inability to take a damn break from their crime fighting for even just a few hours. Surely, they would want to rest after their disastrous battle with Villain just a little while ago. Why would they want to go into a fight while still so weak?

Probably a desperate attempt to save their ego, Villain thought with a slight grin. Pathetic. That's why they weren’t putting up a fight as well. That must be it. Hero didn’t have much left to put up. They were trying to save strength until absolutely necessary. Villain had left them weak. Not completely unable to defend themself but definitely hindered.  

Regrettably, Villain’s plan would not work with just any other hero. They needed Hero specifically. After all, they were looking to go after Superhero. And what better way than to get the person closest to them.

So Villain gave Hero two days to recover from their fights and gleefully went out to create enough havoc that they knew Hero would come to ‘stop’ them. 

——————————

Hope you enjoyed part one of my inaugural tumblr posts! Part two up shortly.

[painsandconfusion]

Breathless

Merry Whump of May - Day 1

[“Get back in there” | Ring box | Cliff] (tw: claustrophobia, panic attack, phobia, death threat, failed escape attempt, punishment, self inflicted injury (panic), splinters under nails, manhandling)

[Merry Whump of May Masterpost] [Phobia Whumper Masterpost]

Whumpee’s eyes were burning and blurring over as they gripped at Whumper’s fingers. “N-noonononno please no-”

“Shut up already and get back in there-” Whumper shoved them further into the crate. It had started off as a large shipping crate and now felt like an apple crate, bruising in at their shoulders and knees and ankles as they tried to twist and curl to stash themself tighter into the space. As it closed in on them. Sucked their breath and whisked it away to an unknown darkness that pervaded their mind and dripped cold through their white-hot flesh.

“PLEASE- Pelas e I w-won’t d o it again pl-ease-pplease-!”

Whumper shoved the lid on the box, latching it into place. “Try to pick that lock, you little pest.”

The air in the quickly-heating space stuck at their lungs and slammed in and out of their throat in choppy, uneven bursts. They gasped and shoved and clawed, only distantly aware of the bruises pressing at their bones and the shards of wood wriggling up under their nails. The panic was too thick. Too stifling. 

Forget the apple crate. This felt like a bread box now. A ring box, even. Impossibly small and crushing their bones under its infinitely shrinking horror. 

Pleas and screams kept exploding from them, sucking what little air they had into worthless desperation. “PL-EASE PL LEASE WH HUMPER PLLLEASE- LE T ME OUT O-OPEN TH- SSSTOP-STOP STOP-PLEASE-”

The boards over and around them creaked slightly as Whumper settled their weight onto the crate. Whumpee froze, dreading for a moment the thought of Whumper’s weight cracking through the box and crushing them only to realize that would mean the box was broken and they would be better able to wriggle out or at least get some fresh air inside. They pushed against the spot. 

Whumper mused as they sat there, “I could do anything right now, you know… Couldddddd…..toss you in a lake. Off a cliff. Bury you in the garden..”

Whumpee’s sobs started fresh, thrashing gaining new strength. Their heart twisted and stabbed. They couldn’t breathe- “Nn--onp plp-lease-ep-pleas-”

“We don’t have to do that, though, do we? Because you’re not gonna pick any more locks.”

“Y-ees-y– nn-n-omore-!” Just desperately agreeing to anything that had even the vaguest promise of getting out. Nothing else held their attention as darkness grew and their head weighed more on their aching shoulders.

“Good. I’ll leave you in here tonight to let you really think that over before we try again.”

tagging isn't sparking joy today, i am so sorry-

[practically-an-x-man]

May I humbly request for Barry Allen to be kidnapped? And it would be splendid if thou included something meta/power dampening to do it.

You may indeed! Let's see what I can put together here...

____ An Exercise in Desperation

Word Count: 5.5k Content Warnings: heavy whump, blood and gore, tranquilizer darts, kidnapping, medical whump, self-mutilation, uncertain ending

Crossposted on AO3 ____

Barry tapped away on his computer, feeling restless. He'd been at this for hours, but something must have gone goofy with the lab's servers, because he'd had to reset this upload four times already.

He was starving, and his lower back was killing him from being perched on the same shitty office chair for so long, but he refused to take a break before he finished this. There wasn't any real sense in taking a break now, he thought - this was the last thing he had to do for the day, as soon as he finished the upload he could just lock up and go home.

His computer dinged once again. Signal interrupted. Upload failed. Barry wanted to scream. He should've been out of here by six, then off to grab some Chinese takeout, but the sun had set hours ago and his stomach was rumbling and he still hadn't finished the upload.

Talk about a nightmare.

Barry sighed and reset the upload. Again. Finally he hopped out of his seat and stretched, grimacing at the twinge in his lower back. If this one didn't work, he decided, he'd just bite the bullet and deal with it tomorrow instead.

He probably should have done that hours ago, but... nothing to be done about that now.

Something clattered from the far corner of the lab, and Barry's head swiveled towards the noise. It shouldn't have done any more than startle him, but alarm bells spiked in his head. He had the sudden, unshakable impression that someone else was in the lab with him.

"Hello?" he asked, still trying to peer past the blocky shapes of machines and equipment around him. Even with the constant whir of computer fans and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights around him, the air felt uncomfortably still.

Something else shifted, off to his left. There were two of them. At least.

Time to go. Time to grab his suit and call Cisco, call Iris, call someone so they'd know what was going on before he jumped too far into this, time to grab something to eat so he wouldn't pass out in the middle of a fight.

Something pricked his shoulder, not any more painful than a bee sting. Barry glanced over and found a feathery plume stuck into the sleeve of his hoodie.

He shrugged it aside. Plenty of people had tried that before, and failed. Those darts weren't made for metas, especially not with his metabolism. He'd burn it off in a matter of minutes, with nothing worse than a headache or perhaps a little nausea. Nothing he couldn't push through.

He darted for the door, vaulting over the last of the lab tables in his way. It was too cluttered here to speed away, too many papers strewn across the floor that could take his feet right out from under him, but as soon as he made it to the hall-

Cold fingers snared his ankle and his momentum lurched in a strange direction. He hit the tile floor with a vicious impact and immediately twisted to kick at his adversary - now more panic than strategy, all he needed was to get to the door but he couldn't do that if he couldn't get to his feet.

One of his heels made contact, and with a masculine grunt those grasping fingers retreated. Barry wasted no time, squirming up to his feet like an upturned cockroach and lunging for the door ahead of him.

Something heavy clamped down on his ankle, and the whole world slowed down.

His legs gave out almost immediately, his metabolism no longer keeping the drugs at bay. The lab spun around him in a dizzying array of gray and white. Already he could feel himself dragged under, a thick tide of darkness drawing nearer with every heartbeat that rang through his chest.

He wasn't going to make it to the door. Somehow that thought scared him more than anything else. It had become an emblem of safety in his mind, that getting out to the hall meant securing his escape, and now... he'd lost that safety. It took all his strength just to lift his head off the floor.

Barry caught sight of two figures, blurred and shadowed in the haze of the drugs, as they crouched above him.

Hands gripped his shoulders and lifted his limp body off the hard tile underneath him. The motion made his head spin again, and nausea bubbled up from deep within his chest. Barry let out a weak groan, hardly even realizing he'd done it until he recognized his own voice floating in the air above him. Vague silhouettes floated above him like ghouls.

"I told you," he heard one of them say, though his mind wouldn't or couldn't recognize the voice, "Doesn't take much."

Finally his mind gave out, and Barry Allen sank into the unknown.

____ He was not used to feeling weak. Not like this. From the moment he woke up, Barry found himself weighed-down like he hadn't felt in years- not since the day he was struck by lightning, not since the day he became more than human. His thoughts felt slow. His body felt heavy. Thinking was just as hard as moving, and moving felt like dragging a ten-ton sledge behind every limb.

Normally he bounced back pretty quickly, he thought. Injuries never lasted long, and chemicals like this should have burned off within a few minutes of waking up. Even in his addled state, Barry recognized the problem immediately.

A thick shackle around his ankle gripped his flesh tightly, rubbing a raw red band around his skin with every movement. It was heavy steel, with studded points sticking out like the face of a gear, and Barry could see a faint reddish light glowing from somewhere within. Power dampening. Of course.

One of those thick gear-teeth led to an equally heavy chain, each link nearly as wide around as his wrist. He had maybe eight feet of leeway, he thought, though that was an experiment for later- when he was strong enough to get to his feet instead of helplessly slumping against the concrete wall behind him. The end of the chain sank into a hole in the wall, bolted into something deeper where he couldn't reach.

It took a while for him to sort his thoughts enough to even process this. It took him longer to even consider doing anything about it. For a long time, all he could do was lean against the wall and wait for the world to stop spinning. Barry almost couldn't decide which was worse: the physical sensation of it all, the nausea and heaviness and general wrong feeling bolting him to the floor, or just how long it took before it dissipated enough to let him think.

Maybe speeding around had made him impatient. This was torture from the very first minute.

Nobody entered the room, even in all the time he waited. He couldn't even hear footsteps or voices outside the door, though that meant very little. They could have soundproofed the place. Anyone that could afford a power dampener good enough to slow him down could definitely afford to soundproof a couple rooms. The cell seemed big enough to have held a few more prisoners, and he could even see duplicate chains drilled into the opposite walls, but Barry was alone in the room. At least for now. He couldn't tell if that was a blessing or a curse.

He wasn't sure how long he was left there. Gradually the weakness dissipated - he still felt slow and heavy, but part of that was just the unfamiliarity of being without the Speed Force - and Barry tried to investigate his surroundings a little further. He walked in an arc as far as the chain would allow him, though that led him to nothing more than a slightly different set of dusty floor tiles. He dug his fingernails under the edge of the shackle and tried to pry it off his ankle. He grabbed the base of the chain and tried to tug it out of the wall. It didn't budge.

But his choices became trying or waiting, and waiting felt like giving up. Easier to try and fail than to sit down and accept whatever his captors had planned for him.

Time was difficult, and at one point he must have dozed off - when he woke, he felt a little more clearheaded and reasoned that most of the drugs must have worn off. His back and tailbone ached from being propped up against the wall. The raw skin around his ankle had torn in a few places and had begun to weep clear fluid. Hunger clawed at him from within: his last meal had been hours ago, and that was with the Speed Force accelerating things.

It wasn't unbearable, he thought, but it was certainly no picnic. And he knew it would only get worse from here.

"Mister Allen."

The voice, crispy articulated, made his head snap up so quickly he went a little dizzy. Barry shook it off, forcing his brain to process the first real sight he had of his captor.

The woman stood just past the length of the chain - close enough that, in theory, he could reach her if he stretched, but far enough that she had time to just step back if he tried - in a slate-gray pencil skirt and a lab coat. Her shoes were preppy but a little scuffed, with a slight heel. Her hair was a streaky dishwater blonde, perched on her head in a loose bun. She couldn't have been more than five-foot-three, heels or no.

She looked like a substitute science teacher. She didn't look like the type of woman to have him drugged and chained to the floor, but here he was. Barry wondered if he'd seen her anywhere before.

"Where am I?"

He didn't expect a response. Why would his kidnapper give him a response? But, like most things in his life, he figured it couldn't hurt to try. He was already chained and exhausted- how much could one question really make things any worse?

"You're in an underground laboratory beneath New Brighton. If you listen very closely, you might hear the train. It's not far." she said, "I'm sure if you got a decent look around, you could find your way home easily."

Something about her words rattled him. It was almost worse than not being given a response at all. Refusing to tell him where he was meant she wanted to slow down his escape, or keep him from calling in for backup. But she hadn't even hesitated. Hell- she almost seemed to prod him onward, to encourage him.

So either she wanted him to escape... or she was sure he didn't stand a chance.

"Now, Mister Allen, I'm sure you're wondering why you're here." the woman continued. Barry squinted to read the embroidery on the front of her lab coat: Dr. Beatrice Ralston, PhD. He wondered why she'd leave another detail like that out in the open - if it was her real name to begin with.

He was hardly even thinking about what she said until he caught the glint of metal in her hand.

The knife was a huge serrated beast, the sort of blade he'd imagine sawing through deer bones at the end of a hunting trip, and Ralston crouched to set it on the ground at her feet. It glinted wickedly under the harsh overhead lights, spilling fractured rays onto the floor tiles around it. It was so large and cartoonishly vile that it hardly looked real, more like a sprite from an M-rated video game.

"This is what I like to call an exercise in desperation," she said, calmly clasping her hands in front of her body, "I'm sure you'll figure it out eventually."

And just like that, she turned and walked towards the door. Barry lunged for the knife as soon as she began to move - desperate times, desperate measures - but she was still well out of reach by the time he reached it. He wrapped his fingers around the handle and drew the blade protectively in towards his body, thoughts still whirling in confusion.

"Hey, wait- what kind of game is this?" Barry blurted, stopping the doctor just before she reached the door.

"Escape or die." Ralston said, chillingly composed, "That's the game."

The door swung closed with a firm, definite click.

In the hours that followed, it did not open again.

Barry was a smart enough man not to try anything rash until he had to. First he just sat there and counted to sixty thirty times in his head, then thirty more. He knew that she - and whatever operation she was running, since she was too small to have nabbed him back at the lab - wanted to see him desperate, clawing at the walls like a lab rat, and he refused to give her that.

He knew he'd been wearing a smartwatch when he was back at the lab, and he had his phone in his hoodie pocket. He didn't have those now, and they'd probably been taken off him before he left the lab, but there was a chance that tech was still floating around here. And if it was, it could be tracked.

And then there was his suit - his ring was gone, but it could be tracked too, and it was a lot less obvious than his phone or smartwatch. As soon as Cisco realized something was wrong, he'd start looking. Barry figured he could keep his composure until then.

The first hour was met with dead silence. Barry readjusted position and began reciting Monty Python and the Holy Grail inside his head. He didn't give his captors the vindication of even doing that out loud. He didn't want them to know he was bored out of his mind, feeling every second trickle by like droplets from a leaky faucet.

He finished Monty Python. It went by awfully quickly when he could only remember half the scenes. Then he started in on Legally Blonde. It reminded him of Iris, in a way, and maybe that would help.

But he remembered even less of that one than he did of Monty Python, and it only took twenty minutes before he ran out of scenes and the hunger pangs started attacking him even more fiercely.

Rush Hour, then. He loved Rush Hour. Cisco loved Rush Hour, too. Barry even caught himself humming Mariah Carey's Fantasy under his breath as he thought about it. Mood sufficiently boosted... at least, as much as it could be boosted in a place like this.

Then he slept again, for a while. There wasn't much else to do. He woke when his throat got so dry he felt like he was choking, and it took ten minutes to convince his body to summon up enough moisture to ease the feeling. Barry was quickly realizing what his biggest problem would turn out to be, depending on how long this capture persisted.

And he had to pee. He'd been ignoring it for a while, but now it had grown past discomfort and into a sharp, piercing pressure in his gut that he wasn't sure how much longer he could ignore. He wondered what the most dignified option would be for... resolving the issue. There wasn't much dignified about any of this, but he wasn't ready to give it all up just yet.

He figured it out. Then he stood up and stretched for a bit, tried to work a little blood back into his lower extremities. Hunger still scraped away at his internal organs, thirst even more so. Already he could feel himself getting weaker. It worried him.

Barry didn't exactly know his limits without the Speed Force anymore. Sure, he knew the logic of it - three days without water, three weeks without food, et cetera - but individually, personally? He'd learned to balance out his accelerated metabolism and healing for so long now that he didn't know what he could really take without it. Did he have a full three days? One day? Hours?

And he thought about the knife. He thought about the cuff clamped around his ankle - not his neck, not his wrist, his leg. He was beginning to realize what she wanted from him. An exercise in desperation, she'd said. How long until his hunger, his thirst, his will to live, won out over his self-preservation?

Which life mattered more? Barry Allen, or the Flash?

If he waited much longer, he wouldn't have the strength to do it even if he wanted to.

Maybe he could still count on Cisco to track him down. Maybe he could still count on help arriving in time.

Or maybe he couldn't. Maybe it all came down to the knife in his hands. Maybe that was by design. Ralston gave him everything he needed to escape on his own, at least in theory. She told him what to do. She told him exactly where he was. Barry doubted that the door to the room was even locked, or that anyone would try to stop him once he got past the chain.

There were only three obstacles in his path: two thin bones and an impenetrable mental wall.

Okay, Barry thought, Here's the plan. Three more hours. If Cisco's not here by then, well... maybe they can reattach it at the hospital. But you've got to get out of here before you're too weak to move, and you know blood loss is gonna make you even weaker, so you've got to time this right or you'll die here either way.

He counted to sixty thirty times, then thirty more. It passed by too quickly. He almost didn't want to start on the second hour. Starting meant finishing, and finishing meant he'd have to pick up the knife, and picking up the knife meant doing something he could never get back.

He'd have given anything for the Speed Force. He'd have given anything for just a little more time. He'd given up on the thought of escaping this inevitability, and now he only wanted to delay it a little longer.

But if he delayed it he died. The thought loomed over his head like a stormcloud, like a guillotine.

Barry started counting again.

Sixty more sixties. A second hour put behind him.

He took a break. He walked as far as the chain would allow him (don't think about your foot don't think about how this might be the last time you feel the sole of it on the floor don't think about how the last time you'll walk steady will be while you're chained up like a dog don't think about it) and back. He took a few deep breaths. He tried to ignore the dryness of his throat and the cramping agony of his stomach.

He sat back down. He tried to stretch each second out as long as he could.

He slowed to a crawl, but he could not stop.

Barry's eyes wouldn't leave the door as he began counting out the seconds for his third and final hour. This time he found himself mouthing the numbers. His throat was too dry to even find his voice, but he needed something physical to tether him. He couldn't press forward if he kept it all in his head.

Just a twitch. Just a jiggle of the knob, or the sound of footsteps further down the hall, or an alarm with flashing lights, and he'd call it all off. Any sign that his friends had tracked him down, any sign that they'd come to rescue him, and he wouldn't have to go through with this.

Thirty repetitions, and the door still didn't budge. Barry's heart was pounding in his chest, stealing the breath from his lungs. He could feel the adrenaline spiking to life within him, exacerbating the dryness of his throat and the trembling in his limbs. He tried to purge it from his mind.

Thirty more repetitions until he got out of here. That was how he had to think about it. Thirty more minutes until he lost the dampener and got his powers back, thirty more minutes until he found his way home, thirty more minutes until he got food and water and safety.

Thirty more minutes until...

No. He couldn't think about it like that. Or he'd never go through with it.

Thirty trickled into twenty, and twenty trickled into ten, and before he knew it Barry had the knife in his hand and was feeling the cool polymer handle warm under his body heat.

Ten became five.

Five became three.

Three became one.

Fifty-eight... fifty-nine... c'mon, Cisco, open the door... sixty.

That was time. Maybe he could last a little longer, he thought. Maybe three hours had been sparing, and he'd be mutilating himself for no reason. Maybe Cisco and Iris were just beyond the door, bursting their way in, and it would just take a few more minutes of waiting.

But if he delayed it once, he'd just keep pushing it back. Maybe three hours was some arbitrary number, maybe he could last five or six or ten or twenty more before he fell too weak to move, but if he let himself back out now he'd never talk himself back into it. He'd keep sitting and counting and waiting around until his tongue shriveled from dehydration and his body collapsed from exhaustion.

He had to do this now or he'd die here.

Barry stripped off his hoodie and cut off one of the sleeves. He tied it tight around his leg, just under the knee, and pulled until his foot prickled with pins and needles. Good. Maybe that would dull the pain. He stuffed the other sleeve in his mouth and bit down hard.

One good, clean cut. The cleaner he made it, the more likely they could reattach it at the hospital. Or if not that, the more likely he could be fit for a decent prosthetic. The more likely he could run again. This deer-butcher blade was far from precise, but he'd have to do his best. He couldn't imagine not running again.

The operation was called hobbling, Paul.

Lawrence! No! Oh my God, what are you doing?!

Okay, Aron, here we go. You're in it now.

Suddenly his penchant for movies didn't seem quite so amusing. He knew how this story ended. It wasn't pretty.

Barry placed the blade against his skin, just above the top of the shackle. He'd use it as a guide, he thought, for a good straight cut, and he wouldn't cut off one millimeter more than he had to. The knife was so sharp that he saw blood begin to bead up from his skin even before he applied any pressure.

He thought about Iris. He thought about Cisco. They'd help him get through this. He'd only see them again if he did this. He could worry about the future later, but first he needed to make sure he had a future to worry about.

Barry Allen took a deep breath and let it out. Sparks flickered behind his eyes.

He pressed the knife into his flesh.

Pain jolted to life almost instantaneously, and his muscles locked into a rictus. He froze with the knife still lodged in his leg. His brain wouldn't let him continue. There was a lock there, Barry thought, the same reason he couldn't convince himself to bite off his own tongue.

I'm doing this, he told his own mind, If I don't, I die. How's that for your self-preservation instinct?

He pushed the knife in further, and something about that mental block disappeared. He was in it now. He'd already started. Bailing on it now would only cause him more problems.

The first few motions felt like cutting through a lean cut of beef, all sinew. He must've caught a tendon somewhere, because one push and he felt something snap up his calf with a fresh bolt of pain. Barry was dimly aware that he was screaming against the cloth in his mouth, but he was only focused on the task ahead of him.

It wasn't his foot. It was a prop, a bunch of ballistics gel and pig parts like one of the experiments on Mythbusters, and the blood came from some hidden internal tubing. It wasn't real. It didn't matter. It was a prop, and the pain was all in his head. It was the only way he could press on.

His vision tunneled, black and fuzzy at the edges. Barry forced himself to take a breath. His hands were shaking, clamped on the handle of the blade like frozen talons.

The blade caught resistance, grinding to a halt as it hit the first of the two bones. Tibia? Fibula? He couldn't remember which was which. His vision grayed out for a moment, and he clawed his way back up to lucidity with a palpable effort. Even with his makeshift tourniquet, blood continued to pulse and spurt from the wound. If he passed out, he might not wake up.

He had to finish. He had to get his powers back. He had to get out of here.

Barry bore down, sawing the serrated edge back and forth, putting all of his weight onto the blade. The resistance gave out all at once, and the knife sank easily into the muscle like he was carving a steak.

Nausea flooded him all at once, and Barry was forced to stop as his body voided his stomach onto the concrete beside him. The room stank of bile and blood. He remembered hearing about that somewhere, that most people vomited after a severe broken bone because of the bone marrow being exposed to the surrounding tissues. He figured nausea was the least of his worries now.

Halfway there. Barry watched the toes of his left foot twitch like the legs of a dying spider and nearly vomited a second time. He shut his eyes and bore down on the knife.

He was through the second bone much faster than the first.

Fibula, his mind told him, that's the thinner one. Tibia, fibula, calcaneus, talus, cuboid, navicular...

Somehow that helped. It brought him back to his college days, all the mnemonic devices and flashcards he'd put together for his anatomy classes. He thought about his professor with a slideshow clicker, scrubbing through images of crime scenes. He'd always found it bizarrely fascinating. He'd never been a particularly squeamish man. He didn't think he'd be able to get through this at all if he were.

Fresh, bloat, active decay, advanced decay, dry remains.

Livor mortis, algor mortis, rigor mortis.

Insects are one of the most important tools in PMI estimation. Blowflies colonize a body within the first hour, sometimes even within the first 5 to 10 minutes.

With a final push and another sinewy snap of a tendon, the last of the resistance gave way. The tip of the knife skittered into the concrete floor, accompanied by a heavier clatter and a sickening fleshy impact.

The Speed Force surged back to him so quickly his vision blacked out, and Barry slumped against the wall behind him. It was a strange sensation, some odd blend of fresh strength and overwhelming weakness, his healing enhanced even as his hunger exponentially multiplied.

He felt the flow of blood swell and then slow, first reacting to his heart speeding up and then dampening as his healing factor raced to seal over the injury. Barry Allen forced himself back into motion. He couldn't stagnate here. This wasn't over yet.

He forced himself to take hold of his severed foot (it's just a prop it's not real it's just silicone and fake blood it's like Mythbusters) and wrestle the cuff off the end of it. The stump looked like bloody hamburger meat. He pressed the raw edges of the wound together, his breathing shallow and his vision gone white with pain, and pleaded for the Speed Force.

Patch it together seal it over I can't lose my foot. It's still a fresh wound just make the connections you know if you get a tooth knocked out sometimes your body will seal it back into place if you're quick I'm quick just please please please seal it over.

He reached for the rest of his ruined hoodie and fumbled for the cloth. The sleeve became a sort of cuff, a desperate way to keep his ankle pressed close to the stump in the vain hope that his healing factor would still stitch them back together. The rest of the fabric he tied tightly around the stump, half tourniquet and half makeshift orthopedic boot, and watched the fabric darken with his blood.

He didn't want to stand up. He didn't want to give the wound the benefit of gravity, and he didn't want to be faced with the fact that his healing factor might not have been enough to mend those ragged seams. He didn't want to admit he'd done what he'd done.

But he was bleeding, and he was weak, and if there was any chance of keeping his foot it would only come if he got to a hospital fast, so Barry leaned against the wall and painfully hitched himself up to standing.

Pain and dizziness bloomed the instant he was on his feet (foot remember you cut the other one off welcome to the Paralympics pal guess what the Flash has one foot), and he nearly fell straight back to the floor. It was several long moments before the sensation passed. Blood pooled underneath him.

He managed a hop. His hoodie-cloth bindings held, albeit with a sickeningly loose sort of lurch. He still wasn't sure if his body had actually reattached anything or not.

Just a little blood flow, he thought, Doctors can take care of the rest but if the tissue dies there's nothing they can do and I don't have ice so i need blood flow.

Another hop, supported by the wall on one side. He wished he had something more solid than cheap cotton to hold things together. His thoughts seemed distant, detached, like he was watching all of this through a TV screen. The pain was the only thing that kept him from dissociating entirely, agony spiking through him like lightning with every motion.

He lost time. He found himself in the cell and then he was in a brightly-lit hallway. Somehow he must've found some tighter bandages, because there were rolls of gauze wrapped straight over his makeshift hoodie-boot. Each hobbling hop-step felt a little steadier than before, though it still felt like he was limping along on a peg-leg. The only sensation in his foot came from the agonizing pressure where the stump pressed into the jagged remains of his ankle. It was too vague an agony to tell where it began, if there was anything else underneath.

He kept moving. It was his only option.

The hallways warped around him. He thought he knew where he was going. Maybe he'd seen a sign some ways back, somewhere in that blank gray expanse behind him, and his subconscious still retained the information.

Or maybe he was wrong, and he was horribly lost, and he'd eventually bleed out without ever seeing the sun.

He preferred the first one.

If you listen very closely, you might hear the train.

There was a rumble up ahead. Soft, but getting louder. The wall vibrated beneath his palm as he leaned on it. Barry sped up as much as he was able.

He saw a door. He heard the babble of conversation and something tinny, automated, chiming out above it. His thoughts were drifting away but his body kept moving, some shambling zombie drawn to the promise of human life.

Barry reached the door and practically fell onto it, all of his weight dropping onto the metal release bar. He spilled out into a mess of bodies and briefcases, jarring his wrists on harsh concrete as he landed.

He couldn't get back up. His strength had fled him. Above him, people were gasping and chattering as they began to notice him. Someone screamed.

A face loomed below him, some trepidatious businessman in a suit swimming in his vision. The man's lips moved, but the sound was buried under the cacophony of the crowd. Barry heard the ocean rushing in his ears. The smell of something sharp and bitter filled his nose.

"Hospital," he croaked, "Please."

And he once again sank into the unknown.

[saltpepperbeard]

I can’t even imagine how painful it must have been for Stede to come home and see that life had easily continued on without him. He left the world of piracy because he felt that he didn’t belong, that he had ruined all the parts of it he had touched, and that he had hurt his loved ones.

So he goes home to what’s familiar, to where he thinks he might have some sort of belonging…only to find that everything happily went on without him. That his portrait was painted over. That his son had forgotten him.

Like, in that moment, he has nothing. No crew, no love, no family, no belonging. The last little bit of familiarity he had is now foreign to him. What he knows doesn’t even know him anymore.

[its-my-whump]

Medwhump May- Day 14 Alt 6

Self-inflicted

@medwhumpmay

Tw: absolutely no medical accuracy, sorry, gore, unconsiousness

Part 14 (all others here)

She fell into a medically induced unconsciousness, finally going still. The young male nurse, his attempts to calm her futile, let out an audible exhale, when the franctic beeping of her heart turned into a slower drum. The sound came from his core, deeply feeling for the frightened young lady, and that she could finally rest after her violent confused struggle.

Carefully he let go of the mask over her mouth and nose, his hand had held there for as long as it took her to pass out. She was breathing strained, but more evenly. Every breath fogging the mask.

His other hand had gone, from gently cupping her jaw to pull the mask in place, to her head and was laying there, giving a soothing brush with his big palm over her hair, while his thumb was running slow circles against her forehead. One last time he whispered to her, even though knowing, she couldn't hear him anymore. "We got you!"

His most important task had been trying to calm her down, so he hadn't seen much more than the staff rushing around in the peripherey of his vision. He had only really seen the tears in her frightened eyes, the pain and confusing battling in her pale face and the frantic breaths, that made her trembling lips move. When he finally leaned back from his position the extend of her struggle was shown as dark red smears all over her torso.

A middle aged doctor and 2 nurse were attending her freshly opened wounds. The chest tube was merely a red stained hose vanishing inside a puddle of gore. The long incision leading to it, was ripped partly open. Her belly was covered in blood, it had already flown down your sides and was staining the sheets.

"Bloody hell." The male nurse just pressed out, his eyes unconsciously darting back to her expressionless pale face and then to the man in charge.

The doctor looked up for a moment, his bloody gloves, tools and suture in hand, risen from her bruised, bloody form, waiting that the nurse to his right wiped enough gore away, so he could see.

"Yeah, no shit!" He answered frustrated.

->Day15

My masterlist

[starliight-whump]

Broken

Whumptober, No. 5

Debris | Pinned Down | “It's broken.”

The silence in the room suddenly seemed deafening. Amara sank down on the floor and examined her right hand. It was throbbing painfully and a little bit of blood trickled from the broken skin on her knuckles. To assess how bad the damage was, she flexed her fingers and winced as that made the pain worse. “Fuck!” she hissed and leant back against the wall with a defeated sigh. Now she was in a worse situation than before. Would her captors even give her any medical attention, or at the very least some supplies to fix it? One could hope, though Amara was skeptical. She looked up at the white walls and ceiling, eyes drifting over the area. There were no cameras to be seen, but she was sure they were there somewhere. No way they would leave her in this room without some form of supervision, right?

“Hey, assholes! I’m injured, are you really gonna leave me in here with a possibly broken hand?” She shouted. Granted, Amara wasn’t sure it was that bad, but it did really fucking hurt.

No reply came.

She wasn’t surprised, not like she actually expected them to answer but it still annoyed her. “Fuckers.” Amara grumbled and closed her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. This fucking sucked.

@whumptober @darkredrevolution

[susiequaz12]

Whumptober 15

No. 15: “I don't need you to help me I can handle things myself.”

Makeshift Bandages | Suppressed Suffering | “I’m fine.”

Day 15! A continuation of Marlowe and Solomon on their adventures. Takes place right after Day 13. CW: Nonbinary whumpee, immortal whumpee, vampire caretaker? The roles get weird between them. Sickness, noncon touching, blood, self-inflicted injury.

- - -

Solomon had slept throughout the entire night. Definitely odd behavior from a vampire, but Lo was grateful to get the rest alongside them. Lo’s wounds had closed up fully, now just in the painful process of regrowth. They sat against the edge of the tent as the sun peeked over the horizon. Lo checked the vampire’s forehead, brushing back the sweat-soaked hair that covered his features. 

His skin had turned from that pale shade of pink back to it’s normal, ghostly-white. But a fever still raged inside of him. Lo’s heart panged in their chest as the vampire mumbled, moaning and thrashing about in a fretful sleep. 

When Solomon finally awoke Lo was waiting for him. 

“How are you feeling-” they whispered. 

Solomon paused for a second, taking in their situation. He was lying on a blanket on the dirt ground, the cloak placed over them tossed to the side, wearing nothing but their black trousers. 

“Where’s my shirt-” he grumbled. 

Lo silently handed it to him as Sol pulled his undershirt over his chest. 

“Are you feeling okay?” They pressed. 

“I’m fine.” He mumbled. He staggered about the tent, trying to make place of all his belongings that he had scattered about in his sickened stupor. He had thrown all of his clothes off last night in a desperate attempt to cool down, the tent was clearly in a state of disarray.

“You don’t look fine, Sol. You’ve cooled off but you still have a bit of a fever, you should-”

“I said I’m fine!” He turned to Lo, his fangs snarling over the curve of his lip. Sol swayed slightly on his feet as he collected the rest of his clothing, pulling his socks over his feet. “We need to keep moving.”

“Not in this condition.” Lo muttered. “You shouldn’t go back out in the sun. There’s less tree cover now the closer we get to the river. We should wait until nightfall and then we can continue travel.”

Solomon approached Lo with long, heavy steps, towering over the human where they sat in the corner of the tent. 

“Since when did you order me around?” He snarled. 

Lo stood up, wobbling on their one good leg. They were still barely reaching the top of the vampire’s shoulders, but were better able to look him in the eye. 

“Since I saved your ass from dying of heat stroke. I don’t want you getting more sick than you already are. Then you still are.” Lo spat. 

Sweat dripped down the vampire’s forehead, evident of his continuous fever as he snarled, stepping closer to the small human, gripping a hand across the back of their neck. He let out a snarl, glaring into Lo’s eyes as a drop of spit dribbled from his fangs. He was taken aback briefly as he looked into the human’s eyes. Their weak, fragile form- still healing from all of their past injuries. 

He could snap their neck in an instant- he’d done it before. 

But as he stared at Lo, thinking of a come back, of something to say- he realized one thing. 

Marlowe wasn’t scared of him anymore. 

In fact, there was even a small smile forming on the human’s lips. A bit of a smirk playing over their face as their eyes scanned up and then back down the length of the vampire's body. 

“I know what’s going on-” Lo purred, pulling themselves slightly away from the vampire. “-you’re hangry.” 

Solomon took a step back- “I’m- no! I’m not- I don’t get ‘hangry.’” 

Marlowe chuckled. “Oh yes you do. You don’t think I’ve known you long enough to know when you get hangry? It’s obvious.” 

The vampire shook his head, closing his eyes as the world spun around him. He opened them back up to see Marlowe tilting their head to their side, the veins in their neck bulging out of their skin- taunting- teasing the vampire to just take a bite-

“No, I- I said I’m fine.” Solomon released their grip on the human, pushing them away as they stumbled backwards, back down to the dirt floor of the tent. “I don’t need it, and you’re- you’re still healing.” His eyes dropped down to the human's frail body. "Look at you- you've lost an arm and a leg, literally." Solomon spat. "You're in no condition to be fed from."

Marlowe glanced down at their injuries, one of their hands hadn't fully grown back yet, their ankle just freshly injured from where Sol had rescued them from that trap.

"I guess that means neither of us are fit to travel then." Lo retorted.

Solomon let out a growl beneath their breath as he retreated to the corner of the tent, beginning to pull their boots onto their feet, still determined to continue their journey. 

Even though his head pounded and the light gleaming through the canvas gave him a pounding headache. Even though he felt faint- and his muscles shook at the thought of carrying the human another several miles-

And then Lo was on top of him. 

It caught him off guard as the human pinned him down in the corner of the tent, straddling his waist, pinning both of his arms between their legs. 

Lo had their only hand propped up against the vampire’s shoulder to steady themselves, and in between their teeth was Solomon’s knife- the same one he had used to cut off Lo’s ankle- 

“What are you doing-” Solomon growled- eyes scanning over the knife, over the scrawny human on top of him- back up to the mischievous glint in their eyes. 

They grabbed the knife in their hand, leaning back for balance as they slashed the blade across the crook of their elbow, tearing into the veins and muscles, the blood pouring out almost instantly. Lo tossed the knife backwards behind them as they grabbed the vampire by the back of his hair, thrusting his head forward until it was cradled in their arm, lips pressed against the open wound. 

Solomon kept their mouth shut with a groan, a movement of defiance even as the scent of the fresh blood wafted into their nose. It smelled so good- he was so hungry-

A whisper of breath tickled against the vampire’s ear as the human commanded a single word. 

“Drink.” 

And the need overtook him. 

Solomon let his lips part, opening his mouth wider to lock around the fresh wound, and his fangs sunk into the human’s flesh, his tongue lapping up every taste and every drop that he could. 

Marlowe kept Sol’s face pressed tight up against their arm, making sure he couldn’t pull away as he took in starving gulps of their blood. 

The human felt their fingers carding through the vampire’s hair as he drank- they felt the way his chest pressed against theirs- heaving with the breaths and gulps he took in- the way their legs straddled his waist, keeping him pinned down on the ground as Lo force fed him their own blood.

A flutter grew in the pit of Lo’s stomach as the vampire’s breath grew hot on their arm. They soon began to feel faint, their grip weakening on the back of his neck, their head lolling backwards as their muscles went limp. 

Solomon finished his feeding, pulling away from the human and instantly feeling the strength return back to his body. The effects of the sickness were quickly wearing off with the revitalizing energy of the human’s blood. 

Marlowe had gone limp, sagging fully onto the vampire’s chest as he pulled away from their arm. 

Solomon cradled the back of their head, laying them gently on the blanket on the ground. He hadn’t drained them, but he had taken a lot of blood- Marlowe would need a few hours to recuperate. 

He licked the last of the drops off of his bloodstained lips, his eyes scanning across the human’s body- the curve of their hips- the nape of their neck- the hair that had fallen gently over their face. 

Solomon reached out a nervous hand and brushed the hair back from their forehead. He leaned over, placing his lips against their temple before whispering softly against their ear. 

“Thank you, Marlowe.” 

- - -

 Tag List: @imagination1reality0 @thecyrulik @whumpsday @termsnconditions-apply @spectral-whumpy-writer @raddyscoops @whumptober-archive

[cuteniarose]

It’s almost 6 a.m and I can’t sleep because I’m being plagued by thoughts of The Latest OC

[whumpygifs]

[kittyhazelnut]

started writing out a frostwidow fic idea to post here and now it's 1800 words on wattpad (of a plot summary in a "book" full of fic ideas like it's not a real fic yet) and the more I write of it the more fucked-up it looks and like I feel like if I wrote it for realsies it might not look so fucked up but writing it out like this makes it looks pretty fucked up and now I feel like I can't post the summary idea on wattpad which sucks because I love when people comment on them but also a lot of people on wattpad are, like, 12, and idk maybe I'm just projecting because I read a frostiron fic that's kinda similar before that was really fucked up with like torture and non-con elements (and I never did finish the fic bc I got too squeamish at that) but I feel like this isn't meant for 12-year-olds? even though objectively nothing's really happened? at which point it's like why am I even writing this out anymore if I'm not gonna post it? like I've written fics for myself before that I've never posted but this isn't even a fic it's just a fucked-up concept and ugh idk I think I'm gonna finish writing out what I can think of and maybe I'll come back and read it one day a year or two from now and I'll be glad I did

[literarystarfish]

Voodoo Doll - part two

Villain learns Hero is more like them than they ever expected as they try to use Hero for their plans against Superhero

Part two ~1800 words

Part one here

Heed the warnings in the tags

~~

Two days later, Villain was having fun skirting around the other heroes' attempts to stop them and their annoying attacks on some of their bases. The moment the other heroes pulled back, however, that's how Villain knew their target was approaching. There was something to say about being so-called 'nemeses'— a title established by the news, of course— with the person you were looking to draw the attention of. 

However, they were surprised to see Superhero show up with Hero as well. Hero was still technically under the tutelage of Superhero, but rarely has Superhero actually accompanied them on a mission since they first began training those years ago. 

Superhero stood back, though, watching and letting Hero do the work. Watching with scrutinizing eyes. Narrowed and waiting. Was this a test for Hero? Before they could be considered part of the superhero’s guild? 

Villain almost felt bad for giving them the slip in the midst of their battle, knowing Hero was being watched by a superior that they looked up so highly to. Almost. But Villain had gotten their connection and they weren’t going to risk that Superhero could step into the battle as well. Hero was easy enough. Even Superhero, themself, wasn’t terribly scary alone. But Hero and Superhero together, however, could get dicey.

So Villain took their leave once they got what they were after. Their voodoo connection was obtained and they were slinking off to the shadows to await their plan. 

An hour later, however, just as they were gathering together the last of the things they would need to actually pull off that plan and begin to put it into action, Villain dropped the connection for a second time. 

The pain in their scalp as the feeling of their hair being yanked back and then the blindsided, closed-fisted blow to the side of their face caught them so off guard that the connection was severed without Villain making the conscious decision. Their body reacted in self defense against the surprise attack by losing the spell the minute their head and vision swam and they had to try to keep from falling. 

What. The actual. Fuck. Hero?! Villain thought, angrily, temple pounding with the making of the bruise due to form there. 

How is it that BOTH times Villain had a continuing connection, Hero managed to get into two— honestly quite pathetic— brawls where they took hits out of nowhere and didn’t return them? How did they just get so thoroughly sucker punched? Did they seriously allow their enemy to catch them by surprise just now? Pathetic!

Villain was fed up. They wanted to know exactly who kept beating the hero up without them so much as fighting back. 

Whatever or whoever it was is ruining their plans.

~~

And that's how Villain came upon a sight they’d never thought they’d see.

Or, at least, not a sight they thought they’d have such a strong emotional reaction towards. Emotions that are unfamiliar towards a hero. 

Concern? Is that what this is?

Before them, Hero lay beaten and curled up on the ground with Superhero standing over them.  Superhero was berating Hero’s defeat from today. Clearly angry and very clearly unconcerned by the blood that was currently dripping freely from their subordinate’s nose and split lip or the puffy red beginnings of what will surely be a black eye if a healer didn’t get to it any time soon. And… was that an unnaturally bent and limp wrist on Hero’s left arm that was now trying to protect their face from yet another kick Superhero aimed at them?

Even from their spot in the cover of darkness, Villain could see the way Hero flinched away every time Superhero made a sharp move.

Hero cried out in a way Villain had never heard from them before, even when they were enduring the pain under the villain’s own influence. Tears they’d never seen from the hero before streaked down their face. 

Feelings they’d never felt from seeing the hero’s pain twisted Villain’s insides. 

The look of disappointment, hatred, and malice also wasn’t something that Villain had ever seen from Superhero before. It sent a shiver down their spine. Superhero was always cocky— so sure of themselves— almost happy to be beating up villains. Villain had seen that joy enough times to recognize it. This was not the same.

That’s when the pieces fell into place. Pieces that looked eerily similar to the ones that patchworked into Villain’s own past.

Hero did go home that first night. They weren’t ambushed or got into any other fight. Superhero was the one that harmed them. That strangled them. Villain could see the slightly greenish bruising around Hero’s throat that easily matched the size of Superhero’s hands. 

It was clear now what was happening. 

Superhero would beat Hero senseless any time they did not come out victorious. Hero was punished for failing.

Brutally, it seemed. 

And they took it without so much as lifting a finger in defense. 

Hero just laid down and allowed it to happen as if the punishment was deserved. All because Superhero was their mentor. Someone that the villain knew Hero looked up to and trusted. 

Overwhelming memories of past betrayals flooded to the front of Villain’s mind. One memory in particular sparking through them like a bolt of lightning, leaving burning feelings crackling inside them that they thought they had finally forgotten. 

Villain knows what it feels like to have someone they trusted- someone they respected and looked up to- stab them in the back, both literally and figuratively, time and time again. Who used the power imbalance he had over them to drain them of everything they could possibly give for months upon years, all the while pretending to be trustworthy and managing to keep Villain completely reliant on him so he could continue the cycle. 

Villain watched in shocked and silent horror as Superhero beat the living shit out of Hero as they told them over and over that if they continued to fight as poorly they do, stayed as weak as they were, didn’t listen to every word Superhero told them down to the letter, they would never be able to join the city’s superhero guild. And Superhero would see to that personally so there was no way their sorry excuse for a protégé could embarrass them when they inevitably failed. 

All the hurt and betrayal and rage Villain had ever felt growing up under Supervillain’s fists and cruel, malicious words came flooding back to them. The feeling that enough was enough. That anxious yet freeing feeling that they would not stand for the mistreatment any longer. The pure unadulterated hatred they had finally felt instead of that misguided reverence for their own mentor that had welled up inside them after years of being told they were useless. That they were weak. That they would amount to nothing. The years of systematic torture they underwent to train them to withstand the pain that would ‘inevitably come from their power’ under Supervillain’s strict guidance because otherwise their power would be useless and they would be useless. 

The intense need to give back all the pain they had been forced to endure since they were a child— both mentally and physically— as they had finally dug that last bloodied knife into Supervillain’s barely thumping heart. As they saw Supervillain open their bloodied mouth with a silent, gurgling scream and watched as the light faded from their bloodshot eyes as they were finally put out of the well-deserved torture that Villain had unleashed upon them. 

Vengeance.

Retribution. 

Hours upon hours, screams upon throat-tearing screams, with blunt weapons upon skin searing flames upon rusty knives, upon broken bones and a severed fingertip. Each of those same bruises and burns and wounds that perfectly matched all of the ones given to Villain through the years at the hands of Supervillain in the name of making Villain stronger— less useless— better.

And, after it all, they could barely feel an ounce of guilt as they whispered a nearly inaudible, ironic “Goodbye, father” to the slowly cooling corpse of their tormentor. The one they’d never once felt any parental love from, the one they never once felt anything but pain from. The one that they easily left behind on the cold, hard, blood stained concrete that day all those years ago. 

That same intense sense of justice, however twisted it had formed in their head, willed itself back into the molten, white hot flames from that smoldering pit it had since quelled itself into. 

It burned deep and bright and hot and vicious like it had those hours— those days— leading up to Supervillain’s demise while Villain watched from the shadows as Hero endured something so achingly familiar to them. 

Superhero made a mistake.

Had they followed their own moral code that they had fooled the world into believing they had— had they known they would be caught by the mysterious ‘hero’ who had finally taken out the Supervillain who was only matched in strength then by Superhero themself— had they known the true reason behind Supervillain’s gruesome demise— they would perhaps have thought twice about the next slap, the next punch, the next broken bone and bruise and cry of pain they forced from Hero’s mouth. 

Superhero would soon feel the true power that Supervillain had created within Villain. 

They would soon know.

And whether Hero wanted it or not— whether they were still brainwashed into thinking what Superhero did to them was for their own good as Villain was well aware they would be—, Superhero would soon know exactly what pain they caused Hero.

~~

And perhaps, as Hero whispered into their ear, with a smile on their face, all of the horrible things Superhero had done to them knowing Villain would then unleash it upon the superhero restrained before them without even a second thought, Villain would know then that Hero had been so close to their breaking point under the cruel punishment Superhero had given them as well. Hero’s descent had been imminent. Villain just sped the process along.

It hadn’t taken much to convince Hero that Superhero deserved a fate like this. It didn’t take much to get them to tell them every detail of all the harm Superhero had done behind the scenes not just to Hero, but to the city as well in the name of ‘protecting its citizens’. 

It took almost nothing at all to get Hero to swiftly fall to their side, as Superhero had been so gracious to push them to the edge and then teeter them over it with less than a single crumbling rock beneath their feet keeping them at the peak. 

And that fact only made it all the more sweet as Villain, flanked alongside their now fallen hero, once more watched the light fade from the eyes of a second monstrous evil in this world. 

~~

And perhaps, together now, the villain and the fallen hero could finally take back the city from the tyranny of the so-called superheroes who ran it and save the people from their leeching hands and give them true peace and freedom.

————————————

Well that’s the end of my first short little snippet-turned-longer-than-I-expected. Hope you enjoyed it. It’s been a thought rattling around in my head for a very long while. Thanks and enjoy! -Jayy

[painsandconfusion]

Whumpee has such vivid, horrid nightmares that they thrash in their sleep. They dream whumper is attacking them - that whumper found them in their home.

They should be calmed when they wake and realize it was a dream.

But all their thrashing left them with a myriad of quickly-forming bruises.

And they start to panic, believing whumper really was there.