#long creature writes

[creatureofstories]

Poisoned Villain/“Who did this to you?” Gone Wrong

Talkative Villain ends up loosely restrained at Superhero’s mercy. They could normally get out of these (they go as far as snarkily telling Superhero that) but for one thing - their limbs rudely refuse to respond.

“What’s wrong, dear scum? Feeling a little… under the weather? It couldn’t be from that drink Hero gave you earlier, could it?” No. No. They wouldn’t. This is just another of Superhero’s games.

As the minutes tick on, Villain starts to stutter, then slur. But they just. Keep. Talking. Through the shadows appearing in their vision, through the tears they didn’t feel welling up, through the dizzy blllurrred wrrlddd…

Silver tongue grows leaden. Yet it drums on. A small piece of power, to annoy Superhero so. Removing these “heroes”’ false power had been their motivation to begin with.

“Do you feel the burning? That’s your sin festering within you. Or the wound - could be either one! Now remind me, Villain, who did this to you? Who poisoned you?”

Villain couldn’t really feel anything anymore. The blur was all.

In the intellectual part of their brain, they had already catalogued all the wounds inflicted upon them since the drugging and their severity. In the intellectual part of their brain, they knew - knew Hero hadn’t done this. In the intellectual part of their brain, they knew the frustrating screaming and whimpering they could hear originated from themself.

“Has my songbird lost its voice? Who did this to you?”

”H…hnnngh. Hero.”

“Good.”

And with that, Villain’s eyes slid mercifully back and their tongue

stilled.

[creatureofstories]

You’ve Been Stitched Up! pt 2

[I’d been writing this for agesssss - why does my writing energy disappear when I’m finally on a roll?!]

<- Pt 1

Looking down required some force of will. It wasn’t that he was squeamish, heavens no. In this line of work you couldn’t be; indeed he was known to be quite the “arm-deep-in-gore freak” to his would-be contemporaries. He prided himself on his strong stomach.

Not strong enough to block a fragment of flask though.

No, looking down required some force of will because it meant he couldn’t deny what his body was saying. That there was something alien, wolfish and biting within him. Glacial, clear, tearing. And he needed to get it out.

His loose, light blue shirt was already a little worse for wear from his careless approach to scienceing that day. And the day before. And the day before. This was exactly why he’d recently installed the poky single bed in his lab. Always resourceful.

He laid himself slowly back with a soft grunt, then assessed the damage.

Gruesome red bloomed like poppies across the field of sky blue polyester, tendrils reaching across and tainting it all with his own ichor. As he slowly pulled out the bits of fabric lodged in the wound, he grimaced. A few sweat beads dripped down his face. And was that pink- no, green- purple? In his blood? Streaking his fingers?

He must have been hurt worse than he thought, to have started hallucinating.

His stomach looked like a crime scene. A gash like a maw, with a glass fang ferocious. It took him too long, and too much energy, to get it out. Everything was smudged like a vignette, happening in another place, another time, to another person. It stayed like this until he finally extricated the glass - then everything pulled into horrible, gut-wrenching focus. One final yank and it was out, along with a shuddering yelp torn from his throat.

A trailing arm grasped beneath the bed until it found its target - a suture kit. His vision had begun to spot and blur, so he’d have to work fast.

Every step was agony. He needed both hands, but each took their turn to quiver and shake violently, being of no use. He’d already foregone the tweezers with his monumentally reckless foreign body removal, so it’d just be a good old fashioned sewing job. Easy. Eaaaassssy. Easy, he mentally muttered to himself as his face contorted into entirely new shapes in the pain.

Stitch.

Oh god he was only young, he shouldn’t have to do this, this isn’t his area of exper-

Stitch.

His breath was uneven. Shaking as much as his stupid hands. Catching, spilling, hurling-

Stitch.

He shouldn’t have taken that damn money. What- How could- Who would do this? Who-

Stitch.

He felt like his intestines were vicious snakes, snapping and sliding over-

Stitch.

Why. Why why why why wh-

Stitch.

Close.

Fuck.

He hadn’t seriously just done that. Broken every rule of what not to do like it was a speedrun. Made everything so much worse. Been stabbed.

He was going to die, and it would be his favourite flask that killed him.

How typical.

Tags:

@daisy-loves-reanimator I hope everything he did wrong in this scene hurts you /j

@bloodthirsty-squirrel tagging bc of your wonderful tags on your reblog of part 1!

[creatureofstories]

Febuwhump Day 16: Touch Aversion

ALT 1: Environmental Whump

Arthur wasn’t sure he had the water left to sweat.

The heat was oppressive, encircling him. Smothering, climbing into his body, locking up his bones. A taunting embrace.

God, he missed hugs.

He missed people. Horrible, boring, mean, spiteful people. People who did not- would not care he was weeping, begging for that black reaper to visit him, in this weary pale desert. He missed them regardless.

Instead of that nebulous there, with venomous contempt and gentle touch alike, he was here. Here. Here was forever. Here with the birds, with the dark with the sky wrapping around his neck with the deep blue velvet of it choking him with the prison with the post with the whip with the

blood

was he still chained up? he was still chained up wasn’t he. foolish to think he would escape this moment- that man- the horrible soul squirming vulnerability- the disease the grime the hands around his throat the rot the heat the birds. the birds the birds the birds black enveloping swallowing swallows dancing and he was home and the sky was blue not red but their claws were their claws were red his hands were red his back was red it was

lacerated, lash after lash swinging down. Rending exhausted, heat-flushed flesh. Sanguine spills like tears dripping down. What was the punishment for? What was any of this for? He barely remembered the touch of his torturer, gentle, carrying him back to the concrete-cool cell. He could almost still feel the hand brushing at his-

wait what? that had. definitely not happened. maybe the heat was finally getting to his mind it had got to him long ago . maybe he’d contracted some devilish illness you know you’re ill you fool wake up. maybe he just needed to rest. for an eternity, hopefully. wake up wake up wake up wake up you got out wakeupwakeupwakeup

Jayce watched as Arthur stirred and moaned softly. He was muttering.. something about that bird? Clearly this fever was not letting up. Jayce’s hand gently brushed at Arthur’s face, moving sweat-sodden hair away. His other hand was fumbling for his red handled pocket knife, just in case any of them tried to take advantage of the weakened group. Not that word should have got out.

Either way, he wouldn’t let the reaper take him without a fight.

@febuwhump

[creatureofstories]

You’ve Been Stitched Up! pt 1

[This is based on my new scientist OC but I still don’t know his name! So I’ve kept it vague. It will be self surgery whump in the next chapter!]

What had happened?

Maybe a test tube smashed, and he slipped and fell, shards slick with chemicals stuck in his stomach.

Maybe it was self-inflicted, another guilty lapse of judgment.

Maybe those “never run with scissors!” posters in his …admittedly messy lab had been ignored, and that’s how this happened.

Maybe he lost control of his scalpel.

What had happened?

Maybe, just maybe, it was this. Someone entered the lab - uninvited, he had noted with irritation - swung the door open and barked his name. Said she’d had enough of being messed around, where was her money? What are you even doing with her money? She didn’t really care, had always been brawn over brains, but the higher-ups needed results. And if he didn’t deliver, well. There were plenty of other, more compromising positions he could be in.

He’d tried to stammer out a response, unsure at first but more enraged as he went on.

He was conducting private research. This was a private lab. Yes, they will get their data. He had paid back as much as he coul- no, he will get it to her, but what does she think she’s- he didn’t have to comply with that, that’s ridicul- stop cutting him off, drop the threats and listenn-

Put it down. You don’t know what you’re doing. What’s in there? Infectious bacteria. Basic Escherichia coli. A difficult strain. Why does it matter, I can replace it, you’re holding hostage a conical flask, what do you want what are you doing stop stop it stop-KHHRCK!

The sound of glass and nerves shattering broke off his speech.

A squelch, that of a footprint in mud, that of something making a mark. His eyes had widened, pupils dilated then contracted, as he came to terms with what had just happened. She’d broken one of his favourite flasks. Oh, and he had just been stabbed.

He had just been stabbed.

The enforcer told him it was a memento, something to remind him to stick. to. his. word. She muttered something more before leaving. He wasn’t listening. Into his head he went, flicking through any and all mental textbooks for advice on stab wounds. The only thing he turned up was “Don’t remove the foreign object until you receive medical attention.”

Fat use that was.

Going to the nearest A&E was certainly not an option, and the next closest would need him and his bodily invader to drive. Not ideal. And he needed to make a decision quickly, given the pulsing pain from the shard embedded in his gut likely wasn’t going to heal with a kiss and a nap. It’d have to be another one of those nights; he’d deal with this setback himself.

[tagging @daisy-loves-reanimator because I know this will be your bag]

[creatureofstories]

Grit Your Teeth pt 1

Serving up some OC whump today! This is mostly lead up to it though. Also, my first multi-part thing! (Birch is I think ~17 in this and uses he/they, Cy is ~18 and uses she/he/they)

They were still standing, in the face of so much. Their team saw them as an inspiration. That was what mattered. They kept telling themself that was what mattered.

Not the gnawing, grating pit of loneliness that had opened within them long ago, yawning and insatiable. Not the separation they felt, miles away when right there. Not the fear their life was a sick joke, all laughing except them.

The only thing that brought them to life anymore was the fight.

-/-/-/-

Cy had been concerned about Birch for a while.

Truth be told, there was never a good reason not to be concerned about the guy. He was a walking disaster. But some of the team (and particularly their trainers) - the only ones Birch seemed to be listening to - kept pushing them, encouraging his more destructive behaviours, more paranoid thought patterns. They weren’t doing it maliciously. Cy understood why, as appalled as he was at it. Whenever Birch got in these anxious focused spirals, the sharpness (and so, effectiveness) of the whole team went up.

Until they crashed.

They never let anyone near in those days after. Debriefed, congratulated, “I’ll just check over next mission’s plans.”ed, and then… nothing. They always just disappeared in the following week, ostensibly dealing with extra work. One time, Cy caught them in the group kitchen making some instant ramen in their favoured, very chipped, Spider-Man mug. He had skittered away like a spooked deer.

Why had they been put on this placement? If Meng were here, she would comfort them. She could help. But no, this was an exercise in independence, in team management, in if they really could stand each other over multiple months and not go all slasher-movie.

Why was there something different before this mission?

It’d be fine.

-/-/-/-

Mission today: deal with a mob of stray gargoyles down at the train station. Be discreet, cull quickly, no report needed.

That meant no investigation. Hmph.

He usually lived for investigation (that and talking peoples’ ears off). He was like a full-of-shit Sherlock. But today, they were pretty sure they preferred a straightforward fight, even if this was usually grunt work, the sort of thing you started out with when you first joined. Sadly, even for someone with his fighting skills, it was unlikely he’d get that roughed up. They didn’t know why their rotation team had even been assigned this.

Stepping out into the communal area, they fixed their trademark cheeky smile on their face and cleared their throat.

It’d be fine.