Anyone willing to make a gif set of Superman starting to panic as he's suffocated and blinded by nanites and having to pull them out of his throat all choking and coughing and shaking and gasping for air??!!
Pretty please!! Any whumpy gif makers willing to make them, please please??? I can't move on until this scene lives on my dash!!
By second-most popular demand from this random poll that I'm not at all bound by but feel like I should honor... (Also, I would have voted for this one myself but I needed to go back to writing ha)
Prompt from this ask game. Will take these at any time because I love writing Aiden/Harrison dynamic (:
Masterlist
cw: medical experimentation, mouth whump/breath whump, death-wish to end torture, mention of propositioning whumper (unsuccessfully) to distract from torture.
“Your fucking fever is higher,” Harrison groans, dropping something onto the instrument tray so that everything clangs.
The sound makes him jump, all his muscles tensing uselessly against the restraints. The best he can do is curl his fingers into fists. “Be honest, did you forget to wash your hands again?” His laugh is a little shaky around the edges but Harrison doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t even roll his eyes.
“I’m going to have to run a whole blood panel.”
“You wouldn’t have to worry about my temperature if you just killed me.”
Harrison’s already distracted on his tablet. “Not your best work.”
“Or yours apparently.”
“Shut up. The incisions are fine, this one’s all you.”
It started a few days ago. Not that he has any idea of how much time passes here. A dull ache that steadily grew to a constant throb. He keeps his breaths steady and even as he prods at the sore tooth, one of his back molars. Even the brush of his tongue sends pain shooting through his jaw. He stops before his eyes start watering.
“Hey.” Harrison sets the tablet down on his leg. It slides into the space between his knees but Harrison’s gaze never leaves his face. “What was that?”
“What?”
Harrison narrows his eyes and moves closer.
“I’m just waiting for you to start pricking me like—” Harrison starts raising the head of the table. “What-what are you doing?”
Once he’s almost sitting up, Harrison pulls the monitor closer and slaps the screen, making him jump again. For a second, all the numbers and colors distort like a shaken Etch A Sketch before they snap back in line. Harrison keeps his arm around it, wrist draped over the edge. “You want to try that again and remember that you’re hooked up to a medical-grade lie detector, double-oh-seven?”
If he could shake his head, he would.
Harrison waits.
He knows better than to make Harrison ask twice and run the risk of him putting mirrors up the next time he operates or something else equally horrific. “It’s nothing,” he whispers, blinking back tears. “I maybe bit down too hard the last time.”
Harrison’s frown tightens his chest. “I’ll take a look.” He starts pulling on gloves.
The snap of nitrile sets his pulse racing, his breath coming fast and shallow. “It’s nothing,” he tries again but he’s barely audible, there’s not enough air in his lungs for volume.
Harrison ignores him.
“No, no, nono,” he sobs as soon as Harrison leans over him. “Please, Harrison. Please—”
He stops, blue-gloved hands raised between them. “What’s gotten into you? You haven’t whined like this for months.”
Months.
He scrambles, never expected Harrison to listen. “Please, can’t we just wait and see? Maybe it will be better tomorrow.”
Harrison sighs, pulling up a stool and sitting so he’s at eye level. He’d cringe away if he had more range of motion. “That’s not what I asked.”
He presses his lips together, wishing he could shake his head again. “I don’t know,” he whispers.
“A week ago, I cut you open without so much as an NSAID and you barely made a peep.”
He drops his gaze. Feels sick to his stomach at the idea that he’s getting used to this, that he’s better at it, and that a part of him is proud to have impressed Harrison.
Harrison snaps his fingers in front of his face, impatient.
“I don’t know,” he repeats, sounding sullen and whiny even to himself but Harrison doesn’t seem to notice. “It’s different, it already hurts.”
“I’ve reopened plenty of incisions.”
“It’s different.”
“You’ve had my fingers in your skull before.”
He glares at him. Hates when Harrison studies him like this, when it’s his reactions rather than his body’s that are the focus.
“My fingers are basically in your mouth every time I intubate you.”
“It’s not about that,” he snaps. “I wouldn’t be offering to suck you off every time I think you’ll let me get away with saying it if I didn’t mean it.”
Harrison pinches the bridge of his nose. “There is zero chance of me ever taking you up on that. Which you would know if you fucking listened to me. I have no reason to lie to you.”
“Whatever.” Now didn’t seem like the time to point out that for a guy keeping someone restrained in a basement operating room, he was awfully concerned about being honest.
“Don’t be a brat just because you feel rejected.”
He swallows, curling his hands into fists. “Yes, doctor.”
“Damn, you really are shaken.” Harrison takes his face in his gloved hands.
He locks his jaw and presses his lips together. He’s hyperventilating through his nose before Harrison has even moved a finger.
“Jesus. Don’t make yourself pass out,” he chides. “Tell me where it hurts.” He prods the outside of his cheek along his upper row of teeth first, one side and then the other.
His breathing gets faster when he moves to the bottom row.
“Calm the fuck down. Seriously.” When Harrison’s finger meets the sore spot, he whimpers, tears springing to his eyes. Harrison pulls out his penlight. “I have to see inside now.”
“It hurts,” he whispers, as if that has ever stopped Harrison before.
Harrison taps his jaw muscle with his thumb. “It’ll hurt even more if you fight me on this. Open.”
He holds his breath as Harrison slips a gloved finger between his bottom teeth and lip, pulling his cheek aside to see better. His other fingers rest under his chin. One presses right into his pulse point like an unconscious gravitation. He blinks up at the ceiling without really seeing it. Doesn’t want to close his eyes but can’t bring himself to watch Harrison’s face, especially so close.
“For the love of Christ. Breathe.”
He pulls a thin gasp through his nose.
“How’s—”
Pain shoots through his mouth and he almost snaps it shut right on Harrison’s finger.
“Watch it, Cujo.” Harrison slides his fingertip over his bottom row of teeth, hooking his finger over them once he gets to the middle.
He lets his jaw go slack, mouth opening even wider than before, his forehead pressing against its restraint. A raspy whine escapes his throat.
Harrison keeps his finger there like he needs to hold his mouth open. Two fingers of the other hand slip into his cheek, less gentle on this side. He tries to remember to breathe. Focuses on the tablet still leaning against his leg, the feeling of the restraints at his ankles and wrists.
“Alright.” Harrison releases him, holding his hands up and rolling his eyes.
He pulls in a deep breath, just a little shaky on the edges.
Harrison watches the monitor until he’s calmed down. “You didn’t crack a tooth or anything. It looks like it’s just an infection in your gum. An antibiotic drip should take care of it.”
“What?”
Harrison stands, straightening his lab coat. “What?”
“I—” He swallows. “I thought you would pull my tooth out.”
“And risk an even bigger infection while you recover?”
“I guess I didn’t think of that,” he admits. The idea that Harrison would simply fix anything is a little mindboggling.
“No, you weren’t thinking at all,” Harrison says, something like bitterness creeping into his tone. “Don’t hide shit like this from me. It would have been even easier to treat if you told me when it started.”
“I—I didn’t know it would get worse.”
“You’re lucky it’s just an infected gum.” Harrison lifts his hand but stops shy of raking it through his hair when he realizes he’s still wearing gloves. “It could have been something serious.”
He narrows his eyes. “Wait. Were you actually worried?”
Harrison glares at him.
“Don’t tell me after all this time—”
“Shut up.”
“Are you attached?”
Harrison huffs, angry that he hit a nerve. “Neither one of us wants a surprise complication fucking you up.”
“I do,” he insists. It’s rare he has Harrison on the back foot and even rarer that he pushes so far, considering that he has nothing to stand on himself. “‘Which you would know if you fucking listened to me.’”
Harrison won’t meet his gaze. “Enough.”
“Fuck you if you think I’ll help you keep me alive to be your guinea pig,” he spits. “I hope it is worse next time. I hope it kills me.”
“Stop.”
“Given the choice between a slip of your scalpel and hiding something so you just find me down here dead one day—”
Harrison lunges at him. He braces for a strike to the sore side of his face but Harrison grabs him under the chin instead. He locks his jaw, breath coming in frantic huffs through his nose. Harrison squeezes, fingers digging against the painful spot until tears run down his cheek, thumb forcing his jaw open at the joint. He cries out when Harrison finally pries his teeth apart.
“No, wait—please—”
All four gloved fingers violate his mouth, pushing into his throat until he’s gagging. The muscles in his neck and shoulders tense and twist as he tries to pull his head away but there’s no escape. Harrison stares down at him, gaze bottomless and dark, devoid of emotion.
He alternates between gasping air through his nose and choking. Harrison lifts his other hand and his stomach drops. He places two fingertips over his nostrils, almost tenderly, to stop his ragged breathing.
His body bucks against the restraints, back arching mere centimeters off the table. Only leaving more bruises and welts around his wrists and ankles while he pulls and pulls and pulls. His scream dies painfully in his throat, muscles contracting around the intrusion.
He can’t picture himself beyond these walls anymore. Forward thinking was confiscated, along with his license and social security card, on his first day here. It hasn’t returned with his memories. Escape isn’t something he considers. Nor does he imagine his role extending beyond this table if Harrison ever completes his work. He will die here, one day.
His chest aches and burns. Black spots crowd into his vision, eclipsing Harrison’s face. An infinite nothingness. Coming to claim him. He’s terrified of it. Of not existing. Even if all he knows now is pain. His panic crystallizes. One singular thought drives his fruitless struggle.
Not yet.
He doesn’t want to die and Harrison is calling his bluff. Even knowing this is just to prove a point, he can’t stop fighting, he can’t let go. The darkness builds in volume and weight, liquid and smoke, drowning him, filling his senses from the inside out, pinning him to the spot with an unyielding finality. He can’t hear himself struggling, can’t see Harrison anymore, can’t feel his pulse slowly marching off this cliff.
In an instant, it ends.
He’s ripped back in a white-hot flash, fire flaring to life across an oil slick. Breath after burning breath, blinking into blinding light.
“Fuck you,” he rasps as soon as he can, vision still swimming. He’s sure his face is a mess of tears and snot and spit.
“Not happy with what we’ve learned?” He flinches when Harrison reaches for his shoulder but it’s only to wipe his saliva-covered glove on his gown. “I for one am glad we’re on the same page now.”
“I hate you.”
“Strong words for someone so dead set on sticking around.”
He coughs a hoarse laugh that feels like swallowing a blade. “You’re even more insane than I thought.”
Harrison moves behind him, shuffling through the cabinets long enough that he wonders if he’s stalling but he returns to his side with antibiotics and hooks the bag alongside the other infusions. He winces at the tugging sensation under his collarbone as Harrison attaches the line to an empty port.
“You choose this every single day with your will to live,” Harrison says absently, opening the valve and watching the fluid run down the line. “Fighting me, fighting the pain, fighting to stay.”
“That’s not the same thing as wanting to be here.” He pulls against the restraints to illustrate his point but Harrison waves him off and moves out of view. He runs the sink, opens and closes a cabinet, a drawer. He’s not sure what he’s listening for exactly.
Harrison wheels back over on the stool, a familiar water bottle in hand.
He swallows.
“Keep it in your pants, it’s just saline.”
It’s not like he needs to drink anything, hooked up to IV fluids around the clock. But he’d do anything for the simple sensation of water on his tongue, to participate in the mundane but vital action, just to feel human. Harrison waits for him to close his lips around the bent nozzle, then squeezes saline into his mouth. It’s warm. Harrison used warm water so it would be gentler. Psychopath.
Harrison misinterprets his surprised confusion. “Don’t even think about it. I can entertain myself just as easily listening to audiobooks while you’re under.”
He can’t shake his head or deny it so he just lets his gaze fall, pulse stepping up, hoping he looks sufficiently chastised. He must because Harrison holds a surgical tray under his chin. He purses his lips to let the saline stream out of his mouth. Even pressing forward against the head restraint, some of it dribbles onto his chin. He braces when Harrison lifts his hand but it’s only to wipe it away with a surgical towel.
“The others crapped out after a week or two.” Harrison dabs his cheeks, even wipes his nose.
“What?” Others?
“They couldn’t handle it—didn’t want to handle it—but you’re different.”
“You’re full of shit.” It comes out a whisper.
Harrison leans in, unblinking. “I have no reason to lie to you.”
He suppresses a shudder. “All I’m hearing is that you’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
Harrison’s jaw twitches as he stands over him. “Just take the compliment. You’re good at this.”
whumper brutalizing whumpees body, through horrible cuts and wounds that promise a scar. or my personal favorite forced organ removals either non-vital or vital whatever whumpee can handle, well it doesn't matter if they can handle it or not ;)
Hey there, thanks for the ask! From this ask game.
Okay, so I went a little in between on these. Hopefully it works! This fun, very fucked up scene is from Shattered Soul, the sequel to my novel. (wip intro link)
Whump Tropes: Brutal physical whump/Gore
Contents/TWs: male "whumpee", female "whumper" who is a fire goddess, there's definitely some brutalizing, and while there's not organ removal, there is a hand inside a body and a diaphragm that gets ripped apart, so I thought it might at least partially count :), I'm not even sure what to call this trope tbh lol, torture, gore, suffocation, the appearance of character death (he doesn't die, for reasons I have redacted from this sample lol), other than the redactions this is unedited, ~375 words
~~~
She stabbed her nails into Serin's left flank, digging deep to release a wave of blistering heat that seared his insides. His eyes flew open as he screamed, the sound bouncing around the room and lighting up Malachiah's face with glee as she captured his eyes with her hypnosis.
Taloned mental claws tore through the barriers of his mind even as she tore her nails through his midsection.
The pain was unbearable, mentally and physically. Hot blood spilled from his side, scalding the flesh on his back as it pooled under him on the table. Fire tore through his mind, digging into his memories, where absolutely nothing was safe, nothing was secret.
~~~
Sobs tore through him when Malachiah released his mind.
The goddess leaned down, licked at the trail of his tears with a tongue that scraped his cheek like sandpaper. Her taloned hand scraped down his chest, then probed inside the gashes she'd already made in his side. He screamed, arching his back against the agonizing pressure of her fingers inside his body.
Malachiah flexed her hand, and her nails tore through something else inside him, something that felt important. His heart fluttered when he failed to draw his next breath, then accelerated into full panic mode when the next one wouldn't come either. Malachiah watched him struggle with hooded eyes, and Serin now knew that even if he suffocated here and died, it wouldn't last. With that thought, the full weight of hopeless despair came crashing down on him. The tears streaming down his face didn't quite blur his vision enough to hide the rapturous expression that crossed the Reaper's face.
Ahh, yes, there it is. Hopelessness has the sweetest taste of all the emotions. This will open up a whole new world of possibilities for us, darling Serin.
Someone cleared their throat from the room's entrance. Serin's chest spasmed when she withdrew her hand, the wrongness of her hand slithering out from inside his body making him shudder as much as his useless attempts to breathe. Through his tears and the tunnel vision that was settling in, he watched Malachiah step away from the table. Watched her leave him strapped there, laying in a pool of his own blood, slowly suffocating.
I had to run from something, but I was really slow. My blanket began to grow and spill across the floor like water, and then it consumed me, and I suffocated to death under it.
In ancient elvhennan, a nameless priestess of Falon'din is lead to elgar'nan's temple during a diplomatic visit - the goal is to be within those of lower rank and gather any and all information about how the enlightened army fights.
this drabble takes ideas from concepts of the Evanuris virtues from Joly (@theshirallen) and Tas (@theharellan), that is their original concept as far as I know and I take no ownership from it.
this was also very inspired by a spider in the roses by joly!
"Don't make yourself too appetizing."
Longing was beautiful. Beautiful in the way that the heart grew warmer at the thought of a loved one that one could not hold any longer. Fuzzy, distant, but warm all the same, a light to follow. Her hair was cut at her shoulders, a light grey that shimmered with light itself - the shades turning and shifting with each movement. The nameless priestess, walking ahead of the small entourage as they entered Elgar'nan's grounds, looks up to her for the first time.
She wants to play stupid, but the thought that she would inflict that on Longing soothes the sharpness of her tongue, the anxiety in her mind.
"Yes, my Lady." she says, simply, leveled. Dark eyes behind a faceless, featureless helmet falling once more to the ground.
"You are a valuable piece of this board." she continues, brushing past her words and assurances. She doesn't look to her and she cannot make her features. Beside her, Ambition moves silently. Longing sighs, exaggeratedly, her hands folding over her the front of her body, disappearing in the lavish purple silk of her sleeves, into the dark emerald, almost black fabric. Her eyes finally fall on the nameless woman and she feels them burning, and so she refuses to lift her dark eyes "And if you die now, we will be poorer for it."
You will have failed. The words are clearer when put that way. She knows. She glances up to Ambition who watches her closely, though loses interest quickly as his voice rises to a whisper.
"She will be fine, Longing." he says, tone unaffected, distant himself. His robes are plain, starkly plain in comparison to Longing's. Almost close to the ones of the newest recruits that accompanied them. Made to fit him exactly, comfortable "She is less than nothing to most of them." he adds, giving a small hint of a smile that stokes the anxiety in her chest further - though tending into something else: nervousness, the good kind "If anyone can do this, it's her."
"Longing. Ambition." the man that receives them at the opening of the temple could never hope to match the splendor that Longing and Ambition carried with them. And so, the nameless woman does not bother.
Instead her eyes travel across from him from behind the darknened helmet. She counts the number of priests, weapons. Exits and windows. She counts how many seemed to be combatants - given it was Elgar'nan's temple she would presume that even the lowest of archivist would have been given training and been told to defend the temple if it were needed.
It would not be needed. Not today.
"It is always a pleasure to have you visit in Enlightened Halls." he says and the tone is flat, though it does not threaten to throw Longing's smile into imbalance.
Some of them were not Elgar'nan's. She could see some wearing Mythal's robes. They did not seem combatants, but they didn't seem to be lower ranked people. They would not be, given that they were left unattended.
"You are too kind. Also, we come with a fun activity for your temple." her hand waves towards the nameless woman and the figures that stand behind her. She can hear some shuddering, her body remains as it had been - her head lowered, shoulders straightened, eyes now locked on the man in front of her.
He looked as unimpressed to her as she looked upon him from the safety of her helmet.
"These are some of the newer recruits, resilient little ones."
With a movement of her hand she motions for them to stand in a line, and so the priestess does, along side the shuffling of other's tired feet. She mirrors them, hearing the clinking of armour, the coldness of the stone beneath her bare feet. Odd. How the stone was meant to reflect the artificial sunlight that poured from above, meant to simulate the heat and yet all she felt beneath scarred and bruised feet was cold.
"I know how much the Enlightened army loves to have a live target." she hears Longing continue, no longer looking at them "Ah, the only thing I would ask..." her hand raises, as if hesitant "Is that they are returned to me alive, I grow attached too easily and, alas, I have already seen their faces, you understand?"
She smiles sweetly, so sweet it might have been saccharine when compared to the sour expression from the receiving Elgar'nan's priest.
"You tither ever so close to calling us mindless mongrels, Longing." his teeth grind, tongue clicking. The nameless woman's eyes return once more to them, leveling her breathing. There was a lot of lip on that man for someone that dared speak to one of the Virtues like that "We would not kill your entourage for our own enjoyment, obviously."
"Oh, I would never suggest such a thing."
"Longing is sensitive and easily overwhelmed by the thought in their enthusiasm they may lose themselves." Ambition cuts with a warm tone, hand disappearing into the large sleeves at Longing's arm "Can we drop the act and move on to what actually needs to be done here?" his voice lowers, teeth cutting the words through the sharpness of the smile. Looking to him and then back to Longing "I tire of hearing you both prattle."
The mouth on the man opens, as if he is to give Ambition something to think about, but closes after a few seconds. Good. The nameless woman returns to her shuffling, unmasking the discomfort of multiple days travel.
"I can assure there is no army which holds their craft more finely than that of the All-Father's." he finally says, with an unaffected tone but a sharp, proud smile as the following words are spoken "As it's been proven, time and time again."
Ambition smiles. Longing mirrors it, following closely in shape and shadow "Of course."
"This way."
It is a familiar taste, a familiar sensation; the blood on her tongue, it pooling in the back of her mouth. The leveled breathing. Dodging. Taking the hit. The blood dripping from very light wounds - nothing deadly. The sharks were out in the water, biting at them to see how they would react. Who would be the first to run.
The nameless woman remains in a line - every single one of them still holding onto their faceless dark helmets. Dark eyes followed each of the soldiers that had entered the area. It was a large space, domed in shape with beautiful glass ceiling. Light seemed to pour from within, though outside it had poured. There were no entrances beyond the balconies and the doors they had been brought in.
Beneath her feet there were different textures. Where she stood now was firm, marbled floor. She could see blood in the cracks - blood that had not been neatly cleaned. It meant that it was dirtied often enough that proper care was not needed, not seen as valuable.
"Creators. What is the fucking point?" a soldier yells. They do not wear a helmet. Why should they? The priests wore no armour, they were all initiates. Badly trained.
The nameless woman's eyes follow them. They are young and unblemished. Itching for a fight. The dark hair is kept short - not surprising.
"Any time we fight any of them, they don't even fucking scream at being hit!" and, to demonstrate, a pole-arm is whacked against the side of one of the faithful closest to them. Their body bends but no sound pours from the figure. The nameless woman follows their actions carefully, watching and hearing as they continued speaking.
The frustration in their voice loud, building.
"Might as well be fighting a fucking wall." he scoffs, walking down the line. Meandering, uncaring for a single thing in the world. She kept her head down, watching from the periphery, mirroring exactly the body language of the rest of the priests that had accompanied them "Even a tree would probably put up more of a fight."
He hums, uninterested, walking down the line and stopping on her.
"You're a short one, aren't you?"
Shorter than any of the rest, in fact. She had always stood smaller, either by a curse of fate or her own health coming to collect - she stood with her head down. The crackling of the blunt side of his pommel slaps against her side. The inside of her cheek is bruised but she doesn't weaver, not beyond what was expected.
Another. Another. Anot- her teeth sink into her lips. The back of her throat throbbing with the collected screams and grunts. Her chest heaves, leaning forward. A small smile of glee and victory passes over his face. Large hand touches the side of her bent helmet, pressing it softly one way and tilting it up to him. Long fingers drag themselves down the side until the opening at the bottom, starting to pull it up.
Her hand snaps against his. Tightening her grip. Surprise flashes on his face, but emboldened he pushes further - the helmet creaks. Her hold tightens, it tightens until his other hand releases the weapon he was holding to grab onto her neck, pulling her up until her feet dangled.
Her lungs start to burn but her mind pushes for her breathing to slow. For her wits to remain. She corrals panic into her chest once more.
"Ah, there it is—" he says as the helmet splits in two. From beneath, she finally sees his face, unburdened by the helmet. The dark lines of Falon'din's vallas'lin over her face. Dark skin beneath the coloured light from above. Pure ire in the darkness lingering behind her eyes.
Her closed fist hits the soldier's nose.
The spray of red drenches her hand as the hold on her neck is released. The light above them all shines, the floor swiftly becoming nothing but the same burning shade as the dome above them. Breath catches and panic settles as dark eyes fall on the figure in front of her, the bright red almost burns in the space around. What is happening?
The nameless woman can only hear the gurgling of breath against one's throat. The air around them bubbles, starts boiling and her eyes become dry, drier each second as all around her vision threatens to turn completely white. When her eyes close and her bare foot touches the floor - she can smell the blood in the air.
Her body slams against the ground and her eyes snap shut. The red of her eyelids is bright, even as she tightens the hold. One hand wraps around a metallic ankle. Short nails digging, digging further. Her body rolls on the floor, against the other leg too, rolling him down to her level.
More boots on the ground. The clattering of weapons and armour screams. The nameless woman's breathing slows, the noise pushed away with the weight of the struggling body in her grasp. Her legs wrap around the armour, the cold metal against her body was starting to burn against her too. Her back against the floor, her fingers dig only deeper the more they struggle, the more they scream. The pressure on her fingers digs through flesh, into bone and they scream.
Above her only his larger body provides shade from the deep crimson from her closed eyelids.
"This is what the enlightened army has in their ranks?..." she grunts against the side of his head, the creaking of bone under her fingers. No more pulling back, she would give them a reason to not hold back against her - she would be another lesson to Falon'din for his folly, if it meant that they would show her more than they first intended... "You're fucking pathetic."
She whispers against this Sun's son's ears. Her teeth opening and lodging themselves against the soft shell, and pulling it until it ripped. The screams from this soldier in her arms drowns everything else in the room. With her free hand, she taps the sides of their armour, checking buckles, openings. Structure. It is barely a glimpse beneath coarse fingers, but more than she would have been allowed anyway.
"That is enough."
The voice rings in the back of her head, cutting through the noise, the heaviness of the blood on her face, on her tongue. Her arms immediately go slack and the form dashes from her. His blessed shadow keeping the sky from turning full red away from her vision. Her muscles hurt, her skin screams from the searing burns against her ill armoured body. The cut of a blade is felt against her side as her body rises from the ground.
She spits the piece of flesh onto the floor.
Her mouth is coated with blood. Theirs and hers.
This time, she swallows it as she catches her breath.
Her hands do not move to the bleeding wound. One foot on the floor, the cutting of the air - grunting. She dodges. Closed eyes glancing towards where she knows Ambition is watching. One hand grabs her neck. Breath catches and eyes loll behind closed lids. Left arm rises, empowered by the blood pouring from her mouth, twisting it - in the most macabre of dances her head tilts to the side, away from the grasp.
Her body screams in effort. But she doesn't.
The hand that holds the half torn piece of her helmet raises. It slams against the side of their body - so she lifts it more and slams it again in hopes of finding their face. Instead they find their fists.
She is surrounded - she can hear them now. One hand on her arm. Another punching her in the stomach. Her legs give out from under her - beads of sweat fall from the sides of her shaved hairline. A grunt torn from her mouth - her body starts to shake as the temperature rises still. Deep breaths - or so she attempts, instead they come out like gurgled struggling, panicked breaths - seeking air that didn't exist. The blood now pours openly from her mouth.
"Provide a struggle" - the voice commands and so her head tilts, eyes still closed as her face is held up, fingers reach to open her eyes and she digs her lids further shut. A scream is unleashed from her lips, and once it starts it flows as easily as the blood on her tongue.
Pulling from within her, she forces her breathing to slow - the noise to soothe. Her body to work through the heat, slow down enough to provide enough time for whatever Ambition might want to do. She pulls her arms free, tries to. Keeping her head down, to the side attempting to escape but the hands that hold her are too strong "but not too much."
They are talking to her. Screaming at her. But she cannot make out the words, not under the well that she put herself. Not with the slowing of her own breathing. Not with the attention she paid to the only voice in the room that mattered - the one whispering in the back of her head. Her body screamed as her sweat mixed with her blood. There are no tears that she can cry, her own blood is starting to dry against her dark skin. And yet she still screams.
She only stops when one hand is wrapped around her neck. Another one at her mouth.
"Is this your finely held craft?"
Longing's voice feels like a warm hug, even if it is distant. She doesn't know how long she had been in that agony - only that her voice makes the crimson skies dim. She is in darkness, warmed only by the burns in her body, the dried blood on her body. The roaring of voices and armour all around. Her body is still held and she pulls at her arm - at the resistance the fist holds her body tighter. Her mind swims, swims in the blood in the back of her mouth, in the pain that floods from everywhere "When explicitly told not to destroy your toys?!"
"You can rest now." Ambition's voice swims along with her, the back of her head by his hands she could almost swear. It scratches in the back of her mind. and so she does, allowing the full weight of her body fall in the simmering darkness "Tomorrow is another day."
Jimmy had a concussion and dreamed up the whole Mouthwashing story. Curly wanted to be a good friend and lend his friend a soft spot to lean on (his boobs). But his boobs were so big Jimmy was completely engulfed and suffocated
