that's my Wildefire doc!! :D I named it "Angery" twoish years ago when I first had the idea for Lex and was running off nothing but vibes (and never changed it lol). The doc is... A mess. It's very disorganized but I make it work ahaha.
Here's a scrapped Wildefire drabble all the way from Angstpril 2023! Alexei's first (conscious) week at the Tower:
Lex counted thirteen meals before the metal door opened. A pair of guards stepped through, closed the door behind them. He stayed silent, tried to stare them down, to look intimidating despite how powerless he was in this scenario, despite the quickening of his heartbeat.
It sort of worked. One of the two seemed uncertain, looking to their partner for reassurance. The second guard seemed undisturbed, digging through a bag slung over his shoulder like Lex wasn't even there. He pulled out what looked like a bundle of tubing, and moved to the wall near the toilet, uncapping something and shoving the tube in the wall.
"Uh, Wade?" piped up the other guard as their partner worked.
"Don't act so skittish. He can't do anything to you."
He finished attaching the tubing, and stood, eyeing Lex.
"Come here," he said. Lex didn't move. Wade shrugged. "Or don't."
He fiddled with the hose, and a jet of water rushed out, hitting Lex with a stream of freezing water.
He hunched over instinctively, shoulders drawing in, gasping at the sudden shift in temperature. Muscle memory kicked in just as fast, heat spreading from his core, dulled by the cuff on his ankle but not quite snuffed. Fire didn't erupt from him—the lack of hands make his body unsure of where to channel it—but his skin grew hot enough to turn the water to steam.
"Shit! You said he couldn't do anything!" the nervous guard squeaked.
"He's wearing a dampener, I don't know—" Wade cursed, dropping the still-running hose and grabbing a baton from his belt. Lex managed to uncurl a leg before he could reach him, kicking him in the stomach and driving him back, leaving singe marks in his uniform, but then the second guard was on him, pressing the baton into his side and activating it. The resulting pulse sent a spasming pain through his muscles, whitening his vision.
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Sam woke up half sprawled across a dank, cold floor, hands chained to the concrete wall above his head, shackles already cutting into his wrists, stinging and sticky with drying blood.
The rest of the room was dark and hard to pull into focus. He tried to blink but only one of his eyes would even open. Well, that at least shed some light on why that side of his face felt weirdly numb and prickly warm, it was swollen tight. His knees were scrapped up pretty bad, jeans torn and bloody. He shifted, testing, and pain radiated through his side from his lower ribs, not good, felt like something had cracked. There was blood in his mouth and a couple of his teeth felt a bit loose. But all of his fingers wiggled and both feet flexed when he tried them, nothing dislocated and nothing outside of his torso seemed broken.
Taking a breath to steady himself, he grabbed the chains above him and pulled, they held fast. So he pulled again and pushed himself up with his legs. Everything hurt, he was going to be one giant bruise if he made it until tomorrow.
He’d fucked up, big time, he knew. He’d stormed off, muttering curses of being able to take care of himself over his shoulder on his way out the door and within 10 short hours had gotten himself fucking captured. Dean was going to explode and he was never going to hear the end of it… If he was lucky enough to ever hear Dean say anything to him again. If he was, then he would find a way to be grateful to get chewed out and teased for the rest of forever.
He just had to get out of this.
Standing and facing the wall he examined, as well as he could through one eye, the shackles holding him. They were snug, no way he’d be able to slip them, even if he dislocated his thumbs. Shit. The chain itself was solid and shiny, no more than a couple years old. The chains were attached to a ring that was bolted into the wall, the concrete chipped and powdery, seemed the weakest point. He grabbed the chain with both hands and bracing one foot against the wall, pulled hard. Fire ignited in his side, definitely a broken rib, and he pressed his arm against that side, trying to brace it while he pulled again. The pain doubled him over, panting for breath, afraid to breathe too deeply.
He thought about it while waiting for the pain to ebb back, willing his heart rate to slow down. He switched legs and shifted his stance, aiming for a better angle to brace against the wall without immediately tensing the wrong muscle groups, and pulled again. No give. He dropped his leg and sagged to the side, leaning against the wall on his less injured side. Maybe he could use the edge of the shackles to chip away around the ring?
While he was catching his breath and trying to determine how to hit the wall with a protruding part of the tight metal cuffs, a loud bang from somewhere off in the building above him made him flinch. Looking around, he still couldn’t see much, it was too dark and his head was swimming with more than just labored breathing and exertion. Great, he thought and added head trauma to his catalog of injuries. But beyond the immediate stretch of wall here, he couldn’t make out any other details of the room he was in, just darkness lurking all around.
Another bang, this one louder than the previous, a gunshot… shotgun seemed most likely. Sam listened. Faint noises from far off, footsteps then scuffling, another blast from the shotgun (he was sure of the sound now).
“Dea…” He had already forgotten about his ribs and the pain from filling his lungs to shout hit him by surprise.
A splintering crash shook the air and light spilled in from across the room.
“Dean?” he managed to say, not nearly as loudly as he’d intended.
“Sam!” and a beam of light swept the room.
The relief that flooded him dropped him to his knees. Scraped raw already they complained but he was beyond caring. Dean had found him.
“Over here.”
Light blinded him. Footsteps, heavy and sure, closed the distance between them.
“Sammy? Jesus, Sam.” His concern hit like a punch to Sam’s gut.
“I’m sorry, Dean. I’m sorry, I fucked up.”
“Hey? Look at me.” The flashlight shone in his face as Dean’s hand lifted his chin. Sam knew he was being checked over, tried to keep his eye open, but the light was so bright, his head suddenly pounding. Then Dean was checking the rest of him, hands patting him down, looking for and taking stock of wounds, finding the chains and following them to the wall. Dean tucked his sawed off under his arm and reached behind himself, pulling out his handgun. “Watch out.”
Sam closed his eye and turned away. The gunshot sharply echoing in the cavernous room, making his ears ring.
“Son of a bitch. One more.” and another shot split Sam’s headache to a whole new level of horribleness. A rattling yank on the chains, “Come on!” Dean grunted as he pulled, swearing under his breath.
Sam’s legs were threatening to turn to jelly but he was able to get them under him and pushed back up. He gripped the chains too and added his weight to pulling, ignoring the sickening, crunchy grind in his ribcage.
“That’s it, come on, little more!”
The metal ring twisted, broken ends where Dean had shot it, pried slowly apart until Dean stopped pulling. “Got it! Relax, Sammy.”
Sam slumped against the wall as Dean freed the chain from the wall. Then the light was back on him briefly.
“You okay?”
“Couple of broken ribs, left side. Probably a concussion.” Sam’s stomach gave a violent lurch which he swallowed down. “Definitely a concussion.”
“Ok, that’s ok. We can deal with that. Can you walk?”
“Yeah.” Sam stood up and took a step away from the wall only to get caught by Dean as gravity shifted sideways suddenly.
“Whoa, whoa. Easy.”
A floodgate seemed to open inside him, tears welled up in his good eye, stung like a bitch in his other. His legs started to give out again. “I’m so sorry, Dean. I should’ve listened to you.”
“No shit, dumbass.” But there was no venom in the words and Dean’s arms were around him, keeping him from falling, and he gave a gentle pat to the back of Sam’s head as he hugged him. “I’m just glad you’re ok. Now come on, don’t make me carry your gargantuan ass outta here. Here we go.” And he shifted so Sam’s arm was over his shoulders as he turned them both towards the door.
finally finished alek for the art trade! @studyofwhump come collect your son
description under the cut
[Image ID: digital art of studyofwhump’s oc alek mid-jump holding two futuristic firearms that glow blue. One is pointed at the viewer and the other is pointed up, faintly trailing smoke. He has brown skin, gold hair, and blue eyes, is heavily scarred, and is wearing mildly cyberpunk armor. His expression is partially covered by the firearm and is of concentration. End ID]
(Tagging @studyofwhump because this is for you, too!)
Ah, thank you, kind Anon!
If things happen how I think they might happen, we’re gonna need more than luck @_@
I’m packing @just-a-raccoon-with-wifi with us so we can still have some safe connection to the rest of the whump community! There’s room for three in Tahitian caves, right?
If you receive this you make somebody happy. Go and send this to ten of your followers who make you happy or somebody you think needs cheering up. If you get back even better. 💞 -studyofwhump
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Whumpee’s team returns from their successful, but tragic mission that resulted in one of their members getting killed. Whumpee made a mistake, one that if it hadn’t happened, their teammate might still be alive. No one else has said a word since they finished the mission. Anxious and wracked with guilt, Whumpee goes up to Leader to try and apologize.
“Leader, please… I’m sorry. I know I messed up, I just—”
A fist sails through the air and slams into their cheek. They stumble and fall to the ground, one hand cradling their jaw as they stare up at Leader in shock.
“You… you idiot… You messed up? Our teammate is dead, don’t you understand that?”
“Please…” Whumpee notices blood running down their nose. “I—I didn’t mean to… I’m sorry—”
“Oh, you’re sorry?” Leader’s voice is beginning to break. “They’re gone, all because of you! It’s your fault and all you can say is you’re sorry?!”
Tears begin to stream down Whumpee’s face as they look to their other teammates. They weep like them, but none of them offered comfort or tried to stop Leader. All of them looked just as angry, just as hurt. Whumpee didn’t have to hear them say it, it was written in their eyes.
Guard Whumper is having fun tormenting prisoner Whumpee in their cell as they’re chained and collared to the wall. They laugh, grabbing Whumpee by their chain and kicking and hitting them over and over again. It’s all fun and game to them, until they let their guard down and get too close. Whumpee jumps up and gets the chain around Whumper’s neck, pulling their weight down as they start to choke them.
Whumper gags and claws at the chain links. They fall back on top of Whumpee and struggle to draw in breath. Whumpee is terrified, the excitement of possible killing Whumper pumping through their veins. Just as they think they’re close to succeeding, Whumper rams their elbow into Whumpee’s side. The air is knocked out of them and they lose their grip on the chain.
Whumper scrambles away, out of the reach of Whumpee’s chain to cough and catch their breath. The look in Whumper’s eyes as they rise to their feet is terrifying. Whumpee shrinks back into the corner, already sobbing with apologies for their grave mistake.
Whumper has tried so hard, done so much training and discipline with Whumpee without leaving a permenant mark on them. But through all their work, Whumpee just won’t accept the fact that they belong to Whumper now, and that this is their life now.
Whumper doesn’t want to ruin Whumpee’s pretty looks, but what other choice do they have? Perhaps a nice custom branding will do the trick.
