#speedster whump

[whump-is-love-whump-is-life]

Thinking about a speedster (or anyone who can make themselves intangible) whumpee being forced to phase into their own permanent restraints

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

Hmm.

The negative speedforce should affect positive speedforce users more

[save-the-villainous-cat]

mmm heroo whump i loooove heero whump mmmm baby i missed you mm

“Oh, no.” The supervillain shook their head and sighed dramatically. “A speedster with a broken leg? Gosh, that’s too bad.”

The villain didn’t want to look at the hero crawling over the floor. Their sobs and pleas were bad enough already but the blood? The bone digging through their flesh? That was indescribable.

“Is this necessary?” the villain asked. They kept their voice apathetic, even though they knew their hand would be shaking if they lifted it. The hero’s broken voice filled the lifeless interrogation room, just like the blood covering the floor. “All this mess for an interrogation? You’re wasting precious resources.”

In response the supervillain laughed. In one hand, they still held the pipe and spun it around as their gaze wandered between it and the hero. It was a trophy to them. They cared little for subtleness. The bloodier, the better but they didn’t seem to realise how much time they were wasting.

“You know, with your legs all broken you’re just another human. Nothing really special,” they said to the hero as they leaned over. The supervillain tilted their head. Right when the hero wanted to push their upper body up, the supervillain rammed their boot into their back.

They slammed into the concrete. Face first. They left a bloody handprint on the supervillain’s pants.

And the villain clenched their teeth.

By now the hero was quieter. It wasn’t that they had given up — they’d probably still attack anyone if there was a bullet in their chest — but their energy was fading and their muscles were failing. The villain had never seen them like this.

“It’s a dead end. They won’t give you any information,” the villain said and they hated the hero for that. Truly, deeply loathed that the hero endured torture for hours and even when their bones broke, they didn’t say a word to save themselves.

What kind of sick loyalty was that? What kind of unquestioned obedience? The villain was nearly jealous of that.

“You’re so pessimistic today…we just have to get a little creative, don’t you think?” the supervillain asked. “What if we make them run with their broken leg and if they stop, we kill them?”

“You think that’s creative?” The villain focused on the supervillain instead of the hero who tried to push themselves up again with their trembling arms. Their grunts and moans sounded more like those of an animal. And that wound…the villain could see their tibia.

Yet, the villain pinched the bridge of their nose and squeezed their eyes shut, surprised by their partner’s idiocy.

“Well, it could be entertaining.”

“They can’t even stand up. What makes you think they could run for your entertainment?” the villain asked.

“I dunno. I like experimenting.” The villain sighed.

If they wanted to save the hero, they needed to do it in private. Convincing the hero to give up their secrets wasn’t going to be easy but the villain had information the supervillain could never know about.

“Great. It was your turn and it didn’t work out. Now it’s mine. Give me 20 minutes with them and you’ll have your oh so desired information,” the villain said.

The supervillain studied them.

“You know what? You’re right. They’re your nemesis. Why should I get involved anyway? God forbid I do a friend a favour.”

“Look, I—” the villain looked at the hero’s tears “—appreciate your efforts. But I fear they’re quite stubborn. They won’t give you what they want, even if you take them apart bit by bit.”

For ten very, very long seconds, the supervillain stared at them.

“Is this a possessive thing?” they asked. They had the audacity not to whisper.

But the villain was willing to push them.

“It is a I-know-your-spouse-shouldn’t-know-you’re-a-criminal-thing,” they said. All the villain needed to see was some time with the hero, even if that meant they’d threaten the supervillain.

They didn’t care what their partner thought about this. Or what kind of rumours they wanted to spread. The villain had enough dirt on enough people to bring a quick end to such accidents.

“Oh, stooping to a new low?”

“Forgive me,” the villain said. They stood up. “I’m sure you understand. They’re my nemesis and you’re robbing me of all the fun. I have to draw some lines here.”

“Fine.” The supervillain didn’t look necessarily happy when the villain cornered them until the last escape was through the door.

“Search for something else to play with, will you?” the villain asked. They opened the door of the interrogation room and offered their partner the way out.

Without a second glance, the supervillain mumbled incoherent curses on their way out until the villain shut the door behind them.

However, as soon as they left, the villain walked over to their nemesis and kneeled.

“Hey, come here.” They grabbed them and pulled them onto their lap. The hero kept looking at their leg and whimpered. Fingers drenched in blood found the villain’s jawline and cheekbones and left fingerprints there.

The villain’s heart was beating fast. Usually, they were able to control themselves in stressful situations but the hero desperately clinging onto them startled them.

“I’m sorry,” the villain whispered. “They won’t let go of you. They’ll kill you if you don’t give them anything.”

The hero shook their head and hid their face in the villain’s clothes. They seemed to know how this was turning out.

“Please,” the hero begged. “Please, it hurts so much, it hurts…”

The villain wiped some loose strands of hair out of the hero’s face.

“They want information on your latest mission. You have to give them something. After that, I can protect you,” the villain promised. They could feel how the hero held onto them.

“I can’t, please, please—”

“Sweetheart, don’t make me do this.”

“No, please.” Their tears rolled down their cheeks and the villain’s heart splintered.

Blackmail was the villain’s preferred way of fighting. Everyone had their secrets and the villain liked to obtain information like no other.

In a world where information spread in seconds, a well kept secret could be the key to peace and conflict.

But their hands were shaking. Tears burnt in their eyes.

“You know I know your siblings. If…” The villain felt disgusting. They felt filthy, wretched even. Despising themselves was new and this feeling was alien to them. It hurt, it burnt. But even if the hero never forgave them for it, this would save them. “…if you don’t tell them, I will kill one of them.”

“No, I trusted you, they love you.”

“I’m sorry,” the villain said. They kissed the hero’s temple. “This is the only way, I fear.”

After that, they developed a distaste for blackmail.

[whumporpass]

My Arrowverse OC, Morgan Wells!

Daughter of Harrison Wells and Tess Morgan by birth, raised by Eowells (mostly by Tina, though also by him)

Her telepathically-connected doppelgänger’s life is used as incentive to blackmail her into hiding the true identity of an evil speedster. Said evil speedster also kidnaps her later to be blackmail incentive (this is not the first time she's been kidnapped, and it won't be the last)

Has to fight a whammied version of her brother. Also, a shapeshifter manipulates her using her brother's face and voice

Reacts to whumpy situations initially with defiance, but it's not hard to see the fear underneath and manipulate it (and aren’t those the best whumpees :D)

[zeroducks-2]

{Commission Closed}

Blog Navigation: My Art - My Fanfictions (includes things I don't post on AO3). You can find my other socials here.

I post/reblog NSFW, and my blog tries to be as raunchy as possible within the limits of this puritan ass website, which shadowbanned me twice already ♥

Been hyperfixating on DC stuff for a while. More than anything else you'll find Bats and Birds (mostly Sladick), and cute little speedsters (mostly Eobarry). The Eobarry pit is at this point deep enough I don't see the sun nor I can feel its warmth on my skin anymore. Also, I love being gross to Dick especially but no one is safe from me.

Evil characters and grey characters are my special little meow meows. I support their (gay) rights and wrongs. No, I don't think they should be held accountable for their actions, they're not real.

I mostly write smut, whump and/or shippy content. I really like dark stuff & I'm a kinky bastard. Writing gen fics and pure fluff isn't my thing.

I am comfortable with any type of ask. Go ahead and send me that WIP you're writing for some advice or just to share, or prompt me because you want to see your blorbo being tossed around in that specific way. I also have an ongoing Dark Prompts Ask Game right here. You can also send me hate if that's your thing, I won't kinkshame you I promise.

If I unfollowed you it's 99.9% because you posted WFA or Harry Potter content untagged. Nothing personal, I just really don't want to see those things. Also, sometimes tumblr unfollows people without telling me, and in the same fashion, doesn't notify me of reblogs, comments or what have you. If you want me to see something but I seem unresponsive, feel free to send an Ask or a DM.

I don't have DNIs, I curate my own online experience. However, please note that this won't ever be a safe space for exclusionists of any kind. And if you can't grasp the simple fact that fiction ≠ reality, that no one is getting hurt & we're just having fun, be nice to yourself and to me and do not follow.

Anyone else is more than welcome ♥ Remember to stay very handsome!

[roseandgold137]

dick whump with the og titans for whumptober 👉👈

Dick’s head was still spinning. Donna had tried to keep him talking in the first few hours of their captivity, but even she couldn’t maintain the false positivity. 

His neck ached from his cramped position, hunched over in the small, wire dog cage. Maybe if it was bigger, he would have granted it the name of crate, but he wasn’t feeling especially charitable. 

They’d been separated from the others pretty soon after setting out, and then, while they were distracted trying to find them, they’d been hit with knock out gas and woke up in animal cages. Animal cages. 

He hardly had the space to lay his head against the wall of the cage. 

“Robin?” Donna whispered, hours or maybe minutes later. “Robin, are you still awake?”

Dick hummed. “Yeah,” he whispered back.

He heard Donna shuffle in her cage. “We need to get out of here.”

“Wow, really?” Dick mumbled. “I thought we were having a grand old time in here.”

Donna ignored him. “Can you see any locks on yours?”

“No,” Dick said, closing his eyes. “I already checked at the start.”

“Hey, don’t just give up,” Donna said. Dick heard her cage rattle as she wrangled her limbs around. “Ugh, if I could just –  ”

Donna yelped as the wall of the cage burst against her arm, and she tumbled out the side. Dick, fatigue forgotten, eyes snapped alert, stared at Donna where she was sprawled on the floor. 

“Are you okay?” Dick asked.

“Am I okay! This is great!” Donna grinned. “Here, lemme see your cage.”

——

Dick crept across the complex. His leg was stiff from disuse. Wally wasn’t exactly easy to contain, nor keep out – either they were keeping him somewhere super secure, or they had some really impressive shields up. Both of those options meant that Dick had some searching to do. 

Donna had gone looking for their equipment. Dick’s mission was made harder by the fact that he didn’t have anything from his belt, but it wasn’t impossible. He could improvise if he had to. 

Dick eased himself through a door, narrowly ajar, to find an empty control room. 

Score.

Dick bypassed the security on the main computer within minutes, then pulled up the schematics of the building. There was an area by the east of the structure - that’d be where Wally is, Dick decided, if they do have him. 

With his new goal in mind, Dick stepped back from the monitor, disappearing into the shadows of the room. 

——

Wally zipped out the second Dick disabled the anti-speedster protections. In his rush, Wally ricocheted off the wall, half-vibrating through the wall before pulling back and spotting Dick. 

“Robin!” he exclaimed, flitting in and out of being a fuzzy figure and a kinetic force. He must’ve been in there a while, if he’d built up so much energy. “Hey, where’s everyone else?”

“Wondergirl went looking for them,” Dick said. “Did you see them take Speedy or Aqualad?”

“No,” Wally said. “They hit me with some sonar stuff, threw me off completely.” He sounded annoyed. Dick could work with annoyed. 

“Wondergirl said she was looking for our stuff,” Dick said, leadingly, and Wally picked up on his implication faster than Dick could blink, and by the time he opened his eyes again, they were standing right in front of Donna. Dick slipped out of Wally’s hold with only a slight stumble, catching his belt and cape when Donna threw it. “Thanks.”

——

Roy had staged his own breakout on the other side of the complex, and he dragged a limping Garth with him. He had no arrows, but he’d found a baton somewhere and brandished it in front of him. His shoulders visibly relaxed when he spotted the three of them.  

“Took you long enough,” he grumbled. Garth’s head bobbed up, but his eyes weren’t tracking them as they moved. A concussion, probably. 

“What happened to Ga – Aqualad?” Dick asked, his own slip making him frown. 

“Smashed his head into a guard’s face,” Roy said plainly. “It was pretty class in the moment, but not so much in the aftermath.” Garth hummed his agreement. There was blood in his hair, which Dick hoped wasn’t his.

Donna stepped forward, taking Garth’s other arm over her shoulder. “We should get out of here.”

Wally zipped around, leaving ghostly afterimages of himself all around. “Seconded. Sounds like someone’s coming down the hall.”

——

They made it to the perimeter with little to no incident, which means, of course, that it all went to shit once they reached the gate. 

“Go, go, go!” Wally yelled, running circles around them. Roy scowled at him as he ran. Heavy rain beat down on them, because nothing could ever be easy for them, could it?

“We are going, you idiot, not all of us have superspeed.”

Garth had pretty much given up on running, simply letting Donna and Roy carry him between them. Dick stumbled after them. His legs felt like hot magma, semi-molten and burning, but he couldn’t stop here. He pressed on. 

It wasn’t enough. Roy and Donna carried Garth through the gate, and Wally had run back and forth several times over, but Dick’s legs gave out long before he crossed the gate. He tripped, falling face first in the mud. 

Dick knew he had to get up, but his limbs certainly didn’t. He’d hardly accepted defeat before a flash of yellow lightning engulfed his vision and he found himself deep in the surrounding forests. 

Wally fumbled, half-dropping Dick in his haste, lowering him to the ground, and sprinting off again. Dick panted into the forest. Rain continued to pour, making its way through the maze of leaves and branches to reach him. 

A small robin flitted past, perching on a low twig. It regarded Dick briefly before flying off again. 

Dick blinked, and then Garth was beside him, static leaving his hair on end. Garth flopped over, sighing as rainwater drenched him. “I’m so ready to go home.”

Dick hummed. He slid down, lying down beside Garth. “I really want a shower.”

Garth huffed. “I really want a nap.”

Yellow lightning. Roy barely managed to not fall on them. 

“Are you two okay?” he asked eventually. He seemed mostly fine, from what Dick could see. Maybe a scratch here or there. Overall, could have been worse. 

“Peachy,” Dick said. “I can’t feel my legs anymore.”

Garth made a questioning sound, raising his head, and immediately bringing it down again as his colour disappeared. 

Roy poked Dick’s left knee, then the ankle. Neither of them elicited any particular reaction. Dick’s right leg was a different story. Roy had only poked Dick’s knee when he reflexively kicked out with his left. If Roy had been any slower to react, he probably would have joined Garth in the concussion club. 

“Okay, so your leg is fucked,” Roy said, as Donna and Wally materialised next to them. Wally, having finished his task, joined them on the ground. 

“Whose leg?” Donna asked, wringing her hair. It wasn’t very effective, considering it was still raining. 

“Robin’s,” Garth mumbled. He looked half asleep. “Where’s our ride out of here?”

Donna frowned, looking at the sky. “Good question.”

——

This is only chapter one! I’ll finish chapter two and put it in the reblogs then 😊

[fuesch]

Fine, I'll be evil to my boy. Just this once. Because you asked.

For @silver-goggles-guild's You've been chosen to write an X-Men movie, but the evil studio people need you to incapacitate Quicksilver at some point. How do you do it?

(Content warning for symtoms, I guess!) Quicksilver poisoning, because that would be hilarious.

Not sure about the delivery method. Fumes sound easy, but it seems too imprecise (Would he inhale enough? Would others get exposed as well?) and I guess wouldn't last long enough (seeing how fast he'd be able to recover), unless he kept getting dosed. The easiest way would probably be to hide it in food, because Peter eats all the time. Of course the mercury would be coated in something with varying thickness, so it would be released gradually, thus work longer.

I assume it would slow him down to normal-people speed (at least that's what "slowed sensory and motor nerve conduction velocities" sounds like it would translate to in a speedster) and other desired symptoms are: Lack of coordination, slurred speech, deterioration of fine motor skills, difficulty walking, numbness in the hands and feet, loss of peripheral vision, muscle weakness, memory impairment, anxiety, emotional lability, performance deficits in tests of cognitive function. Some detailed whump of Peter suffering from these symptoms, trying the save himself (would be so difficult with these symptoms), and then someone (preferably the Dadneto) helping him recover (because of course he'd fully recover - I'm only half evil!) would be sooo interesting to read.

Speaking of that guy: Mercury isn't very magnetic, so Magneto wouldn't be able to do anything. I'd isolate Peter anyway, so he can't call anyone else for help.

Once it's to late to barf the poison out, I'd have the villain gloat about Peter not being able to handle the stuff with which he shares a name, kinda like the Kryptonian can't handle Kryptonite, muahahaha! Though I'd also have them apologize, tell Peter that it's nothing personal, he'll get better, but for now he's just really in the way of villain's plans.

[negative-speedforce]

So... for no reason at all notes for the gift fic, can you tell me how the Negative Speed Force works? Like what powers it gives people and all that? (I want to write you some cool whump but I want to make sure i do it right)

Stolen straight from the Arrowverse Wiki: Speedster Powers Negative Speed Force-specific powers

When it comes to a non-standard speedster like Siv, Meredith, or Onnie, however, there's a few extra abilities that I gave them because they were made from the Negative Speed Force rather than having been humans that were empowered by it.

Trans-temporal awareness: The ability to see into alternate timelines and have knowledge from alternate timelines, so long as there is another Negative Speed Force user in that universe. However, this knowledge can't be just pulled up at random, it usually just "pops" into someone's head as if it was a long-forgotten memory.

Enhanced Electrokinesis: Has greater control over their own lightning, to the point that they could vaporize a person to dust, though not without great physical effort.

Speed Stealing: Can take away the speed of a Negative Speed Force user that they deem unworthy, however, this is an extremely difficult ability, and only the most advanced speedsters could use it.

Eldritch Form: Because they were created from the essence of an eldritch entity, Siv, Onnie, and Meredith are able to utilize the full power of the Negative Speed Force in moments of extreme emotion. This form usually entails-

Hair that floats above the body, as if underwater Black eyes with red slit-pupils "Demonic" echoing voice Aura that naturally triggers the fear instinct in all but the strongest wills Fang-like canines The ability to levitate for short periods of time

[whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump]

Febuwhump - Buried Alive

It’s 2 am on February 1rst in NZ, so I can post my first Febuwhump drabble! It centers my superhero whumpee Icarus. The rest of his story will take place a few years later when he’s an established hero, so this is kind of a prequel I guess.

Masterpost here.

CWs: whump of a minor (17 yo), manhandling, burying alive

Icarus is so excited he can barely sleep. It is his first night in the HQ, the big house where all the “Boys Club” heroes live together. The most famous and powerful heroes in the country, and now Icarus is a part of their ranks.

Jordan, their leader, had shown him around the house, and introduced him to the rest of the team. There was Lee, who could start fires in the palm of his hand. Matthew, the healer. Tyler, the telekinetic. And Jason, the speedster.

They had all eaten dinner together, cracking jokes and sharing stories, and Icarus had felt his heart grow warm at the feeling of belonging. It felt like a family. After dinner, Jordan had bench pressed the couch with Icarus and Tyler sitting on it, showing off while Icarus dissolved into laughter. Lee had shown him to his room and bid him good night, and now he lies in bed, thrumming with excitement and already imagining how tomorrow will go, his first day as an official superhero. Eventually, he nods off, a smile on his face and bright dreams in his head.

He wakes when he feels a hand clamp over his mouth.

His eyes fly open, adrenaline surging through him in an instant. Instinctually, his body shoots up, trying to fly away from the unknown threat. Before he can get more than a few feet off the bed, a hand lands on his chest and pushes, and Icarus is slammed back down so hard the breath is knocked out of him.

He gapes, lungs struggling to pull in air, unable to cry out for help or even move. A hood is pulled over his head, and when he’s yanked off the bed he can’t get his feet underneath him in time and ends up being dragged out of his room.

When they reach the hall, he can breathe again, and he fights, yanking against the arms holding him from either side.

“Help!” he screams, and his heart plummets when there is no answer. Oh god, what have they done to my friends?

He plants his feet, pushes up, willing his body into flight and hoping to dislodge the attackers holding him. Before he can escape, an unseen force slams him back to the ground. He groans from the impact, and the attackers take advantage of his confusion to pull him further down the hall.

He hears a door open, and the realization that he is being taken somewhere sends renewed energy through him. He struggles, lashing out with his elbows and feet, but the people holding him don’t budge, and he’s pulled outside with his bare feet scrabbling on the grass.

All of a sudden, he’s spun and thrown down, landing on his back on a hard surface. Before he can get his bearings, he hears something slam down above him. Under the hood, his vision darkens, and it suddenly feels harder to breathe.

He brings his hands up, and to his horror, feels his palms push flat against something, barely five inches from his chest. His hands push out, and collide with wooden walls.

His mind whites out with terror. He is in a coffin.

The claustrophobia and hood combined make it impossible to breathe. He rips off the hood, blinking his eyes to adjust and panting for air. He can barely make out anything, just the shadow of the lines on the planks above him.

His hands come up automatically, pressing with all his strength against the lid, but it won’t move and oh god, oh god, he’s trapped, he’s trapped—

Something lands on top of the lid. Over the thundering of his heart, Icarus thinks he can hear the sound of a—a shovel, and there it is again, the sound of dirt hitting the lid—they’re burying him alive, no, no, no, please no—

Unbidden, a whine slips out of him, high pitched and frantic with terror, and he slams his hands against the lid, pounding his palms against the unrelenting wood over and over.

“HELP! Somebody please help! Let me out! Oh god, PLEASE!” he screams, his voice breaking on the last word. But no one responds, and Icarus is alone, alone and trapped, and he’s so scared he doesn’t know which will kill him first, the fear or the lack of air.

The lid still isn’t moving, and his hands slide down it in a panic, nails catching in engraved paths. They are scratch marks, Icarus realizes with horror. He is not the first to be trapped in here, not the first to die in here, and oh god he doesn’t want to die.

Already, his breaths are coming shorter, and he whimpers, tears sliding down his cheeks at the thought of dying like this. It can’t be like this, it won’t be, he won’t let it, and as he lets out another sob, he feels fear-driven strength surge through his veins.

With a desperate scream, he slams his hands against the lid, levitating his whole body to add to the momentum.

It moves.

It’s just the slightest shift, but it is enough, enough to keep going, so he does it again. And again, and again, until the whole thing has come loose, and dirt starts to trickle in through a crack.

He sobs again, because it’s not over, but he takes a deep breath, holds it, and shoves the lid away from him. Immediately dirt pours on top of him, and it’s everywhere, weighing down his legs, spilling across his face and blocking his nose. He keeps his eyes squeezed shut and forces his arms up, desperately clawing up until he finally feels his hands break the surface. He shoves his arms apart, forces his head up, and then, finally, surfaces.

He gasps, spitting out dirt and coughing, struggling to pull air in as he lifts his head. His eyes are still shut, eyelids covered in dirt. He digs his fingers into the ground, straining to pull the rest of his body free as he pants harshly. Finally, when his feet come free, he lies still, exhausted and shaking.

Then, with a jolt, he remembers. His head shoots up, adrenaline surging through him as he prepares to fight his attackers. He is halfway to his feet, when he freezes.

The faces he sees are not the known ones of the city’s most wanted villains. Nor are they shadowy strangers.

They are his teammates.

As he sways, shellshocked, Jordan looks up from a stopwatch in his hand, grinning.

“Two minutes and twelve seconds!” he exclaims, his voice cheerful. “That’s almost a new record!” He laughs. “Beat Matthew’s time by more than half.”

Icarus looks over at Matthew. The healer is sitting nearby, staring at the ground.

“Wh…what?” he croaks out. His voice shakes.

“Aw, come on man, it’s all in good fun. Can’t be a superhero without some life or death training right?”

Lee snorts. “Oh, it’s training now?”

“Training, initiation, whatever you want to call it. Either way, you survived, so you’re officially a part of the team!” He throws his arms up in celebration at the end of his statement.

Icarus doesn’t know how to respond. He’s crashing, coming down from the adrenaline and the fear that feels like it will live in him forever. He cannot fathom the reality he is being shown, so far removed from his ideas of family and friendship and heroism. His breath hitches, and he swallows back a whimper.

“Oh come on dude, don’t be a baby,” Jordan scolds, no longer smiling.

Icarus recognizes the emotion that creeps through him when Jordan meets his eyes. It’s fear. It freezes his tongue in his mouth, so all he can do is shift his eyes demurely to the ground. It’s enough to appease Jordan. He yawns.

“I’m beat. You put up a hell of a fight.” He shoots Icarus another sly grin, then heads back into the house.

The rest of the boys follow him in, drifting off to their separate bedrooms, until only Icarus and Matthew remain outside.

The healer lifts himself off the ground and comes over to Icarus, who stands still, blank eyes fixed on nothing. Matthew lays a hand on his arm, doesn’t react to Icarus’s flinch. Slowly, he guides him to the ground.

“Are you hurt?” he asks.

Icarus blinks. Yes, he thinks, but it is not the kind of hurt that Matthew’s powers can heal.

“Your hands,” the other boy says softly, and only then does Icarus feel the pinpricks of pain radiating from his palms. He looks down. Splinters of wood poke out of the soft flesh of his palms. Blood trickles from a few of the punctures, and several of his nails have broken.

“Oh,” he says dully. He hadn’t noticed.

Gently, Matthew takes his hands. Icarus inhales sharply as he feels the healer’s powers start to take effect. A slow tingling spreads across his hands, and he watches as the skin reforms, pushing the splinters out so they land harmlessly on the grass below them.

“It’s not usually this bad,” Matthew says quietly, not looking up from his work. “Just try to keep your head down. They’ll find a new target eventually.”

He turns Icarus’s hands over, checks that they’re completely healed, then stands and goes back into the house.

Icarus watches him go. He is shaking, even though it’s a warm summer night. He shifts, dirt falling off his pajama pants. He has a feeling they won’t ever feel clean again. He thinks he could stay crumpled out here forever, or at least until the sun rises and there’s a chance of feeling warm again. But that is not what heroes do. Heroes…heroes get back up. So he does, swaying only slightly when he stands, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other to get back into the house.

He freezes at the threshold of his room, taking in the blankets he scattered when he was pulled from his bed. He can’t imagine just pulling them back into place, falling asleep in the bed as if he wasn’t just robbed of his safety in it. Instead, he pulls a comforter to the floor, strips his filthy pajamas, and lies down on the padded cover, pulling it over himself as tight as possible, as if to protect himself from an inevitable attack.

He tries to sleep, he does, but the tears rush out and don’t stop, and even as he tries to choke back his sobs, terrified someone will hear, he can’t stop crying.

He wants to go home.

Another sob forces it’s way past his lips, and he bites down on his fist to muffle the sound.

This place is the closest thing he has to one.

Next

taglist: @whumpinggrounds :) (please let me know if you want to be added or removed!)

[whump-is-love-whump-is-life]

A whumper/whumpers assuming their whumpee has a high pain tolerance because they’re non-human

[angst-is-love-angst-is-life]

if you had to choose only ONE way to whump Barry what would it be? :)

WHY WHO WOULD POSSIBLY CURSE ME LIKE THIS?! ONLY ONE?!?! Sigh. I won't cheat and say 'torture' as a blanket term so.

Gotta go with some sort of captivity. Speedsters in general don't like to be stuck in one place, and even without some form of physical torture :( , it's a good psychological whump strategy. It proves extremely effective for him specifically because while he's trapped, he'll be constantly worrying about his loved ones and Central City in general because in this situation, he doesn't know anything happening outside of wherever he's being kept :)

[save-the-villainous-cat]

OH MY GOF FREE MY CHILD HER O 😭😭😭 just let out a 😦 wjen supervillain said "the speedster with a broken leg" ...

omw to give supervillain a free danganronpa execution ! /J

(++ love the angst tho . free food ... i love amgs...t...r.r..)

-🐏

YESSSS I’ve been watching the boys recently and oh well I’ve been writing so much whump

[whumpinggrounds]

Situation Normal, All Fucked Up

For @febuwhump day 9, kidnapped!

Tagging @whumpy-writings, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, and @princess-poopsicle - let me know if you want to be added or removed :)

CW: chase scene, fall, fear, abandonment, kidnapping (duh), threatened with a gun

It’s supposed to be a routine patrol. That’s what keeps going through August’s head. Routine patrol. Routine patrol. Routine patrol. He’s not supposed to be doing any chases yet, or even following up on any real leads. Beck has approved him for patrols and surveillance, under Donovan’s supervision, and that’s it.

Beck would lose his mind if he knew August and Don were chasing an actual villain right now. August can’t tell if he’s excited or scared himself – his heart is pumping too hard for him to know if the feeling coursing through his veins is panic or adrenaline.

Around him, the city flies by in a blur of color, light and sound. Ahead of him, in the crowded street, a motorcycle dodges between cars to the tune of a thousand honking horns. On the sidewalk, August skips around trees, strollers, and bewildered pedestrians. The wind of his passing knocks people’s hats off. It’s terrifying and exhilarating, running in the city like this, and it requires every ounce of August’s focus. In his earpiece, Donovan is demanding updates, but August doesn’t have the breath or the will to give them. He just keeps sprinting forward, cutting and dodging, keeping pace with the supercharged motorbike.

Splitting attention between the sidewalk before him and the bike beside him is no easy task, so August almost misses it when the bike veers right, turning so it’s almost parallel to the ground, tires squealing on the asphalt. As he turns, August can feel the soles of his shoes giving out, but he pounds on anyway, flying between cars so quickly it’s like they’re standing still. The bike has ducked down an alley – the villain must be trying to cut through somewhere and slip away from August. The young superhero would snort to himself if he had the breath to do anything besides run.

He doesn’t see the motorbike up ahead, but maybe it’s blasted through the alley already. Bright-eyed and deeply impatient, August blasts ahead, whipping past garbage cans, cardboard boxes, a big green Dumpster –

Something snaps hard against his shins, and August is flying. He’s moving too quickly to stop, and when some thick cord hits just above his ankles, instead of stopping, he goes airborne. He hits the ground hard, a few feet past the Dumpster. The air leaves his lungs all at once and he’s flopping on the ground like a landed fish, trying desperately to suck breath into his throat.

A huge dark figure looms over him. Suddenly, August is finding it hard to breathe for a completely different reason.

“Hey little speedster. Didn’t anybody ever tell you to look for a tripwire?”

Now August can breathe again, and that breath is coming in quick, terrified pants. He tries to scramble backwards, hands reaching back, to scrape along the pavement, but swiftly, almost casually, the villain lifts their arm. A long black barrel points out at August’s face.

“Ah, ah, ah,” the villains sings. “Stay right where you are, buddy. Stay right where you are.”

The earpiece in August’s ear crackles to life again, and his heart lifts giddily. “August!” Donovan sounds furious, but August couldn’t be happier to hear it. “Where the fuck are you?!”

“D-d-downtown,” August manages, and he doesn’t recognize his own voice, it’s so high and shaky. “They h-h-h-have a g-gun on me-e.”

Donovan is cursing in his ear, and the villain in front of him is chuckling. August doesn’t know which is scarier. When the villain starts talking, though, August tunes in fast. “You have somebody in your ear, there, buddy?” The voice is friendly, coaxing. “You wanna tell ‘em hi for me?”

August stares up, mute with fear. He’s glad the villain can’t see his face behind his mask, how frightened he is. In his ear, Donovan growls. “What’re they saying, huh? What’s going on? What stupid fucking mess did you get yourself into?”

August waits a moment, but neither of them says a word. It’s his turn to talk. “They, um, know I have someone listening in an earpiece,” he explains, voice still tremulous. “They’re saying, um. Hi?”

“Oh, good.” August can tell from their voice that the villain is grinning. “Why don’t you tell whoever that is that I also say they have, oh, five minutes to get here before you and I take a little trip, get to know each other a little better?”

Eyes going huge, August stares up at the shadowy figure above him. “He’ll be here in – he’ll be here before that. You can’t – I’m going to-”

“Shh.” The villain takes a step closer, nudges August’s ribs with the barrel of what must be an improbably huge gun. “Go on. Relay my little message.”

Trying to take a breath, August finds himself only able to hyperventilate. He squeezes his eyes shut, hoping that blocking out the sight of the towering figure will make it easier to breathe. Nothing helps. Finally, with another nudge from the villain’s gun, the words all come out in a flood.

“They say if you’re not here in five minutes they’re going to take me somewhere with them and they have a gun on me and I told them you’re coming but they don’t believe that you’ll make it here in time and-”

“Shut up.” Donovan’s voice isn’t even angry anymore, just cold and abrupt. “They’re right. I’m too far from you.”

August gulps. “They’re – they’re – what?”

“Shut up, kid.” Now Don is back to sounding angry. “They don’t have to know that. Look, I’m not going to make it to you, so I’m going to swing back and get Beck.”

“N-no.” The word is hardly audible as it escapes August’s mouth. “No – you have to-to try, you can make it, don’t l-leave-”

Above August, the villain tips their head, but the hero isn’t watching them anymore. “D-do-”

“Don’t say my name!” Donovan snarls. “Fucking idiot. Pay attention to where they take you. Could be a good opportunity for us to find their lair.”

“But-but…” August can hardly speak he’s so stunned and breathless and totally blank on what to say. “But I d-don’t w-want to go with them, I can’t go with them, they’re go-gonna hurt me or kill me or-”

“Too bad,” Don tells him grimly, and then the audio disconnects.

[mikkeneko]

decided to make a post for My (Unfortunately) Greatest Hits, which will consist of a link to each of my top rated posts, a brief description, and an added line as to why it’s unfortunate that they got so popular. not sure whether to add this to my pinned post or just make it standalone, will decide later

Anyway, a brief guide to Mikke’s Unfortunately Greatest Hits, aka places you may have seen my name screenshotted to one of those other  social media sites.

1. That One Death God Post. i wrote a short concept of a benign-seeming-but-secretly-sinister god of death, somebody took it up and wrote a mini-essay on the beauty of the acceptance of mortality. 

why it’s unfortunate: the most popular reblog, said mini-essay about a kind and gentle death, is literally the opposite of my original intent, which was about a king of a death realm whose power increases through the subtle horror of inevitable mortality over time. now there are *checks notes* fifty thousand reblogs each of whom feel the need to ask if I Have Heard The Good Word About Discworld’s Death.

2. Archer Is Actually A Speedster Post. a brief funny muse about speedsters using their powers in non-typical ways to form a superhero team of all speedsters. the most popular reblog of this post turned it into a statement about imposter syndrome and mental wellness.

why it’s unfortunate: mostly only for the pedants who feel the need to point out, repeatedly, that if the heroes are all speedsters they ought to be able to perceive each other. look buddy, I said that they pretended  to have other powers, not that they were actually fooling anybody.

3. The Whump Fan’s Dilemma. That meme about a guy agonizing between two buttons, except it’s about whump. the most popular reblog is a different meme of a cat pressing both.

why it’s unfortunate: look fellas, the meme was written about the experience of being a whump reader,  not a whump writer; it’s super easy to type “why not both?” but that isn’t going to make those fics where both things happen appear in front of me ripe for the reading now is it. 

on the up side, perhaps over the length of its lifespan, this post will have inspired more writers to indeed write both? in which case I suppose it’s earned its place in the world.

4. “you cannot know what people are taking away from the text” - I added one of my most oft-repeated arguments in fandom wank into that “bus driver tapping the sign” meme, which surprisingly caught on

why it’s unfortunate: it’s not, mostly, except that 1) it seems to flood my notifs again every time there’s a new wave of wank in some fandom I don’t even follow, which I suppose is just its intended purpose, and 2) people who still feel the need to reblog with notes about how their  particular bugaboo is, of course, still a valid reason for harassing people.

5. Frodo Laid a Geas, my only popular post with any particular actual merit, this was just the (somewhat disorganized) thread where I laid out my argument as to why Frodo, at the climax of Return of the King, lays a geas on Gollum that forces him into the lava, rather than supposing that Gollum “just tripped” (or was forced by divine intervention) at the last moment. (There’s a better version, with actual citations, here.)

why it’s unfortunate: every time this one starts circulating again, I get a few more followers, and it always makes me feel super bad that people may have been fooled into thinking that I actually contribute in any regular or productive way to the Tolkien fandom, which I absolutely do not.

6. The Turkey Post

7. Child Developmental Stages (aka Children Are Bigger Than You Think)

[lref-incorrect-quotes]

Kaz: Straight friend groups be like: blonde girl, chad, the funny one, Kyle, brunette girl, frat boy.

Kaz: Gay friend groups be like: know-it-all whump magnet, speedster with identity issues, agent of chaos who bounces between holding all or none of the braincells with no in-between, ghostwriter with mommy issues, feral alien biker-gymnast, cryptid rich kid with incomprehensible tastes, tired alt-rock designated babysitter, angry homeschooled legacy kid, happy eccentric DILF, nerd with too many ideas who's trying his best, himbo who can benchpress an aircraft carrier, smug eccentric DILF, blind ex-vagabond, two-faced robot with daddy issues, know-it-all whump magnet's feral alter, secret brother, team-mom number four...

Bree: How much longer is this gonna go on?

Oliver: How many people do we know?

[hedgiwithapen]

happy dammit hedgi day :) im new to this but i just want some cisco whump 😭😭😭 that's all i ask of u keep up the good work

Cisco Ramon woke up, looked at his hands, and swore. It was not the first time. He had woken the day after Crisis, looked at his hands, and sworn then, too. Apparently the entire multiverse being reset and also helpfully reset him, at least to the him he’d been a year and a half before that. Before the cure that had only done half of what he wanted. It had turned out that being free of his visions and the ability to manipulate the vibrations of the world around him hadn’t freed him of his ability to have nightmares about That One Timeline Where He’d Been Murdered. Or The Other One Where He’d Been Killed. Or The Other Nine Where He’d Been Murdered AND Had a Shitty First Date... Or any of the other timelines he already remembered. Just like he now remembered a whole lot more than should have fit in his brain. It was, officially, way too much. He’d made every excuse he could think of to stay away from STAR and Central City. Maybe, just maybe if he distanced himself, he could avoid everything that always happened, every year right around May. And then this year, this one year he was actually ready for All That, the disasters just skipped May and happened the rest of the year instead. Of course. Every time he looked around the Cortext, he saw something that didn’t add up, something that didn’t match, and it hurt. His vision was tinted blue more than it wasn’t, and he woke screaming three nights out of four. He had to get out of Central City. He had to go somewhere where nothing was familiar, where he could breathe without feeling like everything had twisted 30 degrees left and five more directly upwards in a cyclone of Not Quite Right.

So he’d tried. The Roadtrip to a hundred towns he’d never set foot in. Atlantis. It felt like running away. Like he was abandoning everything. So he’d decided, lying awake trying to blink away images of Ronnie and Hartley Rathaway feeding sunflower seeds to the lab mice and a Harrison Wells with gentle eyes that suddenly burned red, that he’d have to take another direction. Leave Central City, but… not the Hero thing. He’d tried the other way before, and even before it hadn’t stuck, it hadn’t worked. ARGUS had been delighted when Cisco had asked if they were interested in some extra assistance. It had been good, solid work, too. Finding fugitives, closing off breaches between new earths and this one to keep things more or less secure -- no more Zooms breaking through, Thank You So Much. That had lasted a week. Then they’d drugged the water at an intel briefing, and he’d woken inside a tall cylinder that wouldn’t break no matter how he’d tried. It was for his own good, they’d said. For the world’s own good. He was simply too powerful to be allowed to roam freely. Cisco’d had the sinking feeling that they couldn’t even hear him telling them exactly how much bullshit that was. He had a worse feeling that they had listened when he’d screamed that they shouldn’t treat him like some kind of supervillain prisoner. They’d started treating him like an experiment, instead. Like Grodd. Like Firestorm. Like Bette. His ears had bled from the sound pumped into the tube, the vibrations trapped with nowhere for him to channel them. That hadn’t stopped him from trying to shield himself, trying to still them into silence. It hadn’t done much good. He’d seen, out of the corner of his eye, the agents in their black uniforms and the scientists in white coats, writing things down, and he’d gritted his teeth and tried to make the whole damn tube explode. He’d knocked himself out instead, and when he woke, it was hours later, in total darkness and blissful silence. And then the visions poured themselves through his mind, flickering just a little at a time, a thousand timelines clamoring to be heard. He couldn’t focus, and his head ached too fiercely. For the first time in what felt like years, he gave up, curling on the hard floor, and let the visions wash over him without trying to figure out what they meant. He could have told them that the booms he threw, the vibrational blasts that could slow a speedster or shatter glass, didn’t come from his hands, that it was just redirecting the sound and energy waves around him. But the scientists didn’t ask, and ignored him when he tried. They’d pinned his arm under their scanners and when that wasn’t enough, they’d brought out the scalpels. Whoever was in charge--it couldn’t have been Lyla, Cisco refused to believe Lyla would permit this--won the “not quite as sadistic as you could have been” award, though, because at least they hadn’t made him stay awake through the surgery. He’d woken with stitches up his palms and gauze wrapped snugly around his fingers. He looked at his hands again, and swore, swallowing nausea. Somewhere beyond his tube, a door opened, and closed again. His shoulders slumped as he let go of hope for a rescue.